TheRevMom

The Firefight for Life

2010-09-22T07:49:00.000-07:00

Every year wild fires tear through neighborhoods and mountain parks. Most of these are started by the forces of nature: lightening striking water starved underbrush and trees and fueled by the winds which are created by the heat of the fires. All too often they are started by a human who has either been careless or who has a need to create a stir for their own needs for power. Both of these fire-starters would love to remain anonymous -- the former out of embarrassment or ignorance of their part in the problem, the latter so they can maintain control over their source of joy.

The fire in Utah this week is a striking example of what I call "consequential ignorance." The commander of the National Guard did not think about the consequences of firing live ammunition into a parched tinderbox of a training ground. There had been posted warnings about extremely high fire risk in that region. But the commander didn't apply it to himself or his troops. He had only in mind that the Guard had to complete the annual renewal of their skills. He only did what he's always done and what he felt was best for his people.

The consequences are enormous. Hundreds of people have been uprooted for their own safety. Homes have burned to the ground. The lives of a whole community have been injured, changed, pained. Firefighters are out there risking their lives to protect and save what they can of their neighbors' -- and their own -- homes. The very National Guard Troops whose leader brought on this disaster are the ones who have to put out the fires, clean up the mess, and bring aid to those whose houses and homes are at risk.

How similar are our struggling faith communities! They are a tinder box of raw sores waiting for relief and renewal. They are struggling for their very survival. The leaders of these communities are trusted with the daunting task of empowering, enabling, and encouraging the community members to be faithful to the mission of Christ. And along comes one who is either not paying attention to the weather conditions or is in need of a control fix. The spark ignites, and the community is aflame in a hurtful and destructive way.

In the midst of the drought of faith-life, our faith communities are at high risk of wild fire. Alarms and the warnings are ignored -- or denied-- by leaders and members alike, and too often work only to draw the attention of those who need control. Otherwise petty and routine issues cause explosive results that rage out of control. They are fueled by the winds of change and panic. They are fed by the drought of trust.

Here am I, a firefighter in the midst of a wildfire. I am hot, exhausted, and in need of a break in the weather. But the sparks are flying into new quadrants while the first fire is barely contained.

Most days I work despite the exhaustion and the seemingly impossible task of a healthy community. These days I am fueled by the hope and promise upon which my faith is built. I am fed by the cool water of visible grace and comforted by the encouraging hand of the Spirit.

But some days I just wish God grant this Body a quick and peaceful death so that I can move on to greener pastures where the risk of wildfire is very low. Some days the sparks are multiplying too quickly for any firefighter to extinguish. Some days the energy of the Spirit is snuffed out by the attitudes or carelessness of communities members.

Today is one of those days. In such times as this, all I can offer is a prayer as I turn everything over to the One who soothes, heals, energizes, enables, and empowers.

God, grant me the...
Serenity to accept things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can, and the
Wisdom to know the difference
Patience for the things that take time
Appreciation for all that I have, and
Tolerance for those with different struggles
Freedom to live beyond the limitations of my past ways, the
Ability to feel your love for me and my love for others and the
Strength to get up and try again even when I feel it is hopeless.

May it be so.

Reclaiming Real Life.

2010-09-21T05:33:00.000-07:00

I'm deactiviating my Twitter Account. And my Bebo account. And possibly my LinkedIn account. I might even put Facebook on hold for a week or so. Just to see what difference it makes.

I'm anything but Anti-Social-Networking. I love being able to pull up a screen and see what all my long time friends and acquaintances -- and my more than 70 neices, nephews, cousins, in-laws, and siblings are doing. But I'm wondering if this is a healthy connection. I'm wondering if it isn't superficial, pretentious, or a cheap fix. I'm wondering if I'm missing out on the deeper connections, the deeper listening, the deeper knowing. I wonder if I am really connecting with people or just brushing their sleeve as I pass them amidst a busy and distracted journey.

Don't misunderstand me -- Social Media is a wonderful place for me to put my 250 character thoughts as a witness to my moment on the journey called life. I certainly enjoy the quips and slices of life my connections share out here on the cloud. But these feel skin deep. I am missing the deep soaking rains of face time, the long cups of tea, and leisurely walks where the sinew and bone of life are exposed and examined; where tight and sore muscles in relationships are massaged; and where wounds are cleansed and dressed with gentle care. A computer screen cannot wrap its arms around you with joy, sigh deep sighs, or cry on your shoulder.

Maybe it's the resurgence of hot weather on this September day, or perhaps the distance between my work and home. It could even be that the sentimentality of Fall. What ever the source of the affect, I'm cutting the wires and renewing my claim on face time, on hot cups of tea, on long walks, and real life.

C

The Layers of Life

2010-08-27T12:27:00.000-07:00

As I looked at the night stand, I wondered if it was salvageable. It looked ragged and worn, as though it had been through a battle. Scratches revealed raw red beneath the surface. Several gashes in the veneer reveal the old-style of plywood beneath.

This is the night stand given to us when we were married. It came to us well used. It was painted brown to refresh and renew it for our use. It had been in our homes for 26 years, carried through 11 moves, served as everything from a television stand to a dresser. It has lived a long life, served well in its role. It is time to retire it? Or will there be something beautiful and useful beneath all those layers of paint?

Drawers open, the workmanship is obvious: Dove-tail construction at all four corners of each. On the underside, paint splotches speak of some of the cover up time has dealt: brown latex covers a red, oil-based paint. One can only wonder what the wood grain beneath these looked like. Was the veneer finish sanded before that fire engine red oil paint was applied? Or was that step disregarded and the varnish left intact? The brown latex has peeled a great deal over the years; now I know why: Latex doesn’t adhere well to oil paint.

So again I wondered, “Is this tiny chest of drawers salvageable? Can it have a new life?” The only way to find out is to remove the layers of paint. Only then will the quality and condition of the wood beneath be known. Only then can its new future be revealed.

It takes a lot of patience to remove layers of paint. If one uses a traditional paint remover, there will be hours of careful scraping with a soft putty knife and then gentle scrubbing with fine steel wool. This is labor intensive and very harsh on ones hands. There is always the risk of scratching the wood beneath, or scraping off the veneer. Or, if one uses a “dip” or gel that simply “paints” on and changes color when the underlying layers have been softened, the putty knife will lift off the layers of finish very easily; however, if the veneer was sanded before applying that layer of red oil paint, the dip may also soften the hide glue that holds the veneer to the wood beneath. And regardless to the method of removing the paint, one has to be sure the wood beneath is worth the work of removing what covers it.

The time between pastors can be likened to my query about this nightstand. Evangelical church has undergone many changes over the years. Many layers of “paint” have been applied to what the founders of this congregation envisioned nearly 145 years ago. What was their vision? What was their purpose? What did they do as a community of faith and why? And what was the reason for the changes as they happened? How many layers of change have there been and what got covered over in the “remake.” Is there, underneath all the “stuff” that has happened, still a sustainable and promising future?

As the Interim Committee is formed and begins its work, we will try to gently lift the layers that years of use have applied to our community. We will be opening things up and listening to your stories as we interview members. We will be gently scratching off layers of old habits as we gather with you for Congregational Events. We will be looking for the beauty that peaks from beneath to reveal what God has in store for the congregation’s future.

My tiny chest of drawers turned out to be a real keeper. Its walnut veneer is beautiful and shines through its new finish; its sturdy construction promises to serve us well in a new way: as a focal point in our home. The work to reveal this new purpose was worth the steel-wool-raw fingers it took to bring it out. We are better off for all the hard work.

.

Evangelical Church has some hard work ahead. There will be some rough spots to work through. There may be some sticky places where grace and gentleness are required. There will be some surprises at what beauty lay beneath the surface. And through it all, we will rediscover what God has in mind for this community of Christ in this place at this time. We will get through it by the grace of God and with God’s help.

Shocked and horrified.

2010-08-12T20:31:00.000-07:00

I am shocked and horrified. One of my Facebook "friends" has been sexually harassing one of my relatives. The only thing the two have in common is my Facebook page. How did this happen? How could someone that I accepted as a contact, someone I have known in my life's journey, turn into a cyber-stalker and sexual fiend, someone who would go so far as to threaten to pay a visit to this relative if the relative dare tell me that the abuse was happening?
Further, how could this happen to two people on MY "friends" list -- when I am the one who keeps spouting on about how the privacy system on Facebook works well, that Facebook is a safe place for productive and meaningful communication?
First, let me say that I am appalled and dismayed that this has happened. I am absolutely disgusted by the behavior of this acquaintance toward a relative of mine. I would be disgusted if it hadn't been an acquaintance or a relative. The behavior reported to me by yet another relative is rude, lewd, disgusting, and just plain wrong. While I won't comment about possible legal action, the perpetrator is clearly in need of serious psychological counseling. This person, who has a family of his/her own, does know that what s/he is doing is immoral, unethical and flat out wrong. This person would undoubtedly be infuriated if his/her spouse or child was the recipient such behavior. Yet this person has continued to stalk and harass this member of my family.
So, how did this come to be? How did these two otherwise unconnected people ever make contact? Through my Facebook wall. My relative responded to a comment on my wall made by this person from my past. That person furthered the conversation through the Facebook inbox system. My relative responded in good faith; after all, if this person was a friend of mine, it must be safe to continue the conversation. The relative and this person established the Facebook “friend” status between them The conversation was not initially harassing or sexual, but this person became infatuated by my relative.
With “friend” status, more private information is available, including phone numbers and your address – if you are not careful to protect your information. With this information in hand, a person can contact you by phone, by text, by e-mail, and even – if you don’t protect the information – know where you live.
By the time I post this on my blog and in my Facebook notes, I will have contacted the person involved, expressed by disgust and anger, blocked him/her completely from my Facebook account and posts, and told others in my Facebook circle of friends of what has happened so they will be aware of the risk involved in choosing to “friend” someone they have never personally met. And my point in posting this at all is this: Protect you private information on Facebook by setting your privacy settings and being very selective in who you allow into your circle of friends. Learn how to make groups in your friends list and block those who might turn into your stalker.
And to this person who I thought I knew: please choose to get the psychological counseling you so desperately need, confess your wrongs, and make amends.

2010-06-04T06:55:00.000-07:00

This is my community of faith. Could it be yours?

2010-04-16T06:31:00.000-07:00

A tasty winter meal.

2010-03-20T07:49:00.000-07:00

Several people asked for this recipe. You're welcome to share it with others, but please give due credit. Enjoy!

Butternut Squash Lasagna

This recipe could be Vegan with the changes in parenthesis
Sauce:
4 cups skim milk, or low fat soy milk
2 large garlic cloves – or 2 Tbsp minced – no garlic powder!!
1 large bay leaf
1 slice of sweet onion, ½ inch thick
¼ cup fresh parsley loosely packed or 2 Tablespoons dried parsley
4 Tablespoons white flour
4 Tablespoons unsalted butter (olive oil)
Sea Salt & Pepper to taste

Filling:
1 medium butternut squash (2.5 lbs or so)
1 large sweet potato or yam
3 Tbsp olive oil
3 cloves of garlic, chopped – not dried or powder!
1 small onion, chopped coarsely
1 cup finely chopped walnuts or ¾ cup if using black walnuts
1 cup chopped parsley, loosely packed
2 teaspoons rubbed sage or 15 or so big fat sage leaves, chopped
½ nutmeg, grated; or ¼ tsp ground nutmeg from a spice bottle

1 cup grated Gruyere cheese (good tasting soy cheese of a melting Swiss variety)
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan or Romano cheese --NOT out of a green can, please! (the equivalent in soy)

9 no-boil lasagna noodles

Filling:-- Can be done 2 days ahead
Heat the oven to 400 degrees.
Halve the squash and scoop out the seeds. Oil the cut sides lightly. Spray a baking sheet with non-stick oil. Place the squash flesh down on the baking sheet.
Poke fork holes in the skin of the sweet potato or yam. Place on the baking sheet.
Roast at 400 degrees for an hour, or until a fork easily penetrates the squash.
Scoop out the flesh of the squash and the potato and place in a food mill or food processor. Sieve the flesh to remove the stringing things and any stubborn skin.
In a sauce pan, heat the oil and warm the garlic until golden. Add the chopped onion and sauté until tender. Stir in the nuts and allow to brown slightly. Remove from the heat and add the herbs. Stir this mixture into the squash mixture. Season with the nutmeg.

Sauce:
In a large microwavable measuring cup, heat the milk to scalding – don’t let it boil. Add the garlic, bay, onion, and parsley. Cover and allow to steep at least half an hour. Longer if you have the time. Strain in a tea strainer to remove the solids. Reheat to about 120 degrees.
In a sauce pan, melt the butter/olive oil and slowly whisk in the flour. Stir until bubbly but not yet brown. Whisk in the strained milk and stir until the mixture begins to thicken. Reduce heat and allow to thicken and flour to cook, stirring occasionally. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Assembly
Heat oven to 350 degrees.
Spray a rectangular pan (10 X 12 or 9 X 13) with non stick spray. Spread 1cup of the sauce on the bottom of the pan. Place three noodles on top of the layer. Spread half of the squash over the noodles. Spread a cup of the sauce, 1/3 cup of Parmesan and ½ cup of Gruyere over the sauce. Repeat noodles, squash, sauce and cheeses. Add last layer of noodles, and spread the last of the sauce over the top. Sprinkle with the last of the Parmesan
Cover the pan with foil and bake for 30 minutes. Uncover and bake for 25 minutes longer or until the top is golden. Remove from oven and allow to sit for 20 minutes before cutting.

This is really good served with a dark green Kale or brightly steamed broccoli.

Remembering

2009-11-15T05:10:00.000-08:00

A novelty to me when I moved to the Midwest was the tradition within some German heritage congregations of Totenfest: the celebration of the the dead. Usually this is held either on the Sunday nearest All Saints Day, or the last Sunday of the liturgical year, often the Sunday after Thanksgiving -- just before the start of Advent. Call it a Memorial Day for the church, perhaps. In the New England congregations of my younger years, this was not part of my experience. Though I would not consider myself to be liturgical in a traditional way, this is a lovely tradition.

