Groupie

I had the thrilling experience tonight of hearing Marcus Borg speak at the National Cathedral about his new book The Last Week: A Day-by-Day Account of Jesus’ Final Week in Jerusalem.

I say the experience was thrilling because there is something about Marcus Borg and the way he thinks that makes me want to love Jesus more.

There’s that, and then there’s the fact that I am undisputedly a church nerd of the highest order and this causes me to regard short, gray-haired and balding theologians with the same sort of adulation that my daughter regards Hillary Duff. (See the resemblance? I’d be willing to guess this is the first time ever that Marcus Borg has been compared to Hillary Duff).

Borg is a very prolific theologian and has produced some excellent, thought provoking books like The Heart of Christianity, Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time, The Meaning of Jesus and others. He speaks with lofty theological ideas but they seem to come from his heart.

Borg’s ideas of Jesus are enough to make all of us comfortable Americans squirm in our seats. In fact, Borg said some interesting and challenging things about Jesus and the way that Jesus’ life, ministry and death challenged the power of an entire empire. I took three pages of notes and I loved Borg’s theological and historical perspectives (church nerd, remember?).

But after the lecture tonight my group was trying to decide what it was about Marcus Borg that spoke to us. I think we decided it had something to do with the communication of a genuine faith exploration . . . the yearning that Marcus Borg expresses to know Jesus. As the priest who introduced him said, Marcus Borg’s wife says this about Borg: “He has been searching for Jesus his whole life.”

Yes, as I listened to the presentation of his scholarly study my mind kept drifting back to the prayer of Augustine that Borg offered at the beginning of his lecture: “God, from whom to turn is to fall; to whom to turn is to rise; in whom to abide is to stand: God, from whom to go out is to waste away; unto whom to return is to revive; in whom to dwell is to live . . . .”

And throughout the whole lecture I kept thinking . . . no matter where this strange man Jesus leads us . . . even all the way to the cross . . . that a heart that longs for God is a heart that finds a place to rest.

What I Want to be When I Grow Up

Vocation does not come from willfulness. It comes from listening. I must listen to my life and try to understand what it is truly about . . . or my life will never represent anything real in the world, no matter how earnest my intentions.

Parker J. Palmer

I read this quote by Parker Palmer this week and it got me to thinking. Recent challenges at church have invited me again to think hard about my calling and try to evaluate, once again, if I am spending my life following God’s call. In other words, when I have a few moments to spare (hahahahaha) I’ve been asking myself again what I am meant to do with my life, if I’m doing it and, if so, if I am doing it “right”.

(How’s that for leisure activity? This is my Achilles heel, you know . . . my pervasive attempt to make sure I am doing everything totally and completely correctly.)

And no matter how hard I try to figure it all out, it seems increasingly that discovering and living vocation is more of a mystery and less of a science.

Life is a process of asking: “Who am I and where does my life fit into God’s great big picture?” Living into the answer is the process of discovering vocation. It can’t be quantified or delineated; it must be felt with conviction and lived with courage.

Do you remember when you were little and everyone asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up? The pressure was already there to know exactly.

Did you ever think, for one minute, that you’d be asking the same question for the rest of your life?

"Living Lent"

We read the following in worship today. Many have asked for a copy of the text, so I post it here. It was written by Barbara Cawthorne Crafton in her book, Living Lent and I blatantly stole the idea of using the reflection in worship from my friends at Lake Shore Baptist Church in Waco, Texas.

We didn’t even know what moderation was. What it felt like. We didn’t just work: we inhaled our jobs, sucked them in, became them. Stayed late, brought work home—it was never enough, though, no matter how much time we put in.

We ordered things we didn’t need from shiny catalogues that come to our houses; we ordered three times as much as we could use, and then we ordered three times as much as our children could use.

We didn’t just eat: we stuffed ourselves. We had gained only three pounds since the previous year, we told ourselves. Three pounds is not a lot. We had gained about that much in each of the twenty-five years since high school. We did not do the math.

We redid living rooms in which the furniture was not worn out. We threw away clothing that was merely out of style. We drank wine when the label on our prescription said it was dangerous to use alcohol while taking this medication. “They always put that on the label,” we told our children when they asked about this. We saw that they were worried. We knew it was because they loved us and needed us. How innocent they were. We hastened to reassure them: “It doesn’t really hurt if you’re careful.”

We felt that it was important to be good to ourselves, and that this meant that it was dangerous to tell ourselves no. About anything, ever. Repression of one’s desires was an unhealthy thing. I work hard, we told ourselves. I deserve a little treat. We treated ourselves everyday.

