Company is Coming!

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

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

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

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

1. 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.
2. Pour the cold water over the gelatin and let it set for 15 - 20 minutes. It needs to "bloom" fully.
   
3. 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.
4. Using a wire whisk, quickly stir in the bloomed gelatin. Whisk until gelatin is completely dissolved and imbedded.
   
5. Whisk in the vanilla and sour cream.
6. Pour into mold(s) and cover tightly. Refigerate until set -- at least 6 hours.
7. Serve with fresh fruit or a drizzle of caramel. Yummy
8. 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

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

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

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.

Dancing Defiance

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

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.”

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?

“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.

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.

Spiritual Inventory; Spiritual Garage Sale.
Our garage is filled with the tangible evidence of our living. There are children's desks and bookcases, a wok, computer software, my huge roll top desk, the freezer, soccer balls and basket balls, two bikes, a lawn mower, various kitchen utensils, lots of canning jars and a canner, ... well, you get the idea. The garage is filling up with the stuff that we've outgrown, out used, or just won't have a place for in our new place. It's stuff we have to get rid of.

Some stuff has already been given or sold to others. A small TV with a VHS player to the my church's nursery. A second lawn mower to our neighbor. The basketball hoop to another neighbor. Landscaping tools and some plants to yet another neighbor. My kitchen island to a member of my church. Things we asked others if they could use because we thought they might and because we cared about what happened to them.

As I weed through the stuff in this house and think about what I really need for the next, I keep finding more stuff I really don't need. Why do I have so many sets of twin sheets when I only have one twin bed? Why so many sets of towels? Why so many curtain rods? Where did all these phone cords come from anyway? The more I open boxes and closets, the more stuff that ends up in my garage for the sale. I really don't need most of this stuff. So why did I buy it in the first place? And where has it been hiding all this time?

Some things I take hold of and wonder if I could possibly live without even though they have no practical value. It's all in the sentimental or memory value. The box of letters my mother wrote to me over the years. The tattered and worn table scarf that was Dan's grandmother's. The unity candle from our wedding. These collect dust or sit in a box untouched. Some are too fragile to be handled. Their real value is in the memory, the association to a loved one, the emotional connection. I can't bring myself to throw them away. So into a box they'll go and they'll get moved yet again.

Then there are the things I thought I lost that I'm finding. The keys to my roll top desk and firebox. The box of blank cassette tapes I replaced already. The angel food cake cutter that I bought in a kitchen specialty shop 10 years ago and only used once and lost. Treasures I fretted about losing that now will be sold in the garage sale. Not so valuable after all.

Moving is always a time to "clean house" and "clean out." We don't want so much weight in that moving van because we pay by the pound. This time, however, we're moving to a much smaller space. So, we really must pare down what we own, sort through our stuff and prioritize what is really important to keep and what we throw away, and what we can pass along to others either through this sale or by donating to a charity. We must make choices today that we may regret later -- either because we got rid of something of value or kept something that has no value at the other end of the move.

What would a "spiritual move" do in our lives? What if we intentionally chose to journey from where we so comfortably live now in the faith to a different place -- a new place? What if we explored a different way to express or experience our faith? What would we need to leave behind, or put in our "spiritual garage sale"? What would we pack away into "spiritual storage"? And how much of that would we later unload?

It was a spiritual garage sale that began our journey to this place -- a small town in Maryland where we would start a new faith community. We had to move to a whole new place spiritually to put ourselves where we could be open and ready to do God's new thing, re-imagine the Church for a new generation of people. We brought with us the necessities and a few things we didn't need. We left behind those things that were no longer useful. We had to find new tools and means once we began the new work. We made a move. We can't go back to where we were. We can only go forward to yet a new place.

As we ready ourselves to begin a new leg of our journey, moving on to other ministries in new places, we begin again the sorting and the sifting. This journey begins with divergent paths -- two journeys from one and merging again somewhere beyond the present. What will we need for the journeys? What will we take that we find we no longer need? What will we pass on to others who will find it useful?

Our garage is filled with the evidence of our material living. What is the evidence of our Spiritual living? What have we passed along to others? Given away freely? Offered at a price?
What's in your Spiritual Garage Sale?