In this season between the traditional times of Totenfest, I find myself remembering my mother. Anyone who knew her well and knows me at all can see traits of hers in my being. Practicality, logic, ration, frugality, eccentricity are all words that could describe either of us. Can do and make do are attitudes I learned from her. Like her, I often forget where I've left my purse; and like her, I've taken to wearing it over my shoulder and across my chest so that it doesn't get away from me. (Unlike her, my purse is tiny and contains the bare necessities instead of anything that might possibly be needed.)

Over the 8+ years since my mother's death, the hole in my being where she lived has become a familiar part of who I am. Early on, I stumbled into it frequently and found myself shedding tears over my loss. That hole is still there: I still long to pick up the telephone and call her for a recipe or to share some good news (shouting it so she'd actually hear it, then explaining it so she'd understand its importance to me). I still miss her e-mail notes with daily itinerary and menus from her days since her last e-mail. When I open my cookbooks or photo albums and find a note with her handwriting -- a piece cut from old file folder turned into a post card with a recipe or an address she sent to me by request-- the vacuum is obvious to me. As my children have become young men with lives of their own, as my nieces and nephews have babies, as my life reaches numeric and chronological markers, I look into that hole and wonder -- even speculate -- what her response would be to these.

The hole has not filled in over time, but it has become familiar and less forbearing. As time has passed, it has even become the source of celebration, of joy, of moments of warmth and loveliness. That does not discount nor make nostalgic the less than happy memories: embarrassment, hurtful words exchanged, inexplicable actions. Those will always be part of the memory and, fortunately, part of the vacuum. Those memories have become markers and reminders of where I need to draw the line between her being and my being.

When I find myself doing or saying something particularly frugal, practical, rational, or otherwise "Evelynesque," I've been know to break out into song -- a particular song with an Easter melody:

She lives! She lives! Dear Evelyn lives today!
She walks with me and talks with me
Along life's rational (or practical or frugal) way!
She lives! She lives! Frugality none too terse
You ask me how I know she lives,
She lives within my purse!

Perhaps that could be seen as sacrilegious. That's not the intent. As with her, there's no malice in my actions here. To me it's a humorous way to honor one whose influence on my life is noticeable in everyday ways, to acknowledge that seed of who I have become and am becoming, and to celebrate the life of one important to me.

What do you do with regularity to lift up and honor the life of someone important to you? Where is his or her life reflected in your actions, attitudes, perspectives, or words? How does a sense of loss become a source of celebration in your everyday living?

Blessings.

2009-10-07T06:50:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting here wondering about how one thing leads to another. We ripped up a piece of carpet and padding in the computer room and found black mold. That led back to a broken dishwasher in the kitchen 18 months ago. The insurance adjuster came and pulled the new dishwasher out from the cabinets and found a lot more mold. He took down a piece of drywall in the computer room and found the base of the wall behind the kitchen black with mold. He lifted the carpet in the living room along the same wall and found more mold. He crawled under the house and found mold on the underside of the floors under the kitchen cabinets and under the adjacent computer room floor.

I've never liked the arrangement of the cabinets in my kitchen. I've always wanted ceramic tile on the floor and a matching ceramic splash guard above the counters. This mess might make it possible. But, it's going to come at a cost. The money isn't the issue. It's the mess and the timing. We're supposed to host Dan's family for Thanksgiving. And, the insurance guy is telling me that once they remove the cabinets and floors, we can't live here. Black mold.

When I was living in Terre Haute in 2007, we had a massive flood. It hit the hardest in an area of town that was not on a flood plain and hadn't seen flooding in the 150 year recorded history of the town. The folks who owned those houses were lower middle class folk, most of them retired and living in houses whose mortgages had been paid off for years. These folks had their houses flooded to the height of window sills. The church I was serving flew into action helping people find temporary housing, organizing work crews from other churches to help us clean up people's homes, helping people put their lives back together.

Work crews were given their task: take everything apart and empty the houses so that we can stop the mold before it starts. Tearing apart the walls was no problem because all that mattered was opening up the walls to get rid of the moisture before mold could form. We used sledge hammers and shoveled everything away into giant dumpsters and trash heaps. We had huge crow bars to lift up hardwood flooring and carpets. Most of their belongings from their main floors and basements were damaged beyond salvage. Furniture was piled on the curbs, food from basement freezers rotted before the water receded. Life long collections of memorabilia was handled by people with N-95 respirator masks and full body protection from the mess. We helped people through the loss -- the shock, the grief, the anger, the numbness, the mindless FEMA paperwork, backlogged adjusters and contractors, and no savings to cover their losses -- not to mention the scammers that such a disaster attracts. And we stayed with the families until they were back into their homes 6, 9, 12, and 15 months later. Those masks and body protection outfits were a barrier between the workers and the mold. They were also a barrier between us and the pain of those home owners.

This is my house. We didn't have a flood. We had (maybe) 30 gallons of water (three loads of dishes in the dishwasher). We're not losing all our belongings; we're only dealing with the inconvenience and mess that's probably no worse than a remodeling job. We have insurance that will cover a large portion of the expense, a bank account to cover the difference, and an adjuster who was in the house within 24 hours of my reporting it, and who was able to take his time and go through the house systematically and thoroughly. We have a list of contractors who are hungry for work instead of being back logged. We'll be back into the house in weeks, not multiple months. We won't be the ones swinging hammers, carrying trash, wearing protective clothing. We're not losing our live-long memorabilia or, frankly, any of our "stuff."

In the midst of all this confusion and mess, I am thankful that I have been blessed with prosperity, with the means to make this happen smoothly. When I complain about the delays and the hassles, I hope I can rejoice that it's not a disaster, the it's only an inconvenience, not a loss. As the kitchen I really wanted to begin with begins to take shape, I hope I will be grateful. And when I'm not, I hope you all will remind me to count my blessings.

Horror

2009-07-12T11:52:00.000-07:00

I had an ominous feeling all morning. I really was dreading the trip to Holywell but could not put my finger on why exactly. I was not looking forward to a Roman Catholic Medieval Low Mass for the remembrance of a venerated saint whose head was cut off, rolled down a hill and spouted a well, whose head was reattached and she lived to lead a chaste and charitable life of service to the Church. Add that the mass was to be in Latin and it was less than exciting.

We arrived at the church 30 minutes early. Though we were told that there would be "bus-loads" of people coming from this service and for the marching of the relic from the church to the well, the church was relatively empty. The choir was still rehearsing when we arrived: The choir was indeed the highlight of the service! They were fantastic! Yes, it was all in Latin, but it was wonderful. They sang the Introit and the Collect, the response to the Gospel. It was flawless, the acoustics were perfect, and the 8 voices blended and resonated well.

The scripture was from Matthew, the 10 virgins waiting for the bridegroom. It bore no relation to the rest of the service.....

The the priest stood up to speak. I assume he is a bishop or higher because of his regalia and the fact that all the other priests kissed his hand over and over earlier in the service. He removed his triveca hat and blessed himself with it. A deacon placed the manuscript in front of him. I thought he would preach in Latin. That would have been a blessing. Instead, he began a rant against the evils of the split of the east from Rome, the scandal of the Reformation that began the scourge of secularism, the plot is Islam to take over Europe, and the evils of Modernism. The hate that spewed from this man's mouth! I was at the end of a pew against the wall with 20 people between me and the aisle. I was trapped there! Two of my classmates stood up to leave. Our professor stood up to leave -- but all these were in the pew in front of me and on the end! When spew got unbearable and I could take no more, I too stood up and walked on the kneelers to get out of the pew. I walked down the aisle and out of the church.

When I reached the sidewalk in front of the church my blood was boiling. I was so angry! I caught up to my classmates and professor. We got to the end of the street and wondered what to do. We looked back and 5 more of our class were walking out of the church. All of us who left but one are US Americans. The one Brit who left is a Roman Catholic! The US Episcopals and Church of England folks all stayed in the service.

We who left walked down to the well. We spent some time around the well, washing our hands. We made a circle and prayed. Some of us cried. Some of us stomped our feet. Then we waited, wondering what to do.

When the procession came down the hill with the relic and hour later, we stood beyond the gate where the procession would enter the area of the well and sang, "They'll know we are Christians by our love" over and over and over. It was very spontaneous. We had been just standing there. We received glares from the priest and one woman scolded us. But we continued to sing until the procession was through the gate and at the well.

Folks, I've been angry in my life many times. But this was so very different. Never have I heard such hatred spewed from the mouth of one in the regalia and vestature of the Church. There are people who will follow this man's words as truth. He spoke lies! He is misleading people into a gospel of hatred, distrust, fear. I remain appalled. Yet I am helpless to do anything about it.

No Veritas!! Kyrie Eleison.

--
"I am not here attacking Christianity, but only the institutional mantle that cloaks it." ~ Pierre Berton

Pilgrimage

2009-07-09T14:01:00.000-07:00

The theme for today was Pilgrimage. We traveled to some ancient sites now covered by more recent builds. These were primarily sites of ancient Irish and Welsh "saints" who established monasteries. I've posted photos on my facebook page for your perusal. (http://tinyurl.com/momsbm) I will post more complete descriptions at another time.

My "pilgrimage" today has been back and forth to the Loo. All day. Something I ate yesterday caused one of my proverbial "flare ups". I spent much of the night "worshiping the porcelain god." Today I've learned where and how to ask for toilets politely in obscure places. This evening I was still unable to eat dinner (having had tea for breakfast, a ginger "bisquit" for lunch (which did not stay in me)). I've taken yet another benedryl and am eating "calcium caplets" (Tums). I will survive. But it has not been a comfortable. day.

I will post this before my battery dies, but look for a longer note either late tonight (for you) or when you get up in the morning.

Peace out...

Day 2 of the Great Excursion

2009-07-09T04:00:00.000-07:00

On this side of the pond it's already Thursday. I've been up for about 2 hours because the cook did not realize there is MILK used as a "filler" for sausage. I ate only one bite of the sausage that was wrapped in a chicken breast at dinner last evening, and spent most of the night in the bathroom as a result. I guess I need to quiz him more carefully about food. I thought this was a non issue...but... I'll be eating only crackers and tea today....
Anyway, here's the blurb I wrote last evening before I went to bed....

They say it rains a lot in July in Wales. I think they mean it too. It was raining when I arrived. It was raining when I awoke this morning. It rained through my reading and writing for class this morning. It seemed to have let up a bit at lunch time, so my classmate, Laura, and I decided to walk down to a local tearoom for lunch. The chaplain at St. Deiniols for this month (they rotate much like Chatuakwah [sp?] in New York does), a retired Episcopal priest from Bucks County PA, decided to join us. (Andrew, thanks for buying my lunch today. I still have about L3 left of what you left at the house -- lunch tomorrow, no doubt!) Then Laura and I decided the weather might hold out and we set off on a walk to the castle in the middle of Hawarden (pronounced Harden). It was a lovely walk and the rain did hold off. Unfortunately, it had rained more than 2" in the previous 24 hours and everything was coated with MUD... And, I didn't remember to bring my camera!!

But, the remains of this castle are really just the outer walls and a watch tower for the real castle which is about 2 miles down the road. Where we walked was through a pompous gate (very similar to the cemetery gate in Hinsdale but with HUGE wooden doors) and into a rather large hilly field. The field was full of sheep. And the sheep left lots of "fertilizer" along the path we were walking!! Laura is NY City born and raised and this was quite upsetting to her! But she soon forgot what she was stepping in and over when she saw all those adorable little lambs. And they were indeed cute.
We walked over a hill and down into a valley along an old road that at one time was paved in stones and bricks. It's now quite washed out and muddy. When we got to the watch tower and climbed up the hill to get to it, we discovered it was behind a locked gate and a second wall with signs every where warning "No Trespassing. Motion Detection Cameras in Use." So we respected the signs and walked back down the hill to the path we were walking.
The path is a designated walking path for those who hold "permits." We had such a permit that the Library had given to us. So we were indeed legal. We followed it down the hill and through a wooded area. At the bottom of the hill, in the middle of the woods there was an old stone bridge over what was once the "valleam" or mote around the property. We actually crossed this mote 3 times before we were done, each time on ancient stone bridges. The walk turned out to be just under 3 miles (by my pedometer, anyway). It ran through the north end of the walled property and then back to town along the outside of the wall on a path above the mote. The original estate was a fiefdom dating back more than 1000 years. It was most recently owned by the Gladstone family. W.E. Gladstone was a 4 time Prime Minister of the UK. He was instrumental in the politics of the Baltics prior to WW1 in saving one of the peoples there from extermination (don't ask me which tribe of Eastern Europeans at this late hour of the day!!).
It was W.E. Gladstone that founded this library called St. Deiniol's where I am both staying and studying. In our orientation this afternoon, we were given the history of this place before our first set of lectures. It seems the Sir Gladstone had always felt called to ministry in the Anglican Church but was pressured by family to follow his male ancestors into politics. He was also very fond of reading and by the time he was in his 40's and PM of the UK he had acquired and read over 30,000 books -- primarily on theology, church, and world history. When a friend of his died, he over heard the family discussing what to do with that man's "extensive library" of a couple hundred books. That family chose to donate them to Oxford. Gladstone decided Oxford had enough books without his, London had enough books without his, and poor little Hawarden had no public library. So he and his daughter moved his 30K books to a large "tin barn" on property in the center of the village. He set up the library for anyone with a hunger to learn to do so affordably. In his will, he willed that instead of the state setting up a memorial to him, they build a permanent building for his public library (which by then had grown to over 100K books). His family then matched the funds and built a residence attached to the new library that would serve for residential guests who used the library from other areas. So, the library, still catalogued according to Gladstone's numbering system (which is logical but not universal by any stretch) now sits in the original building plus an annex with 4X as many books on sliding cases (which Gladstone supposedly invented and sold the patent to).
The library itself is beautiful. It was built in the late 1800's (Gladstone would have been 200 years old this year). The exterior is brown stone, three stories high. The interior is all intricately carved wood pillars and roof rafters, with the second floor open to the first through a large balcony over the first floor and all the way around it. The bookshelves are also intricately carved and stand back to back with a third bookcase on the ends. The area is really well lit with natural light through the windows.