And if it was dangerous for us to want and not have, it was even more so for our children. They must never know what it is to want something and not have it immediately. It will make them bitter, we told ourselves. So we anticipated their needs and desires. We got them both the doll and the bike. If their grades were good, we got them their own telephones.

There were times, coming into the house from work or waking early when all was quiet, when we felt uneasy about the sense of entitlement that characterized all our days. When we wondered if fevered overwork and excess of appetite were not two sides of the same coin—or rather, two poles between which we madly slalomed. Probably yes, we decided at these times. Suddenly we saw it all clearly: I am driven by my creatures—my schedule, my work my possessions, my hungers. I do not drive them; they drive me. Probably yes. Certainly yes. This is how it is. We arose and did twenty sit-ups. The next day the moment had passed; we did none.

After moments like that, we were awash in self-contempt. You are weak. Self-indulgent. You are spineless about work and about everything else. You set no limits. You will become ineffective. We bridled at that last bit, drew ourselves up to our full heights, insisted defensively on our competence, on the respect we were due because of all our hard work. We looked for others whose lives were similarly overstuffed; we found them. “This is just the way it is,” we said to one another on the train, in the restaurant. “This is modern life. Maybe some people have time to measure things out by teaspoonfuls.” Our voices dripped contempt for those people who had such time. We felt oddly defensive, though no one had accused us of anything. But not me. Not anyone who has a life. I have a life. I work hard. I play hard.

When did the collision between our appetites and the needs of our souls happen? Was there a heart attack? Did we get laid off from work, one of the thousands certified as extraneous? Did a beloved child become a bored stranger, a marriage fall silent and cold? Or, by some exquisite working of God’s grace, did we just find the courage to look the truth in the eye and, for once, not blink? How did we come to know that we were dying a slow and unacknowledged death? And that the only way back to life was to set all our packages down and begin again, carrying with us only what we really needed?

Let the Games Begin

I feel compelled to report the following for those of you who do not have ready access to tomorrow’s adults. Please be on alert: the landscape and make-up of the mate selection process is currently undergoing radical transformation.

I came into possession of this important information via what my college professors called a primary source (it’s likely that there is now a new name for this, but I have not yet reached this topic in my research). I learned this from my seven-almost-eight-year-old third grader who was recounting her day in excruciating detail last night as I made dinner. I was listening (kind of, well, at least I was trying to look like I was listening) when I happened to catch the word “boyfriend” in amongst the words tumbling over each other.

Please be assured that normally I am not startled by the use of this particular word.

Upon hearing it in this context, however, I immediately stopped dead in my tracks and asked for detailed clarification.

(Being the accomplished multi-tasker that I am I also mentally went back to my own third grade experience. Did we have boyfriends in third grade? I searched my memory but the only thing I could find was the vague recollection of a boy who sat in front of me in class–Ben–who got busted for picking his nose all the time. Alas, no boyfriend per se.)

Hannah explained that yes, indeed, you could have a boyfriend if you were in third grade.

After my breathing returned to normal I managed to inquire seemingly innocently, “What does it mean to have a boyfriend?”.

“Well, I’m not sure except I think you’re supposed to call the boy’s house and hang up the telephone.”

(Perfectly reasonable.)

“And how,” I asked next, “do you decide which boy should be your boyfriend?”

Again, my mind drifted back to my dim memories of youth. As I waited for her answer I tried to guess her response: “He’s cute, he’s nice, he’s smart . . . ?”

Hannah looked over at me with mild disgust and said: “By relay race, of course!”

Duh!

Here’s hoping that the slide into young adulthood at our house slows down a little bit (by the way, use of the telephone is now officially off-limits). I hope we won’t have to deal with the whole boyfriend thing for a very, very long time.

In the meantime, as for my own challenge to face the fact that my babies aren’t babies anymore well, all I can say is:

“Get ready, get set . . . go!” and “Tag! I’m it!”

A Life Contained

I went to jail yesterday.

I know the whole concept of me going to jail is probably not so shocking to some of you, but let me clarify that I was there as a non-incarcerated person to visit someone who is, in fact, incarcerated.

To further clarify, I actually do not have much personal experience with jails, so the whole adventure was new to me.

It also involved a lot of waiting in very small contained places, which gave me some time to reflect on my experience.

(And I believe it only fair to confess right here that I started my adventure with a little bit, just a very, very small, tiny bit, of smugness. How cool is it, the thought crossed my mind, to actually be living out a directive of Jesus to visit someone in prison? Alas, I’ve never claimed to be a totally virtuous person; sometimes my limited self is so glaringly obvious . . . ).