Lenten Blessings!

The Journey is Life.

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

Hi,

Some thoughts as I sip hot tea and I take a break from preparing for our HUGE moving sale that will take place on Saturday. Pull up a chair and pour yourself some of this wonderful Ginger Peach tea.

Our garage is filled with the tangible evidence of our living. There are children's desks and bookcases, a wok, computer software, my huge roll top desk, the freezer, soccer balls and basket balls, two bikes, a lawn mower, various kitchen utensils, lots of canning jars and a canner, ... well, you get the idea. The garage is filling up with the stuff that we've outgrown, out used, or just won't have a place for in either of our apartments. It's stuff we have to get rid of.

Some stuff has already been given or sold to others. A small TV with a VHS player to the my church's nursery. A second lawn mower to our neighbor. The basketball hoop to another neighbor. Landscaping tools and some plants to yet another neighbor. My kitchen island to a member of my church. Things we asked others if they could use because we thought they might and because we cared about what happened to them.

As I weed through the stuff in this house and think about what I really need for the next, I keep finding more stuff I really don't need. Why do I have so many sets of twin sheets when I only have one twin bed? Why so many sets of towels? Why so many curtain rods? Where did all these phone cords come from anyway? The more I open boxes and closets, the more stuff that ends up in my garage for the sale. I really don't need most of this stuff. So why did I buy it in the first place? And where has it been hiding all this time?

Some things I take hold of and wonder if I could possibly live without even though they have no practical value. It's all in the sentimental or memory value. The box of letters my mother wrote to me over the years. The tattered and worn table scarf that was Dan's grandmother's. The unity candle from our wedding. These collect dust or sit in a box untouched. Some are too fragile to be handled. Their real value is in the memory, the association to a loved one, the emotional connection. I can't bring myself to throw them away. So into a box they'll go and they'll get moved yet again.

Then there are the things I thought I lost that I'm finding. The keys to my roll top desk and firebox. The box of blank cassette tapes I replaced already. The angel food cake cutter that I bought in a kitchen specialty shop 10 years ago and only used once and lost. Treasures I fretted about losing that now will be sold in the garage sale. Not so valuable after all.

Moving is always a time to "clean house" and "clean out." We don't want so much weight in that moving van because we pay by the pound. This time, however, we're moving to a much smaller space -- Two small apartments in different corners of different states that don't add up the same space we have now in one place. And, eventually (in 9 - 10 months), all the stuff we move to both places will have to fit into just one space again -- Dan's apartment which is only 1/3 the size of where we live now. So, we really must pare down what we own, sort through our stuff and prioritize what is really important to keep and what we throw away, and what we can pass along to others either through this sale or by donating to a charity. We must make choices today that we may regret later -- either because we got rid of something of value or kept something that has no value at the other end of the move.
What would a "spiritual move" do in our lives? What if we intentionally chose to journey from where we so comfortably live now in the faith to a different place -- a new place? What if we explored a different way to express or experience our faith? What would we need to leave behind, or put in our "spiritual garage sale"? What would we pack away into "spiritual storage"? And how much of that would we later unload?

It was a spiritual garage sale that began our journey to this place -- a small town in Maryland where we would start a new faith community. We had to move to a whole new place spiritually to put ourselves where we could be open and ready to do God's new thing, re-imagine the Church for a new generation of people. We brought with us the necessities and a few things we didn't need. We left behind those things that were no longer useful. We had to find new tools and means once we began the new work. We made a move. We can't go back to where we were. We can only go forward to yet a new place.

As we ready ourselves to begin a new leg of our journey, moving on to other ministries in new places, we begin again the sorting and the sifting. This journey begins with divergent paths -- two journeys from one and merging again somewhere beyond the present. What will we need for the journeys? What will we take that we find we no longer need? What will we pass on to others who will find it useful?

Our garage is filled with the evidence of our material living. What is the evidence of our Spiritual living? What have we passed along to others? Given away freely? Offered at a price?

What's in your Spiritual Garage Sale?


Thanks for sharing a cup of tea with me. It's time for me to get back to work. The hours are winding down quickly.

Blessings,
Carly
9 September 2003

Haiku #3

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

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

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

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

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.