The 30 residence rooms are tiny -- much like monks cells -- with just enough room for a bed, sink, and desk. The women are on the third floor under the rafters -- yes, we have to "mind" our heads as we walk down the corridors because the buttress beams are low. I suspect that at one time these were servants' quarters! But... it's a bed and desk.
The lecturer this afternoon and evening was Ian Bradley, who wrote one of the texts we've read for the course. The first lecture on "What is Celtic Christianity" was interesting; the second was a repeat of much of what is in his book...

There are 17 people in this course. Probably 10 of us are from the States. Several are Anglican Vicars, a few are British Presbyterians. Of the US folks, 3 of us are UCC, 3 are United Methodists, 3 are Episcopal Priests, and one is Roman Catholic (Laura). Of the whole group, 9 are women.

Tomorrow we will be out of the library and on "excursion" to ancient sites. We'll go to Gwynedd to visit Clynnog Fawr, Caenarfon, Penmon, and Beaumaris. Yes, I'll remember to bring my camera! Then after walking around ancient sites of monasteries and churches all day, we have an 8 p.m. lecture by Ian Bradley.... this after a full dinner at 6:45... can you see me sleeping through this????

That's the news from this side of the pond......

Travel across the Pond

2009-07-08T02:27:00.000-07:00

I made the trip across the pond. Well, it was uneventful, yet not so. Let's just say I arrived in one piece and with my luggage and passport. But...

The flight from Evansville to Memphis was without problems or highlights (no pun intended). As I walked through the Memphis airport things looked vaguely familiar from other flights through there. There's some cool "jazz" artwork on the walls as you walk from the "smaller" gates (turboprops) to the larger gates. I came into the last gate on the "smaller" area -- we had to walk from the plane to the terminal by walking in front of other parked planes. No big deal.

I found the gate assignment for the flight to Amsterdam. It was, of course, at the farthest end of the most distant terminal. But I found my way there just as they were calling up the first passengers (45 minutes prior to departure). I have an Elite Membership (NW Air's frequent flier program) and so was allowed to board with the first and business class folks even though my seat was neither. I was the sole female in a section of 20+ men who all knew one another and were on their way back to work in Saudia Arabia in the oil fields... a herd of Texas long horns who've been home with their women for a month and returning to work for the next month. I put on my headphones and turned up my mp3 player and took a benedryl. Somewhere over New York State I fell asleep and woke up to the sound of the dissonance of the gaggle of long horns snoring. But the sky outside the plane was bright with sunshine and they were serving breakfast, so I must have slept at least 6 hours. We did a 20 minute holding pattern over the North Sea while waiting for a thunderstorm to pass the Amsterdam airport, then landed in the smoothest landing I've ever been in. I never felt the wheels hit the runway. Very impressive.

I had no trouble getting through the Amsterdam airport. The "Cityhopper" flight from there to Manchester was out of a gate and onto a bus that took us across the airport to a smaller set of runways on a smaller plane. Not as small as the plane from E-ville to Memphis, though! When I arrived in Manchester, things deteriorated.

There was a thunder storm between Amsterdam and Manchester, so we had to circumvent it. This put us into Manchester about 15 minutes late. Then, once on the ground, there was construction on the runways, so taxiing to the gate was another 20 minutes. Customs was no problem. When I got into the main arrival area, I cashed out my US$$ for L... But, I could not find the "car" that was to pick me up. I looked at my e-mail and found the phone number. I was to call them and they would tell me where they were waiting. I found a "red box" and put in 40 pence (thanks, Andrew!) and dialed the number. The number was not recognized. The phone number was missing a digit. So I called St. Deiniol's Library. I got a recording saying the office was closed. So I went back to my computer and e-mailed the person who sent the information about the "car" reservation. But, I could not get an internet connection.

After 2 hours of wandering through the "car park" (parking garage) looking for a "car" service from Hawarden, I went back into the terminal. A scruffy looking guy walked up to me and asked if I was Mrs. Stucklen. I laughed! Who on earth with a cockney accent would be looking for my mother?!!! Of course it was the driver who didn't get my name correct. But we laughed and he walked me to the "car" -- a small bus, really. And I was the only passenger. From the parking fee, I knew he'd been waiting less than an hour.

He got me to the "library" and I turned to pay him. He didn't take a credit card. Cash only. So.... I looked into that magic wallet and found only L20. The fee was L40. So I walked into the village to Lloyds of London and pulled out that trusty ATM card the Credit Union ASSURED me would work in the UK. But there's no ATM machine, or "hole in the wall" as they call it. So I gave my card and passport to the teller and asked if perhaps she could make it work. She did. I have no idea what the exchange rate is,but I think that the 40 minute trip from the airport cost me over $120. There's got to be a less expensive way to get back there!!!

I walked back to the "library" and the driver had left. I left the cash with the receptionist and she assured me he'd be back with other students in the morning and she'd pay him then. Okay.... taken care of. But I was wet and tired.

I crashed for a couple of hours before dinner (6:45). Eating dinner was a bit like eating in Mother's house -- lots of food, many people, and it's all served from the kitchen. The food was, well, British. No seasoning. Just boiled carrots, boiled potatoes, boiled pork(?), and boiled broccoli. I didn't venture to dessert since it looked like a milky pudding.

I will write more about "the library" tomorrow.... for now I'll leave that to your imaginations.

My friend Laura (a classmate from Drew University) and I talked until it was nearly dark (10p.m.). It's chilly. I've put on long sleeves under my sweater, and I've got on full length knee socks and shoes. They all say it was a lovely warm day.... I guess the midwest "heat and humidity" is still inside my bones because I'm anything but warm. They also say it does not get completely dark here. I'm looking out the window into the clouds and still see light behind them.... But morning comes early. So it's time to retire.

There's no internet access in my room (which is a little smaller than Harry Potter's under the stairs room). I have to walk my laptop down two flights of stairs to sit under the wireless router. I'll do that in the morning.

--
"I am not here attacking Christianity, but only the institutional mantle that cloaks it." ~ Pierre Berton

Addictions

2009-07-01T17:50:00.001-07:00

Remember that TV ad for Lays Potato Chips?

"Betcha can't eat just one!"

And the challenge is set.

The only thing is, there's no winning it. Lays knew that when they put the ad out. No one can eat just one because fat, salt, and sugar (carbs) are so very addictive.

This all came together for me as I was walking through the grocery store this afternoon. Well, it began before that. As I was parking (in that space that is as far from the store door as I can possibly get), the radio was playing an ad for McD.'s You've heard it, I'd bet.

"This is economics 101. Value is defined as .... as proof, there are McDonald's Value Meals on your desks..... 'I LOVE economics.'.... Mouth watering french fries.... add a cool, creamy hot fudge sundae for just $1.00"

You get the idea. So those are playing in the shadow narratives of my mind. I walk into the store to be greeted by a large display of potato chips and, my weakness, Fritos. "God, save me from myself. I've lost 15 lbs and I will NOT succumb to the fatty salt gimmick... if only You'll help me!"

I walked by. I got to the produce and found a lovely seedless watermelon. Much better. Then a display of lovely local peaches; I picked out ten and placed them into a sack. So far so good.

I pushed the cart past the deli case of rotisserie chicken (I've eaten a whole one by myself in the past), and am confronted with another display of Fritos.

"Come on!! This is too much!"

I pushed on past them to the dairy case. Half a gallon of low fat soy milk goes into the cart. Pushing on past the sour cream and chip dip (yummy -- sour cream on those Fritos!!) and into the coffee/tea aisle. Two boxes of cold brew ice tea bags, a box of flavored Splenda packets. I'm getting closer to the end.

At the end of the aisle there it is again: Potato chips and Fritos display. The same one I saw as I walked in but this time from the back side. Hmm... so very tempting. I think of the scale in my bathroom and push on ahead.

"Wow, this holiday weekend stuff is going too far. I should have eaten some lunch today... my stomach is growling."

Down the soft drink aisle to its end where the plastic wrap and GladWare bowls are stocked. A pack of two large bowls (for the watermelon) go into my cart. Almost home. I round the corner and pick out a quart of yolkless eggs from the cooler and turn left. Here it is: the home stretch. If I can make it down this aisle, I'll be in the free and clear.

I push the cart down the aisle of freezer doors behind which sits fat, sugar, and salt. Some may call it prepared food and ice cream. But since most of it contains either milk or too much fat and salt for me to safely eat, I prefer to tell my brain it's pure fat, sugar and salt. The milk will land me for days in the bathroom. The fat will coat my veins and arteries and shut them down. The salt will push the water content of my blood into the hypertension range. Heart attack #2 stacked nicely behind the glass doors of the freezers.... must walk by... must walk by.

The folks in the aisle look at me strangely -- as they rightly should. I'm talking to myself at this point.

"Fat, salt, sugar. Fat, salt, sugar. Fat, salt, sugar." I'm almost to the end. Almost there.

Then someone calls my name. I turn around. Strolling down the aisle behind me is a 5.0 ounce, 800 calorie bag of Fritos holding in its hands a hot, juicy rotisserie chicken and a Snickers bar. Really! I'm a pastor; I don't lie!! This bag is walking toward me calling my name, offering to give me the Snickers and the chicken if I can eat just one Frito.

"Eat just one and walk away and the Snickers and chicken are yours. And you will know as much as God knows." (oops, wrong story.)

"Must resist. Must resist. Must resist."

The guy with the cart full of beer and potato chips giggles at me. "Crazy lady talking to herself." I KNOW that's what he's thinking. Doesn't he SEE that bag walking down the aisle? What's wrong with him?

I'd better turn and run. So I push the cart faster down the aisle. "Fat, salt, sugar. Fat, salt, sug..."

It's no use. The big bag caught up to me and jumped into my cart. I told it to get out! I don't want it. And wouldn't you know it. It starts to cry. It feels rejected. Big pouty lips....

.....

I made home in one piece. I ate a leg and thigh of the rotisserie chicken for supper. I can honestly say I put the Snickers on the rack at the checkouts, and that not one Frito passed my lips. Not one.

I think I'd better go walk ten miles now.

Tossing Kittens

2009-06-30T20:59:00.000-07:00

I was on my way to the office this morning, driving along listening mindlessly to the local morning DJ duo. From beneath the semi in the lane to my right what looks like a white grocery bag rolls/blows around first in my lane then behind the semi. Then, I realize it's a kitten. O My! I slowed down so I wouldn't hit it if it rolled into my lane. It got up on its feet and darted toward the other edge of the road, then turned as if dizzy and ran back into the road. The car behind me swerved and avoided it, and I watched in my rear view mirror as it ran into the grass.

No sooner did I look in front of me than ANOTHER kitten fell or jumped from the underside of the semi and started rolling in the road. This is a 4 lane "expressway" (said with quotes because it has stop lights up and down it -- the Lloyd for you E-ville-ites). And it's 7:30 in the morning as people are on their way to work. This kitten didn't get out of the way of the truck's back wheels and it was hit. In my rear view mirror I see it flopping around in the road behind me.

I cautiously slowed down. Does this guy know he's dropping kittens on the road? I pull up immediately behind him and I straddle two lanes so no one can get by me. Then I slowed down. This really ticked off the people behind me, but if this truck was going to drop kittens on the road, I was going to try to make sure they didn't get run over.

Sure enough-- two more kittens fell from the truck before it turned into a shopping plaza. Both made it to the side of the road.

I followed the truck as it wove to the back of a grocery store. When the driver stopped behind the store, I got out of my car wondering what I was going to say to him. I was livid. I took my tall cup of iced coffee with me and took a long sip before I walked up to his door. I knocked on the door of the cab. He hesitantly looked out of the window then opened the door slightly. I told him what I'd seen.

The man turned sheet white. "Four white and gray kittens? About 3 months old?" There was panic in his voice.

"Yes."

He quickly turned around and looked in the "bunk" back of the cab. He wailed. He pounded the steering wheel.

His sister had given him the kittens to bring home to his daughter. He didn't realize they could get out of the bunk window. His daughter was expecting the kittens that evening.

So if you see a guy in a Keebler Cookie truck crying, you know why.

I'm not sure who I feel more sorry for -- the man or the kittens.

Company is Coming!

2009-05-19T18:49:00.000-07:00

I don’t know about you, but three words can turn my house into a frenzy of activity:

Company is coming.

That’s all it takes for the vacuum cleaner to fly out of the closet, the dust cloths spring into motion, window cleaner starts spraying, and Dan starts tossing things out.

“Company is coming” are three very powerful words! They are loaded with meaning, innuendo, and layers of implications. We want to make a good impression on people. So we hide away those things that might say something negative about us, we clean up all the dirt, and organize the clutter. All the counter tops get a fresh wiping, the lampshades get dusted, and the glass end tables and coffee table get the kitty paw prints washed off. The bathroom gets a special cleaning, the soap dispenser gets filled, the extra shampoo bottles get tucked beneath the sink, spare rolls of toilet tissue are put in the cabinet, and the guest hand towels get placed on the towel rack. We want “company” to find our home clean and comfortable. We want guests to be impressed.

“Company is coming” usually means planning a special meal, or at least a special set of snacks and beverages. We probably will make a menu and go shopping for the favorite foods of our guests. We might chill a bottle of wine. We’ll put a table cloth on the table and carefully fold the cloth napkins. All the details of the meal will be carefully plotted out: the time to put things in the oven, what serving spoons are needed, whether dessert will be eaten at the table or with tea and coffee in the living room. Hospitality is important: it tells people we care enough about them to sit and share food and our lives with them.

