Talk With the Preacher

I personally think part of the reason she is so popular is because Barbara Brown Taylor has the guts (and the word-smithing talent) to say what we all think inside but either can’t or won’t express out loud.

Her recent book, Leaving Church, is different from her other books (it’s a memoir) but she accomplishes the same gutsy truth-telling here. Maybe she voices what only professional clergy feel, but I suspect her words are not limited to those of us who call ourselves religious professionals.

Here she writes about what the professional role felt like to her. Take a read of this excerpt and see what you think:

“In my role, I could act out of my best nature for hours at a time. I could produce kindness when all I feel is fatigue. I could present patience when circumstances warrant irritation. I could shine like the sun until long after dark when I need to, but my soul did not operate on a solar calendar. My soul operated on a lunar calendar, coming up at a different time every night and never looking the same two nights in a row.

Where my role called for a steady circle of bright light, my soul waxed and waned. There were days when I was as full as a harvest moon and others when not so much as a sliver appeared in the sky. My soul’s health depended on the regular cycle of these phases. I needed the dark nights that gave the stars their full brilliance as much as I needed the nights when the moon shone so brightly that I could make shadow puppets with my hands.

The problem with the collar was that it did not allow for such variations. It advertised the steady circle of light, not the cycles, so that it sometimes scorched my neck.

I do not think that I was the only one who suffered from too much sun in church. One thing that had always troubled me was the way people disappeared from church when their lives were breaking down. Separation and divorce were the most common explanations for long absences, but so were depression, alcoholism, job loss, and mortal illness. One new widow told me that she could not come to church because she started crying the moment she sat down in a pew. A young man freshly diagnosed with AIDS said that he stayed away because he was too frightened to answer questions and too angry to sing hymns. I understood their reasoning, but I was sorry that church did not strike these eclipsed souls as a place they could bring the dark fruits of their equally dark nights.

Some of them returned when their moons had filled out a little and others did not, but even people in no apparent crisis seemed to suffer from the full-sun effect. As enjoyable as it could be to spend a couple of hours on Sunday morning with people who were at their best, it was also possible to see the strain in some of the smiles, the effort it took to present the most positive, most faithful version of the self. Sometimes I could almost read the truth written out above people’s heads. ‘Please don’t believe me. This is only a shard of who I really am.’ The cost of the pretense was the loss of the real human texture underneath, but since we all thought that was what was expected of us, that was what we delivered . . . .

I had set out to wear a collar in the first place because I thought it would mark me as someone committed to going all the way with God. Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself? My initial answer had been yes, I would. I would give myself completely to that ministry . . . . While I knew plenty of clergy willing to complain about the high expectations and long hours, few of us spoke openly about the toxic effects of being identified as the holiest person in a congregation. Whether this honor was conferred by those who recognized our gifts for ministry or was simply extended by them as a professional courtesy, it was equally hard on the honorees.

Those of us who believed our own press developed larger-than-life swaggers and embarrassing patterns of speech, while those who did not suffered lower back pain and frequent bouts of sleeplessness.

Either way, we were deformed.

We were not God, but we spent so much tending the God-place in people’s lives that it was easy to understand why someone might get us confused.” (pages 147-150)

“All we need is a letter from the pastor.”

That’s what the organizers of the Church Directory tell me.

But I don’t want to write a letter, because I know . . . I can tell from hanging around the church office . . . that whatever goes in the church directory stands in posterity for years and years.

And years.

20, I believe, since the last time we did a picture directory. (To be fair I went back and checked. In reality it has only been 15 years.) Still . . .

The pressure!

I’m gazing over the beautiful job church member Amy Dale has done in organizing our new directory and trying to think what words I could put to such wonderful images. And I know I will come up with something.

In the meantime, the words of Ann Weems (brought to my attention by my mother-in-law, Virginia Butler) seem to fit the bill:

The church of Jesus Christ is where a child of God brings a balloon . . .
is where old women come to dance . . .
is where young men see visions and old men dream dreams.

The church of Jesus Christ is where lepers come to be touched . . .
is where the blind see and the deaf hear . . .
is where the lame run and the dying live.

The church of Jesus Christ is where daisies bloom out of barren land . . .
is where children lead and wise men follow . . .
is where mountains are moved and walls come tumbling down.

The church of Jesus Christ is where loaves of bread are stacked in the sanctuary to feed the hungry . . .
is where coats are taken off and put on the backs of the naked . . .
is where shackles are discarded and kings and shepherds sit down to life together.

The church of Jesus Christ is where barefoot children run giggling in procession . . .
is where the minister is ministered unto . . .
is where the anthem is the laughter of the congregation and the offering plates are full of people.

The church of Jesus Christ is where people go when they skin their knees or their hearts . . .
is where frogs become princes and Cinderella dances beyond midnight . . .
is where judges don’t judge and each child of God is beautiful and precious.

The church of Jesus Christ is where the sea divides for the exiles . . .
is where the ark floats and the lamb lies down with the lion . . .
is where people can disagree and hold hands at the same time.

The church of Jesus Christ is where night is day . . .
is where trumpets and drums and tambourines declare God’s goodness . . .
is where lost lambs are found.

The church of Jesus Christ is where people write thank-you notes to God . . .
is where work is a holiday . . .
is where seeds are scattered and miracles grown.

