Pretty Good Friday

Holy Week is rather intense around our house, primarily because Mom is working a lot and we all spend quite a bit of time at church. Since this also happens to be Spring Break (no school) well, you might imagine the juggling going on.

To try to keep things straight I’ve lately found myself reviewing the plans of each day over and over with anyone who will listen (I’ve found the most dedicated listener, truthfully, in the dog.) Nevertheless, the other day I was talking with Sammy (human child, age about our plans for the week and reviewing in detail what we’d be doing all week.

I was pretty well into the weekend, I think, when he interrupted me. “Hey Mom! Isn’t Friday the day we think about Jesus dying on the cross?”

(Smart pastor’s kid!)

“Yes,” I responded happily and continued rambling.

“Wait, Mom!” Sam interrupted again. “Isn’t that day called Good Friday?”

(Smart pastor’s kid!)

“Yes,” again, enthusiastically launching into the topic of what children might be expected to wear to church on Easter Sunday.

Sam spoke up one more time: “Well, what I don’t understand is why they call it GOOD Friday if that’s the day Jesus died. I think they should call it BAD Friday!”

Uhhhhh. Well.

I stopped my recitation and began racking my brain for any recollection of why we call it Good Friday, recognizing that Sam seemed to have a pretty valid point.

Later I did some research and found that we call it Good Friday probably because of the development of the English language over time. In Germany they call it Karfreitag, Mourning Friday, which seems to make more sense. But some are of the opinion that there was a time in the history of the English language that “good” meant “holy”, which would, in effect, make today “Holy Friday”. Still others think it was originally referred to as “God’s Friday” and, over time someone added another “o”. And then there are those who believe it’s not an etymological issue at all but more likely a theological statement: that great good came to be from the tragedy of that Friday.

I didn’t know all of this when Sam and I were talking, but that’s in essence what I told Sam. I said that as Christians we believe Jesus came to be our Savior and he demonstrated the ultimate love—the best good there could ever be—by dying in our place. To recognize that gift we call the day Good Friday.

(At least I recall it was something profound like that.)

Sam, with the deep conviction of the world-saavy 8 year old responded: “Well I guess I can see why they might call it Good Friday. But I still think it’s sad. Do you think it would be okay if I called it Pretty Good Friday?”

With the most serious face I could muster I responded that I thought that would be fine.

Hope you find some moments of forgiveness, grace and hope on this . . . Pretty Good Friday.

I Wish I Could . . .

Written 3/13/ 07

. . . get my daughter to pick up all the junk she regularly leaves all over the house (as an aside, I want a few words with whomever it was who invented “make your own jewelry” kits)

. . . broker lasting peace in the Middle East (or at the very least between my children)

. . . write all my sermons a year in advance

. . . discover some, even just a tiny little bit, of personal interest in sports so I might share the enthusiasm of a growing group of family members (more on Mark’s efforts to brainwash my children later)

. . . write a book that would enjoy the kind of success The Secret is currently enjoying (don’t even get me started on that).

Sadly, as my eldest often points out (wonder where he heard this?): “You know, Mom, we can’t always get what we want.”

Nevertheless, today I really, really, really wish I could

. . . find my keys.

As I am the recipient of regular harassment regarding the fact that my keys are, shall we say, rather hefty, I know better than anyone else that losing this particular set of keys should not even be a topic of discussion. The key ring is huge . . . huge. How hard could it possibly be to find them?

In my defense I’d like to point out that, in the period of the last 10 days, almost the entire interior of my house has been painted in addition to all the hardwood floors being sanded and refinished, so it might be a slight understatement to say that things have been a little disorganized around here.

Regardless of the fact that I feel I am totally justified in my current dilemma, for reasons related to my personal sanity I prefer not to detail here what horrible things might happen if I do not find my keys, including but not limited to my murder at the hands of the church administrator.

Further, my mind can barely touch the possibility that my keys, my precious keys, may now reside somewhere in the over 30 huge bags of garbage resulting from the radical spring cleaning of the basement and kids rooms.

Just the thought makes me feel sick.

So I decided to take a break from self-flagellation on the issue of my personal disorganization to breath deeply, do a few yoga poses and write a blog entry about my plight in hopes that any or all of these actions might in some small way make at least this wish come true.

In other words, I’m not at the point where I’ll pretty much do whatever it takes for the magic to happen. Hmm, I wonder how hard it is to search through bags of garbage with your fingers crossed?

(Update: keys found in coat pocket two days later. Thanks be to God. Amen.)

Admission

Written 3/12/07

My name is Amy and I am a church nerd.

This is not some new revelation that will shock anyone who knows me, I’m sure. But rather than trying to play this part of me down, you know, to act like everyone else, I realized this week it might be better to just embrace the reality of my situation and come to terms with it.

Here’s what finally made me publicly admit this fact about myself.

I took a quick trip last week to my favorite city ever. I was not feeling great, as the flu was following me around, but I soldiered on, determined that I could have a good time even while sick. Turns out you have to walk a lot in Manhattan, which is great exercise under normal circumstances, but when feeling generally faint, well, not so great.

Good thing on one very cold afternoon after quite a lot of walking, I came upon one of my favorite, favorite places in my favorite city: The Church of St. Mary the Virgin on W. 46th Street.

If you look closely while meandering down 46th Street, you’ll probably be able to see the steps leading up to its unassuming front doors (alas, no neon signage . . .). I seemed to head right there, almost like instinctively coming home.

St. Mary’s is right off Times Square, tucked away among nail salons and bagel shops, just a few steps from the Toys R Us superstore. I found it once several years ago when I was looking for a peaceful place, and there it was again . . . sanctuary for my upset stomach, freezing ears (forgot my hat) and restless soul.

This time I opened the doors with some trepidation (would the church be closed to a weary tourist late on a cold afternoon?). No, just like the many times it has before, the foyer welcomed me in and my eyes were drawn up again to another favorite of mine: the ceiling of St. Mary’s. It’s painted a very deep, dark blue and dotted with gold stars. When I look up at it, head resting on the back of a pew, I always am transported, imagining that I’m not in the middle of the busiest city in the world but rather in an utterly peaceful place where I can freely reach upward and outward to a waiting God . . . and actually find God on the other end of my reaching.

That cold afternoon, as I was enveloped in the warmth, staring at the ceiling, feeling possibly for the first time that day some modicum of peace, I realized the truth and was even able to murmur it under my breath to myself:

My name is Amy and I am a church nerd.

We Baptists learn, of course, from the very basics of Sunday School curriculum that “the church” is not a building at all, but rather a whole community of people gathered together. This I believe, of course. But whenever I go into St. Mary’s I suspect that, for me anyway, there might be a little something more tangible to this concept of church.

For some people, I guess, their souls are calmed and healed by the blue of the ocean; for some the stretch of the mountains; for others, the Macy’s sale flyer (stay tuned for reflections on The Theology of Shopping, a multi-volume discourse I am certainly destined to write before I die).

But, may I say, this finding God in an edifice called church is, as they say, nothing new. In fact, in humble defense of church nerds everywhere, I’d like to here point out that it has been thousands of years since folks had the grand idea to build beautiful buildings in which we humans might step out of our regular lives and encounter something truly wonderful, something bigger than ourselves. Spend some time on the couch with The Pillars of the Earth and you’ll never think of church in the same way. In fact, forget the Middle Ages. Even popular culture embraces church as a place to find something wonderful (ever wonder why Peter Gabriel wailed about falling in love by singing: “In your eyes, the light, the heat, your eyes, I am complete, in your eyes I see the doorway to a thousand churches . . . ?” I rest my case.)

But one could argue (and, let me tell you, there have been a few of these folks in my life) that those of us who “do church” for a living have some sort of strange love affair with the the actual, physical place.

The arches, the wood; the icons, the candles; the artwork, the altar, the vestments. The ceiling! (The ceiling!!!) And the smells and sounds: wax and wood polish, flowers and incense and dust . . . wood creaking, bells ringing, organ pipes thrumming, voices raised in praise.

These are the things that spread over my soul like honey, filling the cracks with substance and nourishment . . . with what I’d call hope when my soul is crumbly and lifeless, tired and useless.

These things thrill me unlike anything else I can think of, transport me to a place of deep joy and fill my heart with calm assurance that I am not alone; that God is here, even in the middle of feeling cold to the bone and faint from the flu; in the middle of cabbies honking and street vendors yelling; in the middle of a city where I could walk just a few steps and encounter so many things that do not inspire deep joy and do not fill my heart with any assurance whatsoever (case in point the 25-story picture of Sean “Puffy” Combs right around the corner from St. Mary’s). God, right here where I happen to find myself.

Here I admit it: encounters with God are some of the most longed-for experiences in the busy rush of my life. And I’d like to qualify my status as church nerd of the highest order by saying that, for me, is just another way of describing a tendency to find God, to find sanctuary, in a place built just for that purpose.

And, as I am not ignorant to the fact that many people feel strongly that God is nowhere to be found in such edifices, (I myself have wondered from time to time), I here give thanks for warm sanctuary, beautiful ceilings, healing atmosphere and most of all . . . for finding God, if just for a few moments. I’ll admit: I need all of those things very much.

My name is Amy and I am a church nerd.

Thoughts on Christian Radio

Written 3/05/07 and representative only of my own opinions, remember. I have many wonderful people in my life who listen to Christian radio! My intent is not to be disrepectful . . . just to share my opinion . . . .

You know how I feel about contemporary Christian music . . . and if you don’t, let’s just say that in general my opinion is not overly enthusiastic.

The truth of the matter is, however, that I am not that much of a black and white kind of person . . . . I don’t hate all contemporary Christian music no matter what. In fact, I do own a couple of Nicole Nordeman CDs, and you know I love Sara Groves. But, if I may make such a distinction, Nicole and Sara are a far, far cry from Jesus Is My Boyfriend Music . . . and Christian radio.

There are three very nice young men in my house today painting the walls of the dining room (long list of to-dos and all that). They are really, really nice guys and seem to be doing a fabulous job (and while my definition of “fabulous” is, admittedly, “not done by me” it all looks pretty nice to me).

The problem is (and I am aware that on the spectrum of life problems this one would not be all that severe): they like to listen to Christian radio while they work.

Which means I, too, have had the opportunity to listen to Christian radio today. And it’s really, really loud.

Alas, it has been about 5 hours and so far no Nicole Nordeman or Sara Groves. A lot of “hallelujahs”, “praise the father aboves”, “God is goods” and “I can only imagines”, though, and I have to say I think I can understand why Christians get a bad rap from society at large. The music is terrible; the lyrics are often ridiculous; and the commercials . . .

well, let’s just say this morning was sponsored by Linda, who called in to thank her husband Ralph for “being a man of God.” I just spent the last 30 minutes trying to imagine what an unchurched person completely unfamiliar with Christianity would think about such a commercial. So far I have not come up with anything positive.

I have to remember, we all have differing tastes and I know, for some people, this is just what they like to hear.

I am, also, willing to put up with quite a lot for a beautiful, newly painted dining room.

However, if this goes on too much longer I don’t think I can be held responsible for my actions. To stave off unwanted reactionary behavior (Amy going crazy) I have now closed all the doors to the office, where I am working, and successfully located a pair of ear plugs which I am now wearing.

Hopefully this solution will help.

Hopefully the dining room will be repainted very soon.

Hopefully the station will play some Sara Groves.

All I know is, if I hear “WGTS 91.9! Always positive and always encouraging!” one more time . . . well, you can only imagine.

All The Moms

Written 3/04/07

To fully appreciate the impact of this particular experience you would have to know my history with radio.

I come from the Sesame Street generation, one of the first to spend hours and hours in front of the television. Since my mother was convinced only evil could come from the watching of television, my own personal experience was rather limited (Sesame Street, yes, The Waltons, and Little House on the Prairie, pretty much).

Imagine the social damage caused by the fact that, when I got to High School I had never watched even one episode of The Brady Bunch or Gilligan’s Island . . . and I have never (to this day) seen the movie Grease.

(I understand it’s very questionable.)

But I did listen to the radio a lot growing up.

The radio is much less likely to lead one down the path of debauchery than the television, you know.

Anyway, when I was young a very newfangled thing was all the rage: the Walkman. I distinctly remember getting one for a birthday one year—what utter joy! I would lay in bed at night after bedtime, put on my headphones, and dream away to the sounds of Christopher Cross.

What bliss and, if I may say so, what utter coolness! I may not have known who Marsha Brady was, but I KNEW who had called in to dedicated which song to whom, and I also knew all the lyrics to every one of Billy Joel’s songs.

And Blondie, too.

So, having long associated radio listening with my only hope for anything close to coolness on the media front, imagine my shock and horror yesterday when the following happened:

I was driving my almost-teenager (19 more days, to be exact), along with two friends from church, to a youth group activity. The weather was gorgeous, the sunroof was open and the radio was on. I think I was humming to something by Chicago when I heard distinctly from one of Hayden’s friends in the backseat:

“Oh, my mom listens to this station. I think all the moms listen to this station. They play really old songs.”

“All the moms listen to this station?” This did not sound cool to me. In fact, it sounded distinctly old. Not young and hip, up on the latest Crystal Gayle song, but outdated and far . . . very, very far . . . from the hip edge of coolness.

How could this have happened? When did the shift from “cool radio-savvy young person” to “coolness: EXPIRED” happen? Was I just not paying attention when the shift occurred? And what is this the radio DJ keeps saying about “oldies”? It’s just so wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

After this horrible experience I took some time to reflect. And after much thought and careful analysis of the situation I finally realized what had happened.

See, it must be that “all the moms” were too busy watching The Brady Bunch while growing up to stay up to date with what was cool. Now that we are all adults many of “the moms” have finally found their way to utter coolness, which is WHY, I later explained to Hayden, “all the moms” listen to the same radio station.

Turns out they’re just trying to be cool . . .

like me!

Whew.