When we’re expecting “company,” it usually means the family is coming to visit. And company, since they come from a great distance, usually spend at least a night or two with us. Planning where people will sleep, considering their schedule and how tired they will be from their travels, planning options for entertaining them over their visit (do we take them to Mesker Park Zoo, Blue Grass Wildlife Refuge, or to a concert?). How we spend our time with “company” will dictate how much sharing we’re able to do together, how much we can refresh and renew our relationships with one another.

Our Churches ares expecting company! Specifically, we’re expecting new family members!! Are you ready? Does your church home look like you’re expecting company? Will your new family know you were expecting them? Have you got everything planned out?

As you come to worship and Sunday School, or to the church of a meeting or a fellowship group, take a look around through the eyes of someone who has never been to your building before. Ask yourself how a new person might see the things you look at all the time. Does the space invite people to come in? Is there order and cleanliness to the rooms and corridors? Is there clutter anywhere? Are there things “hanging around” that are no longer useful or needed? Will your new family be impressed with your church home? Are you doing everything you can to help them feel expected and welcomed?

Hospitality is important because it tells another that we care enough about their comfort to work hard to achieve it. And, it’s important to make a good impression.

May we see with new eyes all that God is doing amongst us and with us.

Shedding Season

2009-04-16T14:11:00.001-07:00

If then there is any

encouragement in Christ,
any consolation from love,
any sharing in the Spirit,
any compassion and sympathy,

make my joy complete:

be of the same mind,

having the same love,

being in full accord

and of one mind.

Do nothing from

selfish ambition or conceit,

but in humility

regard others as better than yourselves.

Let each of you look

not to your own interests,

but to the interests of others.

Philippians 2:1-4

In my younger years, I owned a horse; I was always amazed at how ugly she looked in the Spring as she shed that winter coat. She would have clumps here and there of that not-yet-shed winter coat, and areas where the undercoat of summer was healthy, shiny, and beautiful. The Church of Jesus Christ is also in the middle of a shedding season. In this new era, we too are called to shed our old weather coats.

Just before the trees shed their leaves, we are amazed at the glory of their Fall colors. Once those leaves fall, we are frustrated by the amount of work it takes to clean up the mess!

Not all things shed gracefully. Certainly my horse didn’t! One of my cats inevitably turns up raw, oozing sores when he sheds because he tries to hurry the process along by over-licking himself.

Faith communities are also less than attractive when we shed: we want to cling to our cold weather coats — our familiar ways of doing and being the church — long after the heat of summer has shown itself. Change does not come easy to us. We put on this coat, and we’re really comfortable wearing it, and we don't want to take it off.

Only when things begin to get uncomfortable do we begin to rethink things. We might adjust a thing or two — take off a sleeve, or maybe roll it up — but certainly not look in the mirror to see just how unattractive we’ve become. And, we’ve grown accustomed to our coat and we're not comfortable exposing the body beneath the coat!

We get not very attractive when change is in the air. We've all met people who feel like they own this coat! And they have earned the right to wear it. They pay their dues and work hard to keep it up. How dare anyone ask them for their coat?! They can't imagine life without it!

But alas, the season is changing around us and beyond our control. We can try to keep the space around us cool so we’ll be comfortable in our coat; but it takes more and more energy to run the cooler, to maintain the status quo. And there are fewer and fewer of us who love the coat so much. You can blame it on global warming, but that doesn’t change the fact that we are no longer engaged in the world around us. No one else wants to put on our coat!

Jesus came that we might have life, and have it abundantly in the Realm of God. Not in the world of our own making, not in the coat of our own sewing, not in the comfort of our climate controlled institutions and organizations. We are called to live into God’s Kingdom. And that has nothing to do with us and everything to do with how we reach out to others.

The challenge of our generation is to ready others for the Realm of God. That means divesting of our human made coats and living as the Body of Christ.

May we journey together toward this end.

Uncle Lee's Tea

2009-01-17T20:45:00.000-08:00

About 9 years ago, Darlene (Georgia's lovely sister in law) introduced me to the best Chai I've ever had. I lived in Cincinnati at the time and finding this gem at Susan's Natural World on Beechmont Avenue was ever so simple.

Then I moved to the east coast. I was introduced to Trader Joe's there, but they didn't carry Uncle Lee's Teas. I found numerous natural food stores, but only one carried anything close -- a tiny store in Taneytown Maryland carried Traditional Medicinals Chai -- a close-but-not-quite-there substitute.

At the time, I checked the internet for sources of my brew, and found none. Online stores were not well stocked then. I resigned myself to rationing my stash and hoped for a miracle.

So whenever I traveled through Cincinnati, I stopped at Susan's Natural World and purchased the contents of her shelf of Uncle Lee's Chai. The last time I stopped, Susan's wasn't open. Then I dropped Andrew off at college and I have no further reason to travel by way of Beechmont Avenue. That was five years ago. I've carried my stash with me from place to place through the many moves since I left there...and this morning I opened my last box (Can tea be good 6 years after it was purchased?).

My miracle has happened.

I just found my "goods" on line.... Uncle Lee's Green Tea with Lemon.

You must try this!

A page from the cooking preacher

2008-12-23T07:03:00.000-08:00

I fell in love in Panna Cotta the first time I had it. It's light and rich, and so full of milkfat that even a calf would gain a pound eating it. But it is worth it. Very worth it. And it's sinfully simple to make.

I've yet to figure out how to adapt this for my now milk-intolerant system. But I offer it for the rest of the crowd at my Christmas Dinner.

Holiday Panna Cotta
1 packet of Knox Plain gelatin.
3 TBS of cold water
4 cups of heavy cream
1.25 cups of sour cream
2/3 cup of sugar (try raw sugar, oh so yummy!)
1/4 teaspoon of salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg (please, don't use the stuff in the plastic jars....try the real thing)
1 teaspoon vanilla

Prepare 8 cup size ramakins or jello molds. Be sure you have a way to cover these securely since anything this full of milk will take on the flavor of your refrigerator very quickly.
Pour the cold water over the gelatin and let it set for 15 - 20 minutes. It needs to "bloom" fully.
Meanwhile in a sauce pan, heat the cream, sugar, salt, and nutmeg until the sugar dissolves and the cream is very hot. But... do NOT boil it.
Using a wire whisk, quickly stir in the bloomed gelatin. Whisk until gelatin is completely dissolved and imbedded.
Whisk in the vanilla and sour cream.
Pour into mold(s) and cover tightly. Refigerate until set -- at least 6 hours.
Serve with fresh fruit or a drizzle of caramel. Yummy
Walk 5 miles to burn off the calories. LOL

Now, if I could just figure out a way to make this taste this good but use soy or rice milk....sigh.

Petty Politics

2008-09-28T12:06:00.000-07:00

Petty minds and petty politics are the root of most division in the church. Power is the name of this game. Where there is power envy, there will be dissent and division.

She is his wife. He has a problem with women in positions of authority. Including his wife. He rips the posters off the wall of the room where I teach confirmation. He has disparaging words about me whenever my back is turned. I have named his need for power and control. I have reined him in on too many occasions: twice. I allow him a lot of slack; I refuse to argue over things of no consequence to the future or well being of the church. It's simply not worth my energy. As the janitor of the church, a voluntary position, he refuses to clean the offices or even empty the trash there. He does not sit in worship; he remains outside the doors in the gathering area and chats through the worship service with 3 other guys whose wives attend.

He is her husband. Her third husband, to be exact. She buried the other two. She is the Treasurer of the church and, currently, the temporary bookkeeper. She refuses to pay the capital expenditures from borrowed money. She's paid them from general fund. There's no longer any money in the general fund, so she cannot pay the regular bills; specifically, she cannot pay the pastor's salary, pension, reimbursements (including the items purchased by request of the governing board), or mileage. There's $50K in the credit line for the capital expenditures, but since these things are not capital expenditures, she refuses to transfer the funds.

The larger issue is control. The larger issue is power. The larger issue is going to destroy the morale of the congregation and close the church.

So I continue to do what I do best: kill the source with kindness. Suffocate the strangler with recognition and laud for the positive things they do. Emphasize the positive. Quietly work the ropes to counter the negative.

Jesus asked whose face was on the coin. Give to Caesar what is Caesar's. Give to God what is God's. Today, we give to abusers what is theirs: their methods, their negativity, their demise. We praise God for the power of love.

The Shack

2008-09-18T10:51:00.000-07:00

The image of God is one that will both comfort and stretch you: a black woman.
The image of Jesus is shallow and predictable, but familiar and comfortable: Sallman's Jesus but in carpenter clothes.
The image of the Spirit is exciting from HER very name.

The hows and whys are not always deep. I found the forgiveness between father and son to be shallow and a forgery.... there simply wasn't enough to it: Cheap B Movie material.
But the forgiveness between daughter and father, father and murderer was better handled with the real pain and agony of it shown clearly.

The Plot left a lot to be desired. But, the theology contained therein was worth it.

Unfortunately, when a movie comes out, it will be more like "touched by an angel" than like Joan of Arcadia.

Here's a link to an interview with the author on Oregon Public Broadcasting's Thinking Out Loud. http://tinyurl.com/3j5wz4

Stealing Dead Sheep

2008-09-07T16:55:00.000-07:00

A certain pastor has repeatedly become entwined with members of other congregations following the death of a loved one. He works part time for the local funeral home, offers to do the funeral and then works to sever all ties between the church and the family. His wife owns a wedding coordinating service in the area. So whether it's a Match or Dispatch, this man has his fingers in the pie for the sake of evangelizing the "heathens."

This afternoon I learned that this happened yet again, this time with a longtime member whom I've been visiting with for the last year; I buried her daughter in the first month I was in this church. My elders have been visiting on a weekly basis. When she called in hospice to help, I helped her plan her funeral. The woman died on her 100th birthday. The funeral home never called the church, though they listed her church membership in the obituary. The niece who was present through the hospice process was not able to convince the son from out of town (who grew up in the church) that his mother had made plans.

And just how does a pastor respond to this? A nondenominational church has no system of accountability for such unethical behavior. There is no one to whom to report him. His congregation has a vested interest because they can only afford his salary because he supplements it this way.

Frankly, I don't have the "free time" to do a funeral this week. But I would have made the time because I honor the woman, her wishes, and the relationships she had within the congregation. I mourn for these, for the relationships this pastor will sever in his vision of evangelism, and for the reputation of the Gospel because of his ill-will.

Stealing Dead Sheep

2008-09-07T16:49:00.000-07:00

A certain pastor has repeatedly become entwined with members of other congregations following the death of a loved one. He works part time for the local funeral home, offers to do the funeral and then works to sever all ties between the church and the funeral.

This afternoon I learned that this happened yet again, this time with a longtime member whom I've been visiting with for the last year; I buried her daughter in the first month I was in this church. My elders have been visiting on a weekly basis. When she called in hospice to help, I helped her plan her funeral. The woman died on her 100th birthday. The funeral home never called the church, though they listed her church membership in the obituary. The niece who was present through the hospice process was not able to convince the son from out of town (who grew up in the church) that his mother had made plans

And just how does a pastor respond to this? A nondenominational church has no system of accountability for such unethical behavior. There is no one to whom to report him. His congregation has a vested interest because they can only afford his salary because he supplements it this way.

Dancing Defiance

2008-08-17T10:48:00.000-07:00

Exodus 1:8 - 2:10 NRSV Now a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph. He said to his people, "Look, the Israelite people are more numerous and more powerful than we. Come, let us deal shrewdly with them, or they will increase and, in the event of war, join our enemies and fight against us and escape from the land."

Therefore they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor. They built supply cities, Pithom and Rameses, for Pharaoh. But the more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and spread, so that the Egyptians came to dread the Israelites. The Egyptians became ruthless in imposing tasks on the Israelites, and made their lives bitter with hard service in mortar and brick and in every kind of field labor. They were ruthless in all the tasks that they imposed on them.

The king of Egypt said to the Hebrew midwives, one of whom was named Shiphrah and the other Puah, "When you act as midwives to the Hebrew women, and see them on the birthstool, if it is a boy, kill him; but if it is a girl, she shall live."

But the midwives feared God; they did not do as the king of Egypt commanded them, but they let the boys live. So the king of Egypt summoned the midwives and said to them, "Why have you done this, and allowed the boys to live?"

The midwives said to Pharaoh, "Because the Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women; for they are vigorous and give birth before the midwife comes to them." So God dealt well with the midwives; and the people multiplied and became very strong.
And because the midwives feared God, he gave them families.

Then Pharaoh commanded all his people, "Every boy that is born to the Hebrews you shall throw into the Nile, but you shall let every girl live."

Now a man from the house of Levi went and married a Levite woman. The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw that he was a fine baby, she hid him three months. When she could hide him no longer she got a papyrus basket for him, and plastered it with bitumen and pitch; she put the child in it and placed it among the reeds on the bank of the river. His sister stood at a distance, to see what would happen to him.

The daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe at the river, while her attendants walked beside the river. She saw the basket among the reeds and sent her maid to bring it. When she opened it, she saw the child. He was crying, and she took pity on him, "This must be one of the Hebrews' children," she said.

Then his sister said to Pharaoh's daughter, "Shall I go and get you a nurse from the Hebrew women to nurse the child for you?"

Pharaoh's daughter said to her, "Yes." So the girl went and called the child's mother. Pharaoh's daughter said to her, "Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will give you your wages."

So the woman took the child and nursed it. When the child grew up, she brought him to Pharaoh's daughter, and she took him as her son. She named him Moses, "because," she said, "I drew him out of the water."
---------------------------

Two midwives decide to ignore the orders of the great Pharaoh and then lie
to protect their charges -- they LIE to PHARAOH and live!

A mother chooses to hide her child in the weeds rather than risk his
murder... which was to be by drowning... build a basket to defy death.