So, anyway, I arrived, accompanied by my self-righteousness, at the Arlington County Detention Center (this would be another name for JAIL—not the same kind of “detention” I am quite sure that many of you—not me personally—remember from high school).

After going through quite an elaborate process to be allowed into the waiting room, I was eventually escorted to a very small visiting cell where I waited for about an hour. (The cell under discussion measured about 3 feet by 9 feet. I know this because after a few minutes of waiting patiently I started getting antsy and did things like pace along the edges of the room estimating measurements.)

Very soon into my waiting the other cubicles along the block (that’s prison slang for you inexperienced folks) started filling up and, as I waited all alone in my tiny little space, strangely enough the whole situation became almost like a group exercise.

See, in my cell the imposing cement block walls were broken up with large windows, one facing a booth on the secure side of the facility (where the prisoners sat) and one on each side of the small room in which I sat, allowing everyone of the visitors down the row to see into your booth.

And while the concrete and steel gave the impression of containment, conversations were easily overheard.

As I watched and listened to what was going on around me (honestly, you couldn’t NOT listen—voices bounced off the concrete and echoed down the hallways, amplified beyond any level even vaguely polite) I started to think about how very strange that reality was.

Over the din of conversation I was startled to hear the voice of a little boy two cubicles down. He must have been about 4 years old. Soon after the sound of a heavy door slamming announced the delivery of a prisoner I could hear the little boy’s high, sweet voice call with excitement, “Daddy!!!!”

Their conversation continued from that effusive beginning and it sounded to my ears utterly and heart-breakingly ironic . . . the father asking the little boy if he was being good and following all the rules and the little boy assuring his father, who was decked out in prison garb, that yes!, he was being a very good boy!

As I sat and waited for my own visit, I could see (through two layers of glass) this curious effort to connect. Here were two people who clearly loved each other, engaging in conversation and interaction, talking and listening face to face . . . but at the same time completely cut-off, utterly disconnected from each other.

This strange soundtrack was suddenly and powerfully illustrated when the little boy pressed his four-year-old hand up against the glass and said, “I want to hold your hand, Daddy!” I could see a large man’s hand, green prison sleeve bunched up at the wrist, press hard on his side of the glass, trying desperately to connect.

Even though I myself was sitting in a cell when I observed this, the whole experience made me think that you don’t need to be in prison to live a contained life, a life that is separated from others. That separation may not be a thick piece of bullet-proof glass but the division can be just as impenetrable.

If you live a contained life like this you can pretend, of course. You can say the right words and do the right things, but in the end it’s all just as ironic as a convicted felon telling his son to follow the rules . . . .

Containment limits connection.

I think Jesus knew that anybody in prison might appreciate the opportunity to connect with the outside; maybe that’s why he took the time to specifically remind us to go to jail every once in awhile. But I’ll bet Jesus also knew that prison doesn’t have to be concrete block walls, iron bars and cold glass. Someone just as free as a bird can live a life contained.

I learned from my visit to jail that I don’t want to live this human life of mine like that.

I really want to taste the warm salt of tears . . . I need to feel the brush of another cheek against mine. I want, more than just hearing an effusive “Mommy!”, to feel the accompanying tight hug. I want to run toward an old friend and to hold a baby and to feel another hand slapping mine in celebration.

I hope (though I can’t guarantee) that I never end up on the other side of the glass, in jail. But in the meantime . . . for the rest of life on the outside . . . please, no cold glass of separation and containment.

I want to join my hand with another’s in tangible assurance that our lives are connected . . . and that I am no longer contained.

Pray for the Stranger

On Sunday I had the great good fortune of attending the first meeting of a small group here at Calvary. This group, which is meeting for Lent, spent two hours together on Sunday describing for each other the “sign posts” in each of our faith journeys.

For example, we described particular occurrences in our lives that pushed us toward God and people who had been instrumental in our individual faith experiences.

As I bumbled along into my week oblivious of the hand of God at work (as usual), I happened to be listening to a friend talk about worries she had for her adult daughter. My friend could see her daughter was hurting and making some decisions that were not healthy but my friend could not think how she might influence her daughter to choose differently.

I was commiserating and trying to be empathetic when she said something that rang bells in my head. She said someone once told her that when she was worried about a situation she couldn’t change that what she SHOULD do is . . . pray for the stranger.

My friend went on to explain, “You know, if you look back on your life there are probably people who have come across your path at certain times who were able to help you see something you could not see any other way, right?”

(My thoughts went back to Sunday afternoon, the stories I heard about instrumental people and the long list of people in my own life that I’d noted in my journal this week. Uhh, leave it to God to weave a thread of continuity through my otherwise disheveled life.)

