Talk With the Preacher

It’s a strange, strange phenomenon. As I sat listening to her talk about leaving for Zimbabwe for at least six months carrying only a backpack, I was caught somewhere in between nostalgic recognition when I saw the sparkle in her eyes and heard the lift in her voice . . . and the strangely recognizable horror she described her parents feeling right at this moment.

My friend Sadie has left for an adventure halfway across the world, and I couldn’t be happier. Or more worried. It’s all so confusing!

I recognized, of course, as Sadie talked, that feeling of utter certainty the next step I was taking was the right one. In my case that has often involved leaving for foreign countries as well. I, too, said my goodbyes and headed off for far-flung locales. I remember. And my heart lifts with excitement when I hear her talk.

The problem this time, I think, is that I have an almost-13-year-old sitting at the kitchen counter explaining his view of the world to me . . . he seems so sure but I know from this vantage point that there’s still a lot he has to learn. Frankly, the thought of him heading off to one of the most politically unstable countries in the world, risking his very life to follow his dreams . . . well, that just makes me want to run screaming from the kitchen.

I know, I know.

Sadie is not 13.

And I am not her mother.

In fact, I believe with all my heart that God goes with her and, in fact, will be with her no matter what comes her way.

But I confess I miss her and have been worrying about her quite a bit. I expect, of course, that this is the mother in me coming out, the utter fear of one of my children hearing the call of distant lands.

But, another part of me still remembers what it was like . . . and has to fight the compulsion to pack my own backpack and meet up with Sadie somewhere in Bulawayo, you know what I mean?

Since the kids are likely still depending on me for occasional dinners at least a little while longer . . . and since I know Sadie is following her heart and the call of God all the way to Africa . . . I guess I’ll stow away the backpack for awhile, stop the hyperventilating over what might happen and live somewhere in the space between the two.

So I’ll stay there, in the space between for awhile, praying a lot and sending my love along with Sadie, tucked into a little corner of that backpack.

Go with God, Sadie!

I was talking with a friend today about how to make difficult decisions.

I must be very naive, but I had thought, that is, I was under the impression, that once you got past the biggies (prom dress—strapless or sleeves?) that the process got easier.

I’d thought there might be a point at which you could sort of turn on the cruise control and take a little break, that the road signs would be clearer and the “right decision” more easily identifiable.

Well, add that one to The List of Misimpressions Amy Had About Life.

To my credit, I thought I’d read something about that in the Bible somewhere. At least that’s what they told us in high school youth group (God will show you the right decision . . . all the time . . . in every circumstance . . . almost like magic!). However, I must confess that almost nothing about adult decision-making has seemed to me to be easy, fun, or, most of all, obvious.

My husband would explain this phenomenon by telling you my problem lies in the fact that very little in my decision-making process is logical. That is, I have to figure out how the decision FEELS in order to make a definitive choice.

Thank goodness the friend with whom I was talking today totally understood my strange approach. She described it this way: “You know, sometimes you can say ‘Not This!’. Of course you don’t know exactly which way to go when that happens, but saying ‘Not This!’ narrows it down.”

I know the technical term for this mode of thinking is “process of elimination”. Very different (I know from living with Mark) from making a list of logical, factual evidence, carefully weighing that evidence then deciding the most sensible course of action.

I already know myself well enough to know I can’t make a chart of factual points. However, I realized today that I can usually say, “Not This!” with a certain amount of clarity, at least some of the time. My friend’s affirmation helped me see that, even if I don’t always know the right step to take, it’s something to be able to declare with conviction: “Not This!”

This is not the first time in my life I’ve pondered the tricky task of decision-making.

I started to think I’d been under a mistaken impression about decisions getting easier and all that, oh, about midway through my twenties. Among the many and increasing decisions that come with adult and parenthood, we were at one point faced with a very difficult decision that involved two good options.

I called my friend and preaching professor, Hardy Clemons, to whine about the predicament in which I found myself. Which decision was the RIGHT decision? What course of action was GOD’S WILL? Hardy chuckled and said to me, “Well, isn’t that great!?! Looks to me like God’s inviting you to voice an opinion about the direction of your life. I love when that happens!”

(Yeah, thanks for the help, there, Hardy.)

So as I muddle my way through young adulthood into (gulp!) middle age, I’m beginning to have the sneaky suspicion that it doesn’t, in fact, always get easier. (“Which retirement community should I move into?,” for example. Already the question is nagging.)

But today I added another tool to my arsenal of decision making weapons. I can, very often, say with conviction: “Not This!” and maybe, by saying that, I move just a little closer to “This! Yes! This!”. That would be great, wouldn’t it?