A daughter of Pharaoh chooses to bring a Hebrew child into the house of her
father. A she-child with no power ultimately undoes her dad.

Miriam brings together two women who are both acting the truth to power.
What a dance of delight.

Each of these women dances to a subversive melody. Each in their own way
acts from the ways of love and relationship, not power and subjugation.

Worshiping the walls

2008-08-17T09:54:00.000-07:00

It's a framed award from May 2004. There's a photo of the building with a zillion flags planted in the front lawn. One flag for every soldier that had died in combat at that time. It was Memorial Day. The plaque was given 4 years ago.

They are three awards for outstanding service and generosity. They are simple certificates that thank the congregation for their support of the ministries of our covenantal partners. Three framed, plaques awarded to the congregation in 2008.

It is a picture of a young, vibrant woman. Perhaps her senior picture from high school. It carries with it a poem and her birth and death dates. It hangs on the hook placed under it in 2004.

It is a large wood base with a brass plaque and a ledger size list of names. Over 200 names. It's labeled "25th Anniversary Memorial" but no explanation of who those 200 people are. It hangs there with the dust that's fallen upon it since 1981.

I see dead people.

Why are there so many dead people in this place of worship?

“I love God; it’s his fan club I can’t stand.”

2008-07-28T14:51:00.000-07:00

Heather has a tag on her Facebook page that says:
“I love God; it’s his fan club I can’t stand.”

Heather is my husband’s niece. She’s a bright young woman, an English major with wonderful skills in television editing, production, television broadcasting, and she has a knack for “getting the story.”

Her father is an active pastor and both of her grandfathers are retired ministers; and she has an aunt and uncle who are both clergy. Given these realities, her tag line makes me ask, “What story are we missing?”

I attended a conference on “the post-modern and emerging church.” Each person in the group with whom I attended is deeply committed to the United Church of Christ and all of us are struggling with the same issues: why is the church, its mission and its ministry eluding our young people. I don’t mean teen-agers. Teenagers in every generation have rebelled against the values of their parents; it is part of the maturing process. What I’m referring to is the age group between the ages of 18 and 40 who have never come back to our churches. Why are they few in number? Could they feel the same way as my niece? “I love God; it’s his fan club I can’t stand.”

In our gathering, a 30-something year old man of our group said something that caused me to stop and think and I’m still thinking.

He stated, “Everything the church does dis-empowers young people.”

He gave examples that were true of our church as well as his congregation. The only path to spiritual growth in our churches comes through participation in the institution we call the Church. We attend Sunday school as small children, we are confirmed, we grow up and we can sing in the choir, serve as an Elder, a Deacon, or a Trustee. We can become a committee member or team member and we can serve the institution.

But look at what is missing! All of these things serve bricks and mortar and keep the institution going. But this path gives little or no relevance to personal relationships or a faith that makes a difference in lives. I’m not sure this is very empowering to our young people. This, I believe, is the “fan club” my niece was referring to in the context of her signature line.

Are we a fan club for God? What does a fan club do? Think of the “Mouseketeers” of the 40s and 50s, a fan club for Mickey Mouse. The only thing required of Mousketeers was to promote Walt Disney. What about Elvis Presley and his fan club? What was this all about? Young girls swooning over his music and writing love letters to the king?

Fan clubs imagine what it would be like to see their hero(s) in person. Today we can blog with the stars, attend conventions from Star Trek to MASH, or participate in sports clinics with the pros. Fan clubs are not empowering, fulfilling, or relevant any longer; they exist to serve the personalities that have become the object of obsession. In the end, it’s a lot of fluff and meaningless activity that neither challenge us nor deepen our faith in God or our commitment for a better world.

Like my niece and countless young people and families, I too feel our churches are missing the story. Are we keeping our membership at St. Mark out of loyalty to the land, the building, and the institution? Out of a reverence for the memory of our previous congregations? In honor of our parents and loved ones? Are these things more important to us than our loyalty to God or our commitment to a personal journey of faith?

I am wondering if we’re living the wrong story these days. I am wondering if there is another story that we’ve been missing. What do you think?

Is there REAL faith?

2008-07-28T14:30:00.000-07:00

“You know, if you want a church where you can pretend for an hour or two that everything is just fine with you , with your family, and with the world, then we’re probably not for you. But if you want a church where you can tell the truth about how it is an know that it’s okay, maybe you’ll find a home here.”
UCC website

“…religion is something people do because that’s what is expected of them. We are told we must believe in God to go to heaven, so we do it blindly or not sincerely because we are afraid of the consequences….Is there true sincere faith?”
Question left in my church’s offering plate.

Why are we part of a faith community? What do we get out of it? What difference does faith make in our everyday lives?
My question to both of the above.

Here’s the response my faith leads me to give.

· Some people attend church because they’ve always attended church. Their ancestors before them attended church, so they do too. It’s a habit and a duty.
· Some people participate in a community of faith because they are looking for answers to life’s questions. They are looking for what will fill emptiness in their lives, trying to satisfy an unidentified hunger. They shop from church to church, faith to faith, looking and looking, and moving on when something offends or challenges them.
· Some people attend church because they fear the wrath of an angry god. They’ve been told that God will judge harshly those who do not jump the hoops and submit to the anger of an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-present God.
· Some are part of a community of faith because it is in relationships with others that they are fed, nourished, challenged to grow, and refreshed in their whole being.
· Some people don’t attend church because they see people who do as hypocrites and judgmental, but they still have questions, are still looking to fill that emptiness.
· Some people don’t attend church because they can’t wrap their minds around the whole “motivation by fear” concept.
· Some people are not part of a faith community because they have no idea what goes on there but have seen and heard in the media what “Christians” are about and they don’t like it.
· Some people are not part of a faith community because they’ve never been there, their parents didn’t attend, and none of their friends attend. These are spiritual people and the consumer’s market of offerings in the Spirituality section of the bookstores and the internet communities are great places to check things out.

I would propose that participating in a faith community and having faith are not the same. Humans are born with a spirit, a soul that yearns to be connected to something larger and beyond themselves. That yearning is satisfied through faith, but not by faith. Faith is not a solution, but a journey. True, sincere faith is an honest and open trek through life – both the challenges and the joys – growing and reaching toward that “something” beyond and greater than us. In Christianity, that trek is guided by the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth and the writings of his earliest followers. And that “something” is the One Jesus called God.

Yes, my friend, there is true, sincere faith. It is not found in a book or on the internet. It is not found in the media or in anything someone else can give you. It is found by looking within yourself, recognizing the God-shaped hole within you, and seeking honest, open, and challenging ways to fill that void. It is a journey we must share with others who feed, nourish, and challenge us. Easy answers and the status quo of life will not be a part of this journey. It is a journey that will continuously transform, change, and remold you.

Reflections of the changes in life.

2006-08-30T18:39:00.000-07:00

Of course, I knew it was going to happen. It happens every year. But I'm never really fully ready when it does.

Oh, I saw it coming. I noted the signs that it was on its way. But now the reality of it strikes; I'm overcome by it.

I used to privately scoff at people who reacted this way. After all, it's a part of life. Deal with it. And deal with it I will. But it doesn't make it anymore pleasant. It just shows me again how my own judgments about other people have come back to haunt me.

So what is "it"? My baby has left to return to college. Okay, "baby" isn't a very good word. He's 4 days short of 20 years old. He's 6'4" tall with a deep, masculine voice and a bright future, a 4.0 GPA taking honors courses at a private college, a girlfriend, and a great handle on the responsibilities and privileges of adult life. He's skilled at money management, time management, and personal relationships. My "baby" is well on his way to independence.

Yet the last weekend of August is always a dreaded time for me. He leaves and drives 8 hours to go to school, to live independently and separately. To lead his own life. I should be exuberant in all his success. I should bask in his achievements. And I am and do. But inside, I am torn -- ripped apart. The child who learned to walk, talk, and think within my care, the young man with whom I've shared so much in these years is rounding the corner from "my baby" to adult son, from one who needs me to one who choses when and how to relate to me. I'm not dealing well with this change -- maybe because it's more profound than the progression of changes that led up to this.

When he stepped onto a school bus for his first day of school, I was excited for him. He would experience learning in a new setting, with new people; he would make friends and his world would expand. He came home and shared his stories, his frustrations, his joys over a snack or the evening meal. When he learned to drive, I was relieved. I no longer would be a taxi driver and he could find some independence and experience a larger slice of the world. But he always told us where he was going and when he'd be back, and then he came home, ate dinner at the family table, and shared his excursions. When he stepped on a plane for a tour of Great Britain I was envious of him. He would see places I've dreamed of seeing. His world expanded beyond my own, but he would still be coming home. And he still called it home. He shared his stories, his photos, and his dreams to go to see the world.

The first year of college, he and I drove to the school in separate cars. He needed my help to find the place, and the space in my car for his belongings. As I left him in the dorm that evening -- my birthday and days from his 18th birthday -- the tears fell: mine and his. I sensed his unfamiliarity with the place, the people, the situation. I cried for him. And for myself. For the first time, the ties that had held us together for 18 years were being dissolved -- the dinner table, the long walks, the conversations. His world separated from mine. His life is his own. Tears fell over the separation and this difficult transition.

And now, two years and two August weekend separations later, those tears fall again. The void, the reality, and success of this cutting of the proverbial umbilical cord mingle in the salty flow from my eyes.

I treasure his companionship, our conversations over breakfast and dinner, our shopping excursions at Goodwill. I revel in his stories of learning to do a new thing, of achieving success with his coworkers, of finding his way to a new spot in town. I enjoy his company when we're reading the newspaper in the evenings, our long walks in the neighborhood after dark. And his humor, dry and sharp, lightens even my heaviest days. I do miss him when he leaves for school every year on the weekend of his and my birthdays, one set of milestones marking yet another.

Today his room is void of all thing things that make it "Andrew's room." The floor is empty. The closet door and desk drawers closed. Missing are the clothes in the laundry basket and the contents of his desk. Gone are the keys to his car. Gone is the young man I'm proud to call my son and my friend. Today the void is not just in that room. It is also in my own heart.

Maybe I'm just feeling my age. Maybe my changing hormonal balance affects me this way. Maybe it's the humidity or the phase of the moon. Whatever. The bottom line is still that I'll deal with it. His independence is the evidence of our parental success. His burgeoning self-reliance and autonomy are the desired outcome of procreation. My struggle to transition will be won with time. My tears will flow into rivers of joy. Someday. But for today, I think I'll just swim in them. A late August swim.

The Journey is Life.

2004-05-16T21:17:00.000-07:00

The desktop screen of my displays a picture of a misty woods. The angle of the camera leads the eye to look up the trunks of tall trees but I cannot see the tops. I see the bright white areas where the sky is beyond the and above the tree branches. Around the base, ferns and under growth flourish in the rich soil. As my eyes drift to see beyond, down the well worn path between two trees, my view is blurred by fog. Brightly lit areas on those tall trees trunks tell me the sun is shining behind the photographer. It would seem to be the first light of dawn.

Upon this picture sit the “icons” of the programs and computer tools I use everyday: The Internet web browser, the word processor, the accounting program that keeps my finances straight, the “tune up” software that keeps the computer running well, a folder of frequently used documents, and the “Briefcase” that allows me to synchronize the documents I take back and forth between my computer and the church’s computer. I can merely point to these icons and these work tools open over the desktop photo. These icons don’t interfere with the “view.” They merely sit on top of its edges much like a hiker’s boots might sit along the edge of the path.

The whole desktop screen is for me a metaphor for Christian ministry. You and I are on a journey through the forests of life. Our destination is not in focus because it is the journey that is important; we see but dimly what we will someday know clearly. Glimpses of light lead us further down the path. Each day dawns yet a new opportunity.

As our paths of ministry go in different directions, I encourage you to keep looking forward and walking forward on the journey we call faith. Use the tools along the way never letting them become more than small images and allowing them to run their course after you walk beyond them.

The journey is life. Life it. Love God. And keep on walking toward the Light.

Spiritual Garage Sale

2003-09-09T11:13:00.000-07:00

Silence shouts “Betrayal!”

Covenant disregarded

Trust forsaken Lost

Colleagues withdraw mute

Their silence screams “Abandoned!”

Cronyism wins

Costly honesty

Evil Vengeance Snakely slime

Silence screams “Condoned!”

Abandoned Forsaken Sole

Shipwrecked Beached in starless night

Christ’s body fouled

Haiku #2

2003-05-17T21:10:00.000-07:00

Life’s work continues

those who inflict pain abort

dreams, vision, hope, faith

Mourning rains must flow

Red rage and black despair

Spring, flood, gushing forth

Through Sophia’s child

Man’s folly will be revealed

The child will rejoice

She’ll turn my mourning

into jubilant dancing

sackcloth into joy

Silence shattered by song

Giving thanks to the One God

Who resurrected reigns

Darkness will retreat

Return dreams hope faith visions

Shine into this pit

Haiku

2003-05-16T04:03:00.000-07:00

Dream Vision Faith Hope

Conception Expectant

A Spirit of Joy

Vision Faith Hope Work

Endeavor Joyous groundwork

A Spirit of Joy

Apprehension Test

Dark shadows darken joy’s spirit

Looming Raining Threats

Storm passes Relief

Impediments overcome

Dream Pray Vision Hope

Quickening! Hiccups!

Pregnant Potential! Praise! Joy!

Dream Vision Faith Hope

Vision Labor Sweat

Joyous footwork to prepare

A Spirit of Joy!

Cold steal tears open

Hemorrhaging Life poured out

Forced abortion: Death

Wounded Empty Void

Hope stolen Vision deceased

Annulled Canceled Void

There is no Spirit

No joy No hope No Vision

No Spirit of Joy

Mouse House

2003-04-16T20:48:00.000-07:00

We enjoyed a lovely long drive from Maryland to Illinois and back this past weekend. It was good to see family and visit. Andrew had a chance to add to his "behind the wheel" hours required by the state of Maryland. It was a good trip with plenty of laughs and a few surprises.