My friend continued. “When I feel powerless to change a situation, sometimes the answer is not to chafe at the limitations I feel but to pray for the stranger.”

“Pray for the people you don’t anticipate and don’t know who will, by various circumstances, enter into the difficult situation and help the one you love find her way. They are people who shed light and show direction in situations where, no matter how hard you try, you can’t. Pray for the stranger.”

I’ve been thinking lately about a few situations in my life where it seems like I am unable to “fix” problems for people I love. It’s a helpless feeling to come to the realization that you cannot control the way people around you look at the world and the decisions and choices other people make . . . even if they directly affect you.

(I’ve always hated the undeniable truth that you can’t change anyone but yourself. That combined with my need to fix, fix, fix everything can lead to a feeling of profound helplessness.)

What freedom to consider (I am sorry to say for the first time ever) that perhaps I don’t have to fix every single thing . . . that perhaps I could delegate that small task to God and instead, spend my time and energy praying for the stranger whom God will use.

Touched

I find it more and more rare to get a moment of worship when I am leading. This invites me to find alternative opportunities to worship and that is a nice thing . . . but sometimes in conventional worship, something hits me as particularly meaningful. These moments leave me teary. Such a moment came my way yesterday as we were singing the familiar hymn, “Be Still My Soul”. These words made their way into my heart and have stayed, leaving me touched:

Be still, my soul: for God will undertake

to guide the future surely as the past.

Your hope, your confidence let nothing shake,

all now mysterious shall be bright at last.

Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past,

all safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

Pride

We began Lent a week early for the sole reason that we’ve started a series on the Seven Deadly Sins and there are only SIX Sundays in Lent! We Baptists have been messing around with the church liturgy for so long that one more adjustment shouldn’t hurt too much . . . . Last Sunday was pride and the altar was decorated with sack cloth for mourning, and purple for the sin of pride. Resident artist Caroline Armijo helped create the look . . . stay tuned for more to come!

You’ve Got No Mail

For the first time in my life I totally know how Superman feels when he runs into unforeseen kryptonite. For the last twenty four hours or so the church email server has been down and, while I can work on the Internet and do important things (like post blog entries), I cannot receive or send email from my account.

For some of you this might possibly be good news. In my case, I feel stripped powerless . . . emasculated (can I use this word to refer to my female self?). This is not a happy feeling.

While I have tried to press on, to keep up with the necessities of life, I find I am constantly working to keep my head above the waves of panic that seem to be rolling over me unanticipated.

In case this is a new concept for you, let me describe these waves of panic. When they come these are some of the thoughts that come with them: What if I am missing something important? What if I’ve received a critical, time-sensitive email (About what, Amy? The Church Council meeting agenda? The layout for the new visitor cards? Get real.)? What if I don’t respond instantaneously and someone in the congregation thinks that I am . . . (I can barely type this) . . . unresponsive?

I know what you are thinking: “Wow, that girl has problems.” Given the frightening level of my current state of anxiety over lack of email access (not to mention quite a few other things), I have to say . . . I am inclined to agree with you.

In fact, this current crisis is enough to make me start thinking that perhaps the situation has progressed far beyond what most might consider normal. Let me give you an example. Two weeks ago I was in Los Angeles for a conference. I had email access (thanks be to God for wireless Internet) but I was in intense meetings during which I could rarely check my email. When I got back to my hotel room that night and logged on I found that, excluding the “make your girl happy tonight” emails (how the heck did I get on THAT list?), I had 67 emails to answer. 67! In one day!

Is this an illness? Maybe so.

Here’s how this psychosis first started. It was sometime last year when we got a new server at the church. Unlike the previous set up, this new server made email very easy. In fact, with the addition of remote access I could check email anywhere I could log onto the Internet! I could read my email! I could answer my email! I could be responsive!

(Did you know you can check email in the middle of the Mayan ruins in Tikal, Guatemala? It’s true.)

This state was only exacerbated by a gift I received early last year from a good friend who is also a congregation member and Sprint employee. I was scared of my BlackBerry at first. Now on the rare occasions I am without it I feel panic that I’d imagine is somewhere along the lines of what I might feel if I had mistakenly left the house without clothes on (what my neighbors might feel in such a case is probably akin to horror, but that’s another blog entry. Without pictures.) I have become so adept at typing on my BlackBerry with my thumbs I can do it almost as fast as using a regular keyboard.

Remind me to put that on my résumé, would you?

My most recent bout with this illness happened when I acquired a used lap top (for travel, you know . . . to write sermons while I am on the road . . .). But this lap top has a wireless Internet card, so it’s almost like having my BlackBerry but with a full-sized keyboard and easy access to other important software. It could very well be that this acquisition pushed me over the edge.

But I didn’t know how fast I was falling until . . . the day the email died.

That would be yesterday.

And I have to tell you, it’s been awfully quiet over the past day. My BlackBerry has been happily charging in its cradle, getting a long-deserved rest. My family actually had access to the computer last night (and my undivided attention). My laptop is packed away.

It all feels so strange . . . maybe even a little peaceful?

Let’s get real, though. Anybody who knows me even very slightly should already suspect that I would be lying if I told you I was not praying for the miracle of restored email service sometime today.

Preferrably sooner rather than later.

In fact, I am feeling so much withdrawl that, if I can get my hyperventilating under control, I am thinking I might even hand write some letters.

Being a follower of Jesus means I always aim to live my life in the light of the resurrection story, of course, and you can call my spirituality shallow if you must (not in an email, though . . . hahahahahaha!) but today, I am praying that somehow, miraculously, the email will be brought back to life.

I believe. Lord, help my unbelief.

Fully Known . . . Fully Loved: a Meditation for Ash Wednesday

Honesty Alert

There are some thoughts in the following that are rather personally revealing. Some of my pastor colleagues would post thoughts like this only over their own dead bodies. But, as you know, I’m one for honesty. However, by way of disclaimer I will say this:

If you prefer to think of the preacher as someone who is perfectly wonderful and without any problems . . . or if you think you’ll read this and spend the rest of your day either trying desperately to figure out what my deep, dark secrets might be or being shocked that I might have some, well, then, do yourself a favor and skip this blog entry.

If, on the other hand, you are someone who also fails occasionally, someone who needs forgiveness and restoration from time to time, well, then you might find that this reflection resonates with you.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Today at Calvary we’ll have a somber recognition of the beginning of the season of Lent. We’re Baptists so this is all kind of new to us, but in addition to quiet reflection we’ll also have imposition of the ashes. When the ashes are imposed the minister will say, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Many of you will be doing the same, so I thought I’d use this space to reflect a little on what the minister, well, what this minister, happens to be thinking today as we head into Lent.

Let me start by saying that Lent is my favorite season of the church year. I’m not sure why exactly, except perhaps that it has always given some sort of sadistic license to the naturally pessimistic side of myself. (I’m surrounded by glass half full people—so annoying, as my glass has perennially—always—been down to the last drop.) Lent is a formal, liturgical season set for looking at the down side of life—what a bonus for those of us who enjoy brooding!

Despite my love of angst I have to say that while in the past Lent has been a time when I’ve had opportunity to slow down and take a cold, hard look at myself, usually the season consists of studied refocusing, of adjusting my way a little bit as I take the time to see a little more clearly the ways in which I’ve managed to veer off course.

This year it all seems different.

This year has been a year in which I didn’t need Lent to see how far I veered off course. I’ve had a year of cold, hard reality and some harsh pain that has been so personal that there are very few who even knew I was carrying it (preachers don’t make mistakes–big ones, anyway; preachers don’t fail, at least publicly; preachers are perfect . . . so goes the broken record in my brain). I’ve hurt some people I love this year; I’ve failed in ways I’d characterize as a bit more dramatic than just crossing the edge of the road onto the shoulder for just a moment. There’s no need for deep reflection this year . . . I already know . . . and am reminded in various ways all the time just how badly I’ve failed.

So this year during Lent instead of a curious inquiry into the more shadowy parts of my life that I’ve been studiously avoiding, well, I am looking for something else. This year I am longing for a place where I can come and be fully known yet fully loved at the same time, a place that I’ve had a hard time finding lately.

So, this Lent when I hear again that I am dust and to dust I shall return, well, I’ll nod in total and complete understanding. Then I’ll turn to the altar, draped in black, and begin the process of unburdening my heart. One by one, I aim to unpack each piece of the pain of this year gone by, leaving it there for the One who already knows me—everything about me—but still loves me anyway.

I think, ironically, after all these years, I am finally getting to the core, to the essence of Lent. It’s not about wearing a hair shirt or self-flagellation or even making sure your list of grievous failures is total and complete.

There are plenty of folks lined up to help with that all the time, as I’ve found out this year.

No, for me this year Lent is about coming into the presence of God to rest for awhile in the only place . . . the only place . . . where I am fully known and still fully loved.

What a gift . . . and one I’m hanging onto for dear life this year.

May you find such a place yourself, whatever you carry to the altar today. Blessed Ash Wednesday.