So today I am thinking this might be the case. Yes, I think so. Or maybe not . . . I just can’t decide . . . .

“Those who wish to treat with charity that which must be treated with justice make a caricature of true loving action.”

Archbishop Oscar Romero

Ahhhhh, the challenges and joys of following a dearly beloved pastor . . . even three pastorates later. One joy, I’ve found, is telling the stories again, stories that have become almost legendary in our community. Yesterday, on a Sunday when we were giving thanks together for the legacy of visionary leaders, I had the opportunity to tell again a story from Calvary’s history.

Clarence Cranford shepherded the Calvary congregation through the rocky years of World War 2 and then through the challenges of Civil Rights in this country. His job was not an easy one and, despite what you might hear in the halls (every single Sunday) he was not universally loved and cherished by all every single moment of his pastorate.

His widow Dorothy told me the first time I met her: “Now don’t you believe everything you hear about Cranny being so perfect and wonderful. That church gave him all sorts of trouble!”

Today as we remember the work of visionary leader Martin Luther King, Jr., who dared to dream about what could be and sacrificed so much to make those dreams reality, I thought it appropriate to note the legacy Cranny left at Calvary: a legacy of inclusion and radical faith during a time when issues of race were dividing our country.

In 1955 Calvary faced the controversial institutional question of whether or not to admit a young black woman into membership. To do so would have been a radical departure from convention and would have made Calvary the first historically white church in Washington, D.C. to officially integrate.

Cranny was heavily burdened by the controversy in the congregation. His son Dick told me Cranny had his resignation letter ready to present to the congregation if they made the decision to exclude this young woman from membership.

Calvary’s history, At Calvary, by Carl and Olive Tiller, records the events:
“When, in 1955, a young black woman applied for church membership, a serious controversy arose. Florence Davis was from Liberia, the product of an American mission school, but there was strong opposition to receiving her into Calvary’s fellowship. Dr. Cranford, even while trying to maintain harmony, came down squarely in favor of accepting her. In the end, she was admitted to membership on a split vote.” (p. 45-46)

Cranny paid a heavy price for his position. Though he is remembered now as a visionary, prophetic and loving pastor, the opposition of the congregation to his positions on issues such as race became, as At Calvary records, “increasingly an unspoken burden for Cranny” (p. 46).

On this day that we remember the legacy of dreamers like Martin Luther King, Jr. . . and even Clarence Cranford . . . may even you and I have the courage to dream about what can become reality in and among us all.

I comment relatively often on faith and film here on this blog (here and here, for example). In class today we discussed the fact that as preachers we cannot ignore the impact of modern media on the understanding our parishoners bring to the biblical narrative.

Exile. The word standing alone has rather somber connotations.

In class today (Biblical Interpretation for Preaching to a New Generation . . . perhaps by the end of the class I will have some understanding of what exactly the title means . . .) we discussed in great length Walter Brueggemann’s masterful book Cadences of Home: Preaching Among Exiles.

In it Bruggemann explores the metaphor of exile as one we might use with our congregations to help define mission, vision, values in a world where one might be hesitant to suggest (to, uh, preach to a large group of people from a public pulpit, let’s be honest here) that the world around us . . . the government under which we live . . . the society in which we function . . . all stand in sharp contrast to the mandate of the Gospel.

(”Oh, that will have them running down the aisles!” she said to herself as she nodded thoughtfully in the professor’s direction.)

Exile is a situation in which we are threatened with the temptations of despair (it’s too hard to be different so I might as well sit in a corner and die) and assimilation (when in Rome and all that . . .).

Could this have any relevance for any of us at all?

Funny, we found as the members of our class began to compare, the pictures Bruggemann paints are poignantly true. . . from rural parishes in Maine to struggling churches in South Louisiana to affluent churches in Hawaii. All of us could, in some way, sing the lament of a people in exile: “By the rivers of Babylon—there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion. On the willows poplars—there we hung up our harps. For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land? “

No, we found that, while might not be hanging up our harps in lament exactly, all of us could find some connection with the idea of exile.

Exile, we discovered, is the embracing of the fact that we march to a different beat than the world around us, however we’re called to do that in each of our communities of faith.

For some it means looking around and realizing that the paths we’ve chosen up until now are paths of assimilation, not definition . . . and that we are called to change. For others of us it means clearing a new path through the underbrush of the society in which we live. For still others it means tenaciously staking a claim and defending it with all we’re worth.

But for all of us, as Bruggemann seems to point out, the reality of exile is an invitation to repentance.

Embracing our identity as exiles offers an opportunity to firmly turn our backs on those tempting alternatives of assimilation or despair and, when we do, accept the invitation of forgiveness . . . comfort, the prophet called it, of the God who walks right beside us as we live faithfully a story that’s different from the story of the world around us.

(”Despite my initial reservations, this sounds suspiciously like good news to me!”, she thought to herself.)

Class has convinced me to give new thought to the metaphor of exile. I’m not sure how that is lived out in my own life, but I do know assimilation and despair are not options for a people living in anticipation of the hope of God.

Instead, it seems a better option to keep trudging along, singing the Lord’s song at the top of our lungs . . . even if everyone else is singing something by the Cheetah Girls (sorry, it’s the context of my current living situation, I’m afraid).

Yes, it seems the Psalmist was right. If we’re people of God we’re living in exile. We’re marching to the beat of a different drummer, singing the Lord’s song in a land where that particular tune sounds grating and different, offensive, even, to the crowd around us.

But, I’m remembering this week . . . for those who have ears to hear . . . even just faint strains drifting over the deserts of our lives . . . oh, what beautiful music it is.

I thought I’d pretty well worked through most of the pains of Junior High. In fact, lately it seems I’ve had to be fending off more than my usual share of comments about the loss of pigment in my hair . . . .

Nevertheless, for the last two weeks I have been revisiting 8th grade and bringing the new TV show Ugly Betty to full and colorful life: I got braces.

It was all so accidental.

Due to thumb-sucking, child #2 (Hannah) had to see the orthodonist for an evaluation two weeks ago. The dentist suggested I let the orthodonist take a look at my teeth, since I have what seemed to be some minor spacing problems (not spacey, spacing).

Hannah was not ready for braces yet, but he said (with some delight) I certainly was.

And, he could fit me in right that morning! And so began my evolution into an advertisment for Ugly Betty.

Before we got started the doctor explained he thought I should think about clear braces (public speaking and all that). He mentioned offhand, “Of course, with the clear braces you can’t drink coffee,” to which helpful Hannah chimed in, “Well that certainly won’t work!” I did, however, have the option of colored braces, but since I couldn’t choose between day-glo orange and chartreuse I decided to stick with the plain metal.

The rest is history.

I now have a full set of metal braces on the top and bottom of my teeth, causing me to look and feel as if the entire utensil drawer has been super-glued to my mouth. It’s getting better, not so sore, etc., but the curious looks continue.

I’ve always said you could never pay me to go back to Junior High. Curiously, it now looks like I am paying someone else to send me back!

I’ve been trying to get him to start his own blog for some time.

I know it’s true that my very good friend and colleague Jim Somerville is far too busy appearing on CNN and editing his sermons for publication to spend his time blogging, but, frankly, I’d like to have more opportunities to read what he thinks.

And I think the rest of the world might like that opportunity, too.

(Is the peer pressure working yet, Jim?)

So, while I continue my campaign to get him to start a blog of his own, I think I’ll try to ease him in by a few guest appearances right here on my blog.

Jim is well known for his interesting and thought-provoking observations of the lectionary texts but not AS well known for his considerable artistic skills, so today I share (with his permission, of course) a photo taken with his new digital camera. And here’s an official invitation to share his thoughts right here every once in awhile. Until he gives in, of course, and gets his own blog . . . . Thanks for sharing, Jim.

I learned a little about the Blues while mindlessly surfing the Internet trying any tack remotely reasonable to put off even further my homework for class this week.

I’m here reporting that I have been reasonably successful in putting off my hard work even further and I now share with you the fruits of, if I do say so myself, truly masterful procrastination.

All I can say is, if this whole pastor thing doesn’t work out, “watch out music world!!!”

I’ve had the reading list since October’s end.

I’ve had the reading list since October’s end.

Now that class starts tomorrow, it has become my new best friend.

CHORUS: The blues, the procrastination blues . . .

Should’ve started sooner, now I’m paying the price,

All I can say is I hope the professor is nice,

Nuthin’ to do but sing the procrastination blues.

Spending my days lost in the reflections of old white men . . . oh,

Spending all my days lost in the reflections of old white men.

I gotta admit they seem to know what they’re talkin’ about . . . wish I’d read their thoughts sooner . . . don’t know where my mind’s been.

CHORUS

Five papers in forty-eight hours!

Five–help me, Jesus–papers in forty-eight hours!

I promise never to procrastinate again, dear God, if you’ll please send snow showers (Big ones! To cancel class!).

CHORUS

This stress my mind’s been doggin’!

I tell you, this stress my mind’s been doggin’!!!

I’m so sad I’ll just procrastinate more . . . by sitting here and blogging.

CHORUS (as many times as you need to procrastinate appropriately.)