The funniest surprise was that we picked up a hitchhiker along the way. Yeah, I know, this is never a safe idea. But we didn't mean too pick her up. She crawled into the car somewhere between Kewanee, IL and Columbus, OH. She made herself at home, and we just didn't realize she was there. If that's not a statement about the amount of stuff in the van, nothing could be! We never saw her. Really!

That is, until Dan reached for a tissue for me while I was driving. We had just had lunch at the Olive Garden in Frederick. We still needed to stop for gas before we drove the last 18 miles to home. Dan opened the glove compartment and reached for the tissues. Strangely, the stack of paper tissues was out of place, rumpled, and, well, shredded. From the back of the glove compartment to the front, shredded paper and cardboard (from the box of hand wipes) was spewing all over the van floor. It wasn't like this when I had reached in on Saturday evening to get Dan an Extra Strength Tums to calm his Post-Pizza-Hut-Pizza-stomach. In the hotel parking lot in Chillicothe, IL things were just fine. But now, oddly enough, the whole glove compartment was churning disorder.

I took one look across the front seat and I knew the probably source. It took Dan a little longer to figure it out. I calmly told him to close the glove compartment door. He couldn't figure out why. I repeated it calmly. "Close the glove compartment, Dan. Now." He didn't get it. So I reached across yelling something less than calm about a critter nest and tried, unsuccessfully, to slam the glove compartment door closed.

Chances are you've ever seen Dan react to unexpected critters. But let me tell you it's a real laugh. Unless you're driving! The poor guy slammed the glove box door closed. And when it bounced back open from the force of it, he was out of the seat belt and on his feet in a flash. He's not a small man, but he sure made quick to remove himself from the vicinity of that glove compartment. Over the arm of the captain seat, through the narrow space between the two front seats, over the cooler between those seats, and to the back. In just the snap of fingers. No noise. Just motion. Dan moved very quickly to the back of the van. I didn't remember that he could move so fast in such limited space.

By now, Andrew and Aaron are in stitches. Dan's sitting on the floor of the back of the van -- the two extra seats were folded down as foot rests for the boys and their "stuff." The van was still in the left lane of MD 85 heading toward Market Street in the middle of traffic. I couldn't stop. But the van was shaking with our laughter.

When we stopped to get gas, (a Sheetz gas station) I emptied the glove compartment and found the identifying "evidence" that the hitch hiker is a mouse. A nesting mouse. I cleaned up the mess as best I could but found no live being. There's a small hole in the top of the compartment where one can access the light to change it. The point of escape. She was in the dash board somewhere enjoying relative safety from her human home wreckers.

We replaced the tissues and napkins with service station blue paper towels because the hand wipe I used left the glove compartment floor and walls damp. When we arrived home, we made sure all the food crumbs and litter were removed from the car. Then we sat around the house wondering how to excise this creature. I'm all for the mouse poison. Andrew and Dan are adamant that it must be removed alive. I'm willing to do a snap- trap. They want the "poor little mousie" released into the storm pond/field beside the house.

The "poison" is large doses of "Cumadin" the human blood thinner laced into some "mousie kibble." The mouse ingests it and it gets into the blood stream. As soon the mouse gets active, any slight bruise or bump will cause massive bleeding internally. The mouse will then go out looking for water because the bleeding leaves them very thirsty. So, they go out looking for a drink, leaving the van, the garage, and my space in peace.

But Andrew and Dan want to be humane to our little hitch hiker. Internal bleeding might be painful. Or the "poor Little Mousie" might get stuck inside the van and stink it up. A sticky trap is just as inhumane because it limits the "poor little mousie's" freedom. And there's no point even asking about the snap traps... they're viscous.

We did not come to any productive conclusion. By evening yesterday, the blue paper was in tact and we all privately hoped the mouse was adding some Illinois diversity to the gene pool in the storm pond beside our house. But it was not to be.

This morning Dan and Andrew went to the gym at 5:00. When they returned, they brought news that the mouse was still in the glove compartment. But she didn't like the lovely blue paper towels. She had "redecorated" with the green fiberglass firewall material from the back of the dashboard. Lots of it. The glove compartment was heaping full of shredded green with hints of blue here and there. And I do mean full. It tumbled to the floor when I opened it up to clean it out.

Yes, I again had to clean it out. So much for a "shared responsibility marriage." Dan wouldn't go within 3 feet of it. He stood at the garage door, his head peaking out from behind it while he stood in the safety of the laundry room, while I cleaned out the shredded décor and cleaned out the glove compartment with anti- bacterial wipes. He removed himself from sight when I closed the van door and placed the bag of "mouse house" into the garbage can beside the door. Dan may clean cat boxes, but forget about cleaning mouse houses. It's just not in his repertoire.

So after the boys left for school, I went to Ace Hardware to get supplies. Dan insisted upon going with me, however. We had a few moments of marital strain in the "Pest Control" aisle before we reached a compromise. I bought "live traps" to try first. If they are not effective, I'll back them up with the poison. However, Dan will not agree to empty the live traps. He wouldn't even set them. "The Poor Mousie...." (Eyes rolling over the back of my head.)

Have you ever seen a "Have a Heart" live trap for a woodchuck? Well, these look NOTHING like those. These are little plastic boxes, the size of match boxes, open at only one end with a "SeeSaw" in the middle of the bottom. When the mouse upsets the SeeSaw, the door over the front closes and locks.

The only problem is that they are designed to exist on a kitchen counter or under a sink. Not in a vehicle where the whole thing moves all the time. All it takes is closing the glove compartment to set it off. Or, closing the van door. There's no hope of driving down the driveway without snapping the trap closed.

I loaded the things down with peanut butter -- the only thing that would work to hold them in the correct position. Then I gently placed them in the glove compartment with a stack of McDonalds napkins and gingerly closed the door.

How it's going to ever work is a real mystery to me. But for Dan's and Andrew's sake, I've left it in the glove box with ORDERS to not drive the van, not to touch the van, not to breath near the van. If there's no "Poor little Mousie" in those boxes by tomorrow evening, I'm replacing the live traps with the box of poison and parking the van on the street. I don't want a dead "Poor Little Mousie" stuck between the dashboard the the frame of the van because that could really be unpleasant in the summer heat, but I'm not willing to have a family of "poor little mousies" in my van either.

It's all wrong, you know. That an Illinois mouse would find it's way into a Maryland van. I'm sure that somewhere in the blue laws there must be something about it being immoral and illegal to carry a live mouse in your gloves. Or perhaps it's an offense to interbreed an Illinois Farmer with a Maryland Suburbanite. If it's not, well I think we need a new law on the books! <>

If you have any creative and effective ways to excise Illinois mouse from a Maryland van, I'm all ears. I'll nibble at anything that might work at this point.

Falling Walls, Cracked Soul

2003-01-23T05:45:00.000-08:00

The wall fell. It was a wall of protection, a dyke to hold back the ocean of chaos. A sea wall to keep the ocean at bay while I swam in its murky waters and dove to find the sources of the murk. It was a solid barrier between the sea and me, between the ever changing tidal pools and the examiner of those depths. The wall was my means of transportation from one bay to the next, the pathway that made easy my travels from one chaotic crisis to the next.

The wall fell. A sea wall stands only if there is adequate support on the dry side, only if there is enough counter pressure to hold the wall against the sea. The importance of the wall is it the separation it provides between ocean and safety, between chaos and order, between my work and my feelings.

The wall fell. There was no support on the back side. No counter pressure upon which I could brace myself. I fought with all I had to hold back the wall, but I could not do it alone, without the support of those who have helped in the past. I turned to the sea to uphold me, to lift me from the floodwaters. I rested upon its waves, and was embraced by that which I’d always remained withdrawn and unattached.

The wall fell. It wasn’t an intentional taking down of the wall. It just tumbled down and the floodgates opened. The sea has flowed into my pathway, my safety. The waters have marked my very being. I’ve grown accustomed to the buoyancy it offers. Dare I say it? I have grown to love the water – the very response the wall was assembled to thwart.

The wall fell. But the cycle of the tide does not stop; the water must recede from the shore. So now begins the painful work to separate the sea and the land. Now begins the anguish of removal.

The tide rescinds. A new wall must be built. And I dread the separation. I loathe the approaching anguish.

This has been my reason for this wall. It keeps out the pain of separation. It holds a bay my falling in love with the sea. I am at once longing for the wall and dreading the separation. Torn, tattered, branches flowing away with the tide, I wonder if I’ll ever want to swim in the depths again.

What a Web we Weave?

2002-05-22T18:21:00.000-07:00

The spider in the window of my office, a basement window well, spins her web with intricate detail. She walks delicately up and drops down from the window leaving behind her a trail of fine silken web. She’s careful and she’s determined. She has in mind a vision of what the web will look like. She maybe even salivates about the insects she’ll have for dinner.

But the neighborhood cat has other ideas. She likes to sleep on cold nights in the window well. She drops herself into the well and sleeps against the warmth of the window. And in so doing, she upsets the spider’s web. Ms. Spider is undaunted. She just starts again and renews the broken strands.

I feel sometimes like the spider. I spin and spin with a vision in mind. I think things are going a long well. And while I’m least expecting it, something comes along and spoils the web. I’ve spun and spun and am left with nothing. I lack the spider’s tenacity. Or, maybe I’m not as hungry as she is.

The problem is I’m not a spider. Ms. Spider can do it all alone. I can try, but ultimately the vision will only come to reality if we have many undaunted spinners. That means finding others who have the gifts to make the vision become reality. That means finding workers who can make the silk and are willing to catch others who will work to make the vision a reality.

Building a church is not for everyone. It’s for entrepreneurs and risk takers. It’s for people who can live with an idea – a vision -- not full service church. It’s for people who are willing to risk their family’s comfort, their Sunday morning comfort, and their weekday boundaries. It’s for the folks who can leap beyond the comfort zone of their own journey and invite others to walk with them. It’s for people who can stick with it for the long haul and make due without.

Maybe church building isn’t for me. Or, maybe my expectations for church builders is too high. I need others to be as committed as I am. I need others who will take the risk I’ve taken. I need others who are as willing as I am to walk out of the box and into the unknown. I need others who will invite everyone they know, everyone they meet, and then go further and meet people intentionally to invite them. Invite to the banquet those who don’t yet know that party’s being held for them.

The spider spins her web despite it’s regular destruction. I wonder how many times the vision will be thrown away by others before I too will let it go as a dream I cannot fulfill.

Drought, Rain, and New Life.

2002-03-19T15:33:00.000-08:00

It rained here this week. The ground has been bone dry since November. So dry there can't be any septic perk tests run. So dry the winter wheat isn't green. So dry that the soil turned last winter has been windblown across the yard like dust dancing in the sunlight. It's been very dry.

It was a slow, soaking rain. Three days worth. Not enough to catch up all the rain we're behind, but enough to remind us of the sound of rain falling upon the roof. Enough to bring the daffodils out of their buds. Enough to swell the buds at the ends of the trees twigs. Enough to show off the colors of the rainbow in the west sky this morning. Enough to let the ground taste hope again. It was a good rain.

It's been a dry winter for my soul too. I've questioned and doubted, fussed and whined. It was a winter cold with loneliness and adjustment. A dark chill swept through me and left me stiff and immobile.

But Spring rain has fallen on me too. A gentle rain of hope and assurance. Enough to dampen the dustiness of my faith and awaken my thirst for more. God’s Spring showers new life, new energy, new awareness of all the blessings that have come my way: The rain of people praying for us, for this new endeavor we call Spirit of Joy Community. A shower of cards and calls and e-mail that bring hope. God’s gentleness rains upon me and glows with the colors of anticipation and expectation: Of a new faith community budding out from a mere twig. Of joy finding its way through the questions and doubts I’ve thrown at the wind. Of the relationships yet to be formed.

Natalie Sleeth wrote a resurrection anthem whose verses call out:

There’ll be joy in the morning, there’ll be joy on that day.

In the light of dawn the dark is gone.

There’ll be joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.

There’ll be peace and contentment evermore

Every heart, every voice on that day will rejoice

There’ll be joy, joy, joy, joy, joy

And glory, glory, glory of the Lord will Shine

And glory, glory, glory of the Lord will bring the truth divine.

There’ll be joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.

Easter is the hope that God’s glory does shine and bring the dawn of joy to those who live in the midst of darkness. Easter is the dawn of God’s truth divine offers to us peace and contentment. Easter shines God’s assurance upon our parched hearts so that we might rejoice and feel the joy again.

God shines upon us. There is joy in the morning. There will be joy on this day. Let us rejoice!

Yes, Mother, I Know

2002-01-17T23:51:00.000-08:00

"Yes, Mother, I know."

It was my usual response when she'd try to tell me something obvious. "You've got to be careful with boys. Girls your age don't need to be sick or pregnant".
"Yes, Mother, I know."

Those were the days when I knew it all, had all the answers, and surely didn't need someone 40 years my elder telling me the facts of life. And why did she think I did? I was, after all, 17 years old. If I didn't know by then what the monthly cycle was, she probably would have known about its absence. Did she think I wouldn't tell her if it hadn't happened?

We were in the laundry room. She was moving clothes from the washer, where she'd wrung them out by hand so she could re-use the rinse water for the next wash load, to the drier. I was hanging around trying to look busy by looking for matches in the box of single socks.

"You know, Carla, you're going to start having periods pretty soon."

"What?"

"You’re becoming a young lady."

"And?"

"Well, you're old enough now to have periods. That's all."

"Mom, I starting having periods three years ago."

"Oh. I didn't know. I guess I missed that"

Yes, Mother, I know.

It wasn't that she missed it. It was that as I was reaching puberty, so much else was going on. With siblings: Tisha's marriage was rocky. Ricky's wife died, his kids moved in with us and then out to his house again. Then he got re-married. Emily had a baby. Kenny got married and they had a new baby. Paul got married. Wayne went off to the Air Force. Marcia went off to college. Cindy was engaged to be married and moved out. Glenn was dating.