The church of Jesus Christ is where home is . . .
is where heaven is . . .
is where a picnic is communion and people break bread together on their knees.

The church of Jesus Christ is where we live responsively to God’s coming . . .
even on Monday morning the world will hear . . .
an abundance of alleluias!

Amen.

“True, we have to hate evil; else we’re sentimental. But if we hate evil more than we love the good, we become damn good haters, and of those the world already has too many. However deep, our anger, like that of Christ, must always and only measure our love.”

Gratitude

Send some rain, would You send some rain?
‘Cause the earth is dry and needs to drink again
And the sun is high and we are sinking in the shade
Would You send a cloud, thunder long and loud?
Let the sky grow black and send some mercy down
Surely You can see that we are thirsty and afraid
But maybe not, not today
Maybe You’ll provide in other ways
And if that’s the case . . .

We’ll give thanks to You
With gratitude
For lessons learned in how to thirst for You
How to bless the very sun that warms our face
If You never send us rain

Daily bread, give us daily bread
Bless our bodies, keep our children fed
Fill our cups, then fill them up again tonight
Wrap us up and warm us through
Tucked away beneath our sturdy roofs
Let us slumber safe from danger’s view this time
Or maybe not, not today
Maybe You’ll provide in other ways
And if that’s the case . . .

We’ll give thanks to You
With gratitude
A lesson learned to hunger after You
That a starry sky offers a better view if no roof is overhead
And if we never taste that bread

Oh, the differences that often are between
What we want and what we really need

So grant us peace, Jesus, grant us peace
Move our hearts to hear a single beat
Between alibis and enemies tonight
Or maybe not, not today
Peace might be another world away
And if that’s the case . . .

We’ll give thanks to You
With gratitude
For lessons learned in how to trust in You
That we are blessed beyond what we could ever dream
In abundance or in need
And if You never grant us peace

But Jesus, would You please . . .


Blessed Thanksgiving.

Calvary is such a goldmine of interesting and talented people . . . I am constantly amazed at the creative ways I am challenged to live my faith with the help of folks in my congregation. One of those folks is Caroline Armijo, who, in addition to having numerous artistic gifts, has this amazing passion to mesh faith and artistic expression.

Whenever I am with Caroline, the creative part of me (a very small part, granted) just wants to sing. Or decoupage something.

Over this past year Caroline and I have thought up some pretty unusual ideas for worship; this time we cooked up a four-week series in Sunday School called Wrapping it Up. Caroline owns a gift subscription service, MerriMail, and is particularly interested in the art of gift-giving.

I am particularly interested in trying to finish my Christmas shopping list before December 22 (for a change).

We divided the four weeks this way: Gifts of the Bible; Gifts You Can Make Yourself; Socially Responsible Gift Giving; and Wrapping it Up–Special Alternatives for Wrapping Your Gifts. I taught the Bible one.

Caroline has taken on the rest.

After participating in the discussion this morning on Socially Responsible Gift Giving, I am all ready to spend some of this Thanksgiving Week attacking my Christmas List. And, thanks to Caroline’s hard work, you can easily access the information we shared in our class this morning and try it yourself.

Happy shopping!

I thought it notable that I came across something in the Washington Post today that left me speechless (very unusual).

I am happy to report, however, that I’ve recovered and that I’m now searching for said product, as I could knock out a good portion of my Christmas list with its acquisition.

P.S. I know Jesus said all those things . . . but did he actually look like that?

One of the many obliga . . . , uh, joys of parenthood is attending recitals.

We had a little different experience Saturday. It was not the typical piano recital (though we also have, uh, get, to attend those as well).

No, our daughter Hannah is particularly gifted in the dramatic arts (pause here for anyone who knows her to shout, “Amen!”) and has been taking an acting class every Saturday for the past few months. Yesterday was the final class and parents were invited to come watch.

The class showed us an exercise they often do called improvisation. Each person was assigned a character and the teacher called out changing circumstances or situations, asking each character to respond as that character would. The first part included the parents getting up to interact with the characters around the room.

Hannah was, fittingly, the Queen. I curtsied to her and got a good laugh out of her regal response, then moved down the line to greet the Princess and the King. As I was bowing to the King I heard the man next to me say to the Princess:

“Since you are a Princess, does that mean you are looking for a Prince?”

My daughter, the Queen, piped up with great disdain:

“She’s not looking for a Prince! She’s looking for a job!”

Wow . . . amazing writing in a book I am reading: Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen. I’m shocked that I can read a passage like this . . . and identify.

Sigh.

“I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.

When you’re five, you know your age down to the month. Even in your twenties you know how old you are. I’m twenty-three, you say, or maybe twenty-seven. But then in your thirties something strange starts to happen. It’s a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I’m—you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you’re not. You’re thirty-five. And then you’re bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it’s decades before you admit it.

Actually, it’s not so much that I’ve forgotten. It’s more like I’ve stopped keeping track. We’re past the millennium, that much I know—such a fuss and bother over nothing, all those young folks clucking with worry and buying canned food because somebody was too lazy to leave space for four digits instead of two—but that could have been last month or three years ago. And besides, what does it really matter? What’s the difference between three weeks or three years or even three decades of mushy peas, tapioca, and Depends undergarments?

I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.”

‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Who writes a song like Patty Griffin?

Nobody.

Here are some lyrics from her song Nobody’s Crying, which, ironically, always make me cry: