Talk With the Preacher

There is far too much in this book, Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, to mention in one small blog entry, so over the next little while (just warning you) I’ll be sharing some passages in the book that resonated with me. Haven’t read it? You must. Really. Here’s one for today, from page 61.

“Generally speaking, though, Americans have an inability to relax into sheer pleasure. Ours is an entertainment-seeking nation, but not necessarily a pleasure-seeking one. Americans spend billions to keep themselves amused with everything from porn to theme parks to wars, but that’s not exactly the same thing as quiet enjoyment. Americans work harder and longer and more stressful hours than anyone in the world today. But as Luca Spaghetti pointed out, we seem to like it. Alarming statistics back this observation up, showing that many Americans feel more happy and fulfilled in their offices than they do in their own homes. Of course, we all inevitably work too hard, then we get burned out and have to spend the whole weekend in our pajamas, eating cereal straight out of the box and staring at the TV in a mild coma (which is the opporsite of working, yes, but not exactly the same thing as pleasure). Americans don’t really know how to do nothing. This is the cause of that great sad American stereotype–the overstressed executive who goes on vacation but cannot relax.”

I was reading the other day about all the new words and phrases that have recently been added to the dictionary of the English language.  It’s nice to know those words that we use all the time (?) are now official: ginormous; netnanny; mouse potato, supersize . . . you know, those.

The invention of new phrases, of course, is nothing new to me.  When my kids were learning to talk they’d come up with their own versions of words that quickly made their way into family lore.   

Of course they all know how to talk now (one of them, in fact, excels in this area; I’ll let you guess which one she is), but I’ve noticed lately, with the onset of teenagedom (Is that a word?  It is now!) this trend has reappeared. 

(I spent quite awhile the other day, in fact, wondering what other trends will pop up again.  Temper tantrums?  Inability to pick up toys?  Using angry words?  So far, uh, yes.) 

Hayden (13), in particular, introduces us to all sorts of new linguistic expressions.  (In fact, you may recall that the name of our dog can be directly attributed to his tutelage).  He also thrills us with delightful phrases like, “That’s just how I roll, Mom” (generally most effective when used with the well-timed disdainful look).  Today I heard him use a phrase that, I have to say, may actually make it to the general dictionary, most certainly the dictionary of our family. 

As Hayden hopped in the car when I picked him up from Algebra class, he was waving to a goofy looking kid on the sidewalk (frankly, 7^th and 8^th graders all seem kind of goofy-looking to me, except for some of the girls, whose appearances make me run screaming into the house to lock Hannah in her room).  I asked about the kid, since I hadn’t met him before. 

Eric, Hayden said his name was. 

“Nice kid, but a little . . . weird.” 

“What do you mean by weird?” 

“You know, kind of annoying.” 

“In what way?” 

“Well, he’s always getting into everybody’s business.  And he likes to be the center of attention all the time.  He also talks a lot.  And tries to make jokes that are not funny.  Sometimes I wonder about the stories he tells us.  I don’t know how to explain it, Mom.” 

“Hmmm.  So do you like him or does he just bother you?” I asked. 

“Well, both.  I’m not sure how to explain him to you except to say he’s ‘ultimate Hannah’.” 

“Ahhhhh!