With all that going on, how could she have noticed me, the youngest.

The youngest and the last. Beneath her radar scope. The one who at three years old got left at the lake after swimming. The one whose baptism was forgotten about. The one who wore all the hand-me-down shoes and dresses. The one who had heard all the rules repeated to all the others so many times they didn't need to be repeated again.

Yes, Mother, I know.

-----

So much time has slipped through the fingers of life since. So much has changed. I stopped knowing everything somewhere along the line. I'd call Mother and ask for her custard pudding or some other recipe.

"I don't know what's so special about it. It just comes out of the Betty Crocker Cookbook."

"But your edition is different than the ones they print now. Mine has the recipe using cornstarch and yours with flour is so much better."

So she'd write it out on the back of an index card in tiny but perfect handwriting. Then she'd write a note on one end of the other side. She'd put a stamp in the corner and my address on the bottom and mail it to me. It's signed in the corner "Love, Mother."

So many recipes she sent me. Or dictated to me over the phone. She'd wait less than patiently while I wrote down her every word. "Isn't this going to cost you a lot of money? Can you afford to call me for a recipe? Why don't you just save your money and buy a good cookbook?"

But it wasn't just her recipes I called for. Or even her suggestions on how to do this or that. It was the piece of ground she gave to me when I called. Her calm voice and her motherly wisdom could steady the ground under me when everything else was slipping away. I could depend on her to look at any situation for it's literal reality. That's what she understood best.

----

Her voice was calm still last April. I'd gone to Florida to help her get ready for the trip back to Cape Cod for the summer. She was on oxygen most of the time. With only one lung left and it full of the cancer that took the other, her energy was low. But her wisdom remained. That wisdom was the ground that steadied me amidst the realization that I might never see her again. She patiently gave me instructions as I washed down the walls with bleach water to prevent summer mold. As I put Borax around the sills to keep the bugs out. As I emptied the cupboards and closets the contractors would need to get into to replace the plumbing and the floors after we left. As I planned meals that would use up all their left over food. As I tightly packed their bags so that everything Dad wanted to take would fit along side the clothes. As I closed up the home she would never see again.

So many instructions. How would I remember them all when she was no longer there to call? Who would I call then? Who would steady the ground beneath my quaking feet?

----

It was a terrible transition. Both of us changing jobs--career focus even. Changing homes. Moving to another state. The boys were changing schools for the first time in their memory. I had surgery in the midst of it all.

And then there was Mother.

The week between leaving our old home and moving into our new one, we spent with Mother. The boys spent time riding their bikes on the flat Cape Cod terrain, or walking the salt flats at low tide. I spent mine with her. Feeding her little bits of tapioca pudding and creamy yogurt. Sitting at the end of the couch with her feet on my lap. Rubbing her feet. Holding her hand. Giving her frequent hugs. She was getting weaker. But she still gave me instructions on how to cook for my father. I couldn't bring myself to say, "Yes Mother, I know." I wanted to hear those directions. Write them in indelible pen in my memory. The ground under me was slipping away. Her voice was my calm. Her wisdom steadied me.

The night before we left, as I tucked her into her bed, she hugged me firmly.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you, too."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

----

As I scrape the leftover dinner from its dish, her voice rings in my ears. "That will be good in soup."

"Yes, Mother, I know"

As I rinse dishes to put them into the dish washer she whispers, "You could wash them by hand and not waste the electricity."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

As I toss into the recycling bin an empty margarine tub with its lid, her wisdom echoes, "You could use that for keeping leftovers."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

As I rub my arthritic knuckles her advice is still there. "You need to keep those hands moving or they'll get stiff."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

As I stir the bubbling milk, sugar, and flour and ready the beaten egg, her steady voice remains. "Stir some of the hot liquid to the egg first and warm it up. Then add the mixture back into the hot liquid. It won't make lumpy pudding that way."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

I know because you've taught me well. I know because you showed me how to save every penny and how to skimp to get by. I know because you dared to teach me-- a girl--that I could do anything I put my mind to doing, and do it well. I know because you never took my knowing for granted. I am who I am because in me at least some your wisdom lives on. It steadies the ground under me while everything else is slipping away.

Yes, Mother, I know you loved me.

In honor of my Mother,

Evelyn Myrle Camp Stucklen

d. August 31, 2001

Advent, 2001

2001-12-15T20:36:00.000-08:00

There is only one window in our house that faces east. It is a misfit window -- smaller than all the others even though it is of the same manufacturer. Why the builder choose to put a window there -- just south of the peak of the garage roof -- has always annoyed me. No other house in the subdivision has a window there. But, no other house has this wall facing east.

This morning as I lay in bed I realized why. The light of the nearing winter solstice shone through that window long before the sun rose. I watched the sun rise as I was getting ready to leave. It was so beautiful. There were colors flowing through the sky along the horizon as though someone were painting on the outside of my window panes. I watched as it turned lighter and I could see the roofs of the houses across the way. The colors were most brilliant just before the sun reached the horizon. Once its white light burst its celestial prison, the colors began to fade, replaced by the brilliance of the winter sun.

How apt. The rising sun is much like the Advent season. We stand in awe of what is unfolding before us. The colors of possibilities amaze us. Even when the clouds come, they add texture to the ever-evolving scene before us. We go about our way, busy in our waiting, and waiting amidst our busyness. Christmas -- the season when the church color is white -- replaces the colors of this season with a brilliance that will fade our time of waiting.

How apt. The rising sun, and with it Advent, are also like the birthing of this faith community. The rising sun or the season of waiting, like the birth of a new faith community reminds me that this is a new day--a day filled with new possibilities. This is what church planting is all about. Its about hope, its about anticipation, its about the astounding grace that God gives us. Maybe the small misfit window at the South peak of my garage is God's astounding grace for me, enabling me to look into the heart of God and see the glory of this new day.

Happy Sunrises!

Peaceful Advent!

Merry Christmas!

The problem with memory.

2001-12-06T20:30:00.000-08:00

It's just been one of THOSE times. If it's supposed to be on, it's off. If it could be right, it's not obvious. You know what I mean?

I mean this: It's December and it's 70 degrees outside. It should be the season of snow blowers, not lawn mowers. I flat out refuse to mow the lawn in December. Not only does it take 2 hours, it's too hot today -- in DECEMBER!! If it could be right, it's not obvious. I just don't get it.

I mean this: God's sent me to this far away land to plant a new church but nothing works here the way it does in our places of "former existence." It’s December and I should be doing Advent things – discussing with people why we’re not singing Christmas carols in Advent, gathering people for special music and skits, enjoying a church’s transformation into a place of holiday decorations. I'm a preacher without a pulpit -- sort of like a fish out of water -- and it's a lot harder than God ever told us it would be to be without a congregation. If it could be right, it's not obvious. I just don't get it.

Probably the root of my problem is memory. I remember those Decembers in years gone when we had 3 feet of snow by Christmas. I remember sledding down the steep hill on the path to the barn when my body was much more limber. I remember how satiny smooth the icicles hanging off the barn roof felt, and the steamy breath of the cows as they lumbered into the barn. I remember too many things for this 70 degree December day to seem right. I can't help but remember how it used to be and use that as a measure of what today should be.

Yes. The problem is my memory. I remember so many comfortable, normal Advent seasons. I remember Advent Bible studies and caroling when lots of people wanted to be a part of things. I remember being a part of communities that had traditions and memories of how things are supposed to be this time of year. I long for what was -- it was comfortable, warm, friendly, and -- ah so familiar that this foreign land and new role does not feel right. I want so much to use what used to be as a measure of what should be today and isn't.

Yes, my memory is the root of the problem. You see, I remember, too, that today is my mother's birthday. Tuesday will by my brother Glenn's birthday. I remember these dates, and I remember celebrating them on days gone by. I remember just as I'm about to pick up the phone and call Mom that she's not there to answer and that Glenn won’t be answering my phone call either. The problem is with my memory.

When Israel was exiled in Babylon, they looked around them through their memories of what they had known. Their beloved temple was gone. They were living in a foreign land and longed for things to be as they remembered. They called out to God:

Alongside Babylon’s rivers we sat on the banks; we cried and cried, remembering the good old days in Zion.

Alongside the quaking Aspens we stacked our unplayed harps; that’s where our captors demanded songs, sarcastic and mocking: “Sing us a happy Zion song!”

Oh, how could we ever sing God’s song in this wasteland?

If I ever forget you, Jerusalem, let my fingers wither and fall off like leaves.

Let my tongue swell and turn black if I fail to remember you,

If I fail, Oh dear Jerusalem, to honor you as my greatest.
Psalm 137:1-6

The rest of the Psalm cries for revenge upon those who destroyed what was. God’s people cried for and longed for what was no more. In anger the Psalmist wanted to smash on the rocks the heads of the ones who brought this change. A longing for the past brought a desire for destruction in the present.

Isn’t that the danger of holding on to our memories? We long to crawl back into the comfort of what was. We long for what we’ve known in times gone by. We miss what was. And we cry to God that it isn’t fair! We even call out for revenge on the ones -- or One -- who brought this change. “Make it like it was!!” we cry.

But, if Israel had not been exiled in Babylon, we would not have the Bible as we have it today. They wanted so much to remember what was that they wrote it down for their children to remember by, and to live by. They wrote and compiled the stories and the laws. The past became the building block of their future.

If Israel had not been exiled in Babylon, worship in local churches would not exist as we know it. In their efforts to re-create what was gone, they developed the ritual of worshiping God in their homes and in small congregations away from the Temple. They used what they knew to create a new way of being God’s children in the present situation.

If we it were possible to relive our memories, we would not live our present or our futures. If we were able to undo what has been done, so could our very births be undone. Our longing for the past can lead to our destruction.

As I look at all the old photos and re-read old letters; as I remember those snowy sled rides, cold icicles, and warm cows’ breath; as I reach for the phone to call, I remember and am consumed by the memories. I am both comforted, and frozen in stillness that keeps me from moving forward.

And that is the problem.

The problem is not with my memory, but with my motives for remembering. My remembering has become a means of not moving forward, not looking up and out into the present and living fully and faithfully in the NOW. In my comparing the past with the present, I have neglected what God is doing today, now, in this very moment – the same moment that will be the building block of what is to come. My longing for what is past keeps me from becoming what God will have me become.

And in the meantime, I’m missing out a on glorious, sunshine - warmed day. I’m neglecting the beauty of the forsythias who thought it was spring and the song birds who are celebrating the re-emergence of insects. I’ve missed the celebration in my energy bill being SO much lower! I’ve looked so deeply into my memories for an ounce of reliving them that I’ve neglected the gifts God has set before me.

In honor of my mother’s birthday, I’ll take off my shoes and walk in the warmed grass. I’ll eat her favorite ice cream, Maple Walnut, and then I’ll remember to clean my teeth. And I’ll open the windows so that God’s warmth will bring heat into my home. And on this warm December day, I’ll greet all who I meet and bring them the news of God’s love, care and warmth even in the gloomy seasons of our lives.

Doubt

2000-08-24T22:51:00.000-07:00

Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is its partner. Doubt and faith challenge one another. Without doubt, faith cannot grow and mature.

Doubt and faith are seeds planted, nourished by questions, fertilized by seeking, blooming with each generation of answers. Doubt comes and nourishes faith.

Tree Stumps

2000-08-20T20:16:00.000-07:00

In the park beside my home there is an elm tree. It stands beside the road, tall and valiant. It’s limbs and branches divide into innumerable twigs and leaves that reach toward the heavens in leaves of praise. It’s shape, though not perfect, is glorious. The shade it gives is dense and cool. It is an admirable tree.

It bears the marks of time… scars where branches have been carefully trimmed, stubs where windstorms have stolen its weaker arms. The side away from the road has fewer branches at the bottom; the branches above more than compensate for the inadequacy It has weathered the blight of Elm trees… the dreaded Elm Disease. It remains, however, strong and tall. It stands victorious over all its history. It is a triumphant tree.

Beyond the tree, amidst the bramble weed and brush away from the road, there stands the ruins of a stump. It too was once an elm tree. It too once stood with limbs and branches divided into twigs and leaves of praise. It too once was a glorious admirable tree. It too weathered storms. As saplings, the two had formed an inviting form, a promising configuration. From a distance they formed a single profile, each complementing the other in a shared silhouette.

The stump, however, is a defeated tree. A grounds keeper saw that one tree was tall, broad and strong. The smaller tree’s trunk was strong but its branches at the top were weaker. So the grounds keeper cut away the smaller tree giving the larger more room to grow. Amidst the bramble and scrub weeds, the trunk feeds the decomposers, adding nutrients to the soil, feeding and supporting the pulsating roots beneath it. In ruin and submission, it provides for the needs of the other, unseen.

I am that stump.

Too Young to be Real

2000-08-16T20:12:00.000-07:00

I was a very young girl when I first heard it: “You’re too little to do that. You have to wait until you’re older.” I was always too little or too young. I was the youngest. All the big kids reminded me of what I couldn’t do that they could do on a regular basis. I had to follow them, not walk beside them in life.

When I first heard it, I was probably less than 2… I was too young to go on vacation with the rest of my family. I got left with a family friend for 2 weeks while the rest of the clan spent their days at the beach and in our Cape Cod cottage. I was 3 when they said I was too small to climb up on the garage roof with them; I tried anyway and stepped on a nest of yellow jackets. I was 6 when they said I was too small for first grade, but they had to let me in anyway because I could already read and do my brother’s second grade math; I sat under the table and laughed at all the kids who couldn’t read. I was 9 when the teacher told me I was too young to be reading with the 6^th graders; the 6^th graders picked on me because I was too small to be in their fastest reading circle. I gave up trying when I was 12 because no one would take me seriously… I was too young to be so smart. I was a 13 year old punk when a family friend told me I was too young to be such a loser. I was 14 when the local pastor told me I was too young to be selling drugs. I was 16 when I cleaned up and tried to change social groups; but I was too immature (another word for too young!) for most people I tried to be friends with. I was always too young, too small, too inexperienced. I always figured that when I was older, no one would say it any more. Surely I would age like cheese and I could be a part of the flavor of things.

But getting older didn’t change it. I was “just a young thing” and $14K in college debt when I got my first degree. One had to have experience in order to get the job… but how do you get experience if not in a job? One had to be “older” and more experienced to expect to be paid like a professional. “Take this lesser position and get some experience” they told me. So I did. But it didn’t change things. People always said I was wise beyond my years, mature beyond my experience, too young to be so old. Too assertive to be female. Too much energy, too little experience.

Oh I’ve followed all the rules. I’ve done all the steps. I’ve taken the lesser jobs to get the experience. Of course, it was easier for my husband to get a church, so I got the secular job that paid the bills. Then there was the part time youth ministry with kids whose last youth minister sexually abused them – but not an ordained position; that would have to wait until the degree was finished, but the bills still had to be paid. So there was the AIDS work, but again, not ordained. Next it was, “Oh yes, come here and be the minister’s wife… work for us without pay!” Then the little church in the country that no ordained person would take and who’d been abused by non-denominational clergy – yes, we’ll license you, but you really need to finish that degree and get ordained… yes, we’ll support you… take the little church part time until you’re ordained. Then, stay there and gain the experience. Now it’s “Your experience isn’t adequate for a church of any size, Let your husband find a church on his own and you follow him and find a church later.”

I’ve been the supporter and the team player. But unless you’ve been the main dog full time, it doesn’t count. And you can’t get a full time church that pays enough to support your family if you’ve only been a part time pastor and a licensed lay pastor…any where. Why? The same old thing: You don’t have the experience, You’re too green. You’re not seasoned enough.

It’s all gotten me no where

It’s not fair. We call ourselves the Church. We work for justice and lift up the oppressed. Yet our very system oppresses us and keeps us “in our place.” And it’s not the folks in the pews who are doing the oppressing; the local church was very affirming and very supportive It’s the folks who insist that you must incur tens of thousands of dollars in debts to be about “full ministry.” And any thing you do before then doesn’t count. It doesn’t get figured into your experience because it wasn’t “full ministry.” Nothing about my ministry changed when they laid their hands upon me; nothing changed except my net worth. And everything I did before that time is of no value. I still have no experience. I’m still too unseasoned. I’m still too female.

So now I’m going to have yet another birthday next week. And I still am too “unseasoned” to do what I’m called to do. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been doing it for years. I’m still too green. Just what does it take to be seasoned? And just what can I do about the fact that I’m female?

I’m ready to just quit it all. To hell with God and this call. Nothing I’ve done is worth anything. I still can’t get paid enough to pay off all the debt I incurred following this thing. I’m still to green, too young, too inexperienced. I’m still too young to know so much.

And so I’m back to square one…. I have to walk behind rather than beside my husband. I have no choice but to take the lesser position. I’m still too little to be a real person.

Illusion and delusion.

2000-08-12T23:55:00.000-07:00

I have lived my life in illusion and delusion.
My mother repeatedly told each of her children that we could do anything we set our minds to doing. My brother once objected when I said I was going to be president of the United States – “You can’t be! You’re a girl!” My mother remained strong. “Just because there’s never been a woman president doesn’t mean there will never be one.”
You can do anything you set your mind to doing. I believed it. I was intelligent and able. I could do anything.
But it isn’t true. I may be bright and able. I may have “wisdom beyond my years.” But there are limits to what I can do.
Some limits are physically imposed. I cannot father a child. I cannot move large, heavy boxes. I cannot drive a wedge through a stone with a sledge hammer. I cannot eat food with small seeds and expect to be pain free. I cannot survive being stung by a bee without immediate medical intervention. I am limited by the confines of my own body. But I can make adjustments and arrangements to live and grow despite these limitations.
I am limited by the confines of my mind. I cannot comprehend the expanse called eternity. I cannot understand the logic of God’s grace. I cannot understand why my cannot differentiate between my clothes and those of my son. The extent of my knowledge and understanding is limited. But I can make adjustments and arrangements to live and grow despite these limitations.
I am limited by the free will of others. I cannot make my son like broccoli. I cannot force my opinions to be accepted by others. I cannot change how someone feels. And if that someone feels women cannot do this or be that, I cannot force that someone to change their mind. Their free will will affect what I am able to do because they will not hire me, will not hear a call from God to listen to my wisdom, will not invite me to be their pastor, teacher or friend.
I have lived my life in illusion and delusion.

Discrimination

2000-07-16T11:55:00.000-07:00

If you want to know what it’s like to be discriminated against, it’s like a child’s nightmare Christmas. There’s all kinds of anticipation about Christmas morning. When it finally comes, in the nightmare, the beautifully gifts are removed from under the tree and handed out, one at a time.

You’re sitting beside your brother and you watch him unwrap a gorgeously wrapped box. He looks under the flap and starts describing what the gift looks like. It sounds like a dream gift. It’s just what you’d like.

So you look at your own package. It’s also wrapped, but the paper is not as colorful. Oh well, you tell yourself. The wrapping is just part of the mystery. You carefully remove the tape and unwrap the gift. The gift inside is nothing like the one your brother received. It’s small and old, and it’s been used. Worse, you have no idea how to use it. You are devastated.

This is the experience I’ve had opening letters from conference ministers. Brothers in ministry with the same number of years in ministry and similar experience get letters recommending they apply to large and respected congregations in metropolitan areas as the senior pastor. The churches are active and interesting. My mail brings to me recommendations for associate positions (doing Christian Ed, of course) or small congregations who are offering part time or yoked ministry and are far from metropolitan areas. These congregations are struggling to survive. The only significant difference between us is gender. The gender of the denominational official or placement staff usually doesn’t matter. The region of the country doesn’t matter. It’s happened to me in nearly every region I've applied. There is discrimination in our regional offices.

Making Change

1999-10-19T20:27:00.000-07:00

Lately, it may seem that “normal” is only a setting on your washing machine. There’s been change in the air, and some are still asking, “What’s happened?” “How come?” or, “What’s next?”

Change is a part of life. Something that is no longer changing is either dead or never had life. The seed changes into a germinated sprout, a seedling, a sapling, and then a fruit bearing tree. If it stops changing, it will die. Everyday our bodies change as cells die and are replaced by new ones. Not even the sky stays the same – if it did we would have no seasons. Change is the only constant in life. Sometimes change is good. Sometimes change hurts. And when change hurts, we have to make an intentional decision to grow amidst the change.

Change has already happened, and will continue to happen at Bethany Church. So it’s the job of an “Interim Pastor” to help everyone deal with the changes positively and to help each person and the whole congregation make it work toward growth. I want to make these changes like money in your pockets – a useful tool to help this congregation grow. This is my long-term goal for my time amongst you.

But first we must deal with the hurt – because pain is not “small change”. Ignoring it can be very expensive. We need to voice the pain, and we need to listen to one another. We need to talk honestly and openly together. Communication is the key to making change work for us and not against us.

I plan to actively listen to each of you as I visit you in your homes and as I gather with you in meetings and classes. I will ask each of you to share your reflections of what’s gone on and what Bethany’s future holds. I will encourage each of you to not bury the dirt, but to air it and let it be fertile soil for new seeds to grow.

One of my favorite hymns is In the Bulb there is a Flower. It was written in 1986 by Natalie Sleeth as her husband was dying. The second stanza says:

There’s a song in every silence, seeking word and melody.

There’s a dawn for every darkness, bringing hope to you and me.

From the past will come the future, what it holds a mystery,

Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
© 1986 by the Hope Publishing Company

Natalie Sleeth held fast to the faith that even amidst the pain of the change in her life, God was present and along side of her in her pain as well as in her joy. She held fast to the hope that change could bring the hope and dawn of a future that would unfold before her.

Let’s choose to make change together.

Thoughts

1999-06-14T19:48:00.000-07:00

I don’t always like the human nature. It would seem that sometimes we human folk are so tied up in looking inside ourselves that we assume that everyone else is looking inside us too. That everyone else is as critical of me as I am of myself. In my more rational moments I realize that this simply can’t be true. If I’m so busy looking at my own faults, surely others are too busy looking at their own faults to see mine.

In less rational moments, especially when I’m feeling insecure and as though my world is caving in, I read criticism into every word spoken or written to me. A passing comment about a child, the work place, or even someone else’s home is taken as a stabbing and painful criticism me, my child, my workplace, my home. I mull over the words looking for hidden meanings. I interpolate and extrapolate every phrase.

Of course what I’m really doing is examining my own doubts, insecurities and imperfections. The ones I know best. The ones others probably don’t see but I assume they do. I assume they not only see them, but that they spend as much time and energy worrying about them, talking about them, mulling over them as I do.

It’s a paranoia, really. Paranoia that feeds on my self hatred. Paranoia that is fueled by my need to be self-critical. Paranoia that is self sustaining and spiral in effect. The more I doubt myself, the more critical I am. The more critical, the more I read into others comments and the less secure I feel. It plunges when I strike out at others and further isolate myself from them with my scathing words in defense of my weak self-esteem. The more isolated I am, the more self-critical I become. It is a set up for loneliness. A game plan for depression.

How to end the spiral effect I don’t know. I do know that the only way out of the basement is to climb the stairs or crawl out a window. Reversing the downward climb means reversing the trend. Looking for the positive in everything. Being more like Norman Vincent Peale and less like the fear mongers. More like Emma Bombeck and less like Willa Cather. Not that I’d want to emulate either Bombeck or Peale. I can’t be someone I’m not. But the first step is to turn away from the negativist tendency. The second step is to find things in myself that are likeable and good.

Dish Towels and Churches

1998-10-31T20:23:00.000-08:00

They were perfectly fine for me. Those towels had been a wedding shower gift from Dan’s grandmother. She died over ten years ago. And those towels have wiped a lot of dishes and even more hands. I like my towels.

When a friend helped me out last spring, she noticed that my dish towels were “tired” and thin. So for my birthday, she gave me a new dish towels. She meant well. But I couldn’t bring myself to admit that the towels Dan’s grandmother gave me so long ago were no longer adequate.

We get attached to things. We don’t like to get used to new things. Yet in the lives of many of us, things change rapidly around us. We can cook dinner in seconds, thanks to microwaves. We drive cars that are more computer than automobile. Televisions allow us to watch three shows at once. And computers give us instant communication with people half the world away.

The world is constantly changing around us. Normal is only a setting on our washing machines. The world changes every nanno-second. But we resist change in the things that are most dear to us..... especially our churches.

My towels look fine to me. But to my friend, they are thread-bare and inadequate. She didn’t know them when they were new. She didn’t know who gave them to me or why. She only knew what she saw..... towels so thin you can see through them. And she couldn’t find any value in them.

The same thing is happening in our churches. Younger people who didn’t grow up in the church — or who left it a time ago — see what happens in our churches as thread-bare and not of much use. The music is so very old. Things happen so very slowly — especially to those who live with computers and watch MTV for entertainment. There’s a bobbing head behind the pulpit and the scene doesn’t change. They don’t understand the meaning of it. It’s not spoken in their dialect. And they can’t find any value in it.

I’ve not thrown out my old dish towels. They still work for me. I use them along side of the new ones. But someday they will fall apart and die. Hopefully by then, the new ones will be familiar friends with stories of their own. And they can carry out the work.

We don’t want to throw out our way of being the church either. It still works for us. But we must learn to adapt to a new generation of seekers, to be open to new ways of being Christ’s church. Because someday we will die. And by then, new generations need to be friends of Jesus with their own faith journeys.

And they will carry out Christ’s work.

Lent 1997

1997-03-16T16:40:00.000-08:00

John 3 17"Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him….. 19And this is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. 20For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed.

Light of the world, push through the darkness of my heart and mind that I may see the light of
your goodness in all that is around me. Shine in even the deepest recesses of my being and
bring an end to all my darkness. Amen.

Mushrooms are an interesting part of life. Some are ugly but edible. Some are colorful but poisonous. If you don’t know what you’re doing when you into the woods looking for mushrooms, your choice can mean the difference between life and death. Whether edible or poison, all mushrooms share two traits: they grow best in rotten dead stuff and manure, and they thrive in the dark. I would not want to be a mushroom.

I’ve never had good eyes. From the time I was very small I remember turning on the brightest of lights because I couldn’t see very well and the light helped. When I got my first pair of glasses, the world became a different place. I could see little details like people’s dimples and the color of their eyes. But it was also uncomfortable because I could see the dust in the corners of my bedroom and the dirt on my clothes. Things that were unknown to me became evident. It was as though there was a great light shining on everything – the good and the not so nice.

Light is judgement. John says so. “And this is the judgement: that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil” (Jn 3:19).

Light shows everything – the good and the not so nice. Light gives us life!

Sometimes I choose to live like a mushroom: I look for the rotten stuff and the negative in everything. I find anything to complain about and something blame for my discomfort because I don’t want to shine any light on myself and find the real problem. I refuse to let God’s light shine inside of me and bring light to my darkness. Instead, I bring everyone else into my darkness so I don’t have to be alone in the dark. Sometimes I love the darkness because to bring light into it would reveal the not so nice in me.

Light shows everything. The good and the not so nice. Just like cleaning house, allowing the light into the darkness is not fun and it’s not easy. Putting on new glasses takes trust in the Optician, patience with ourselves, and hard work to sort through the good and the not so nice. God sends Light not to condemn us but that through the Light we can live. We’re not called to be mushrooms. We’re called to be lampstands.

There’s that children’s Sunday school song that we all learned:
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. … Let it shine, let it shine, all the time.”

Keep me from being a mushroom, Gracious God. Let your light shine in me, and through me. Let it shine, let it shine, all the time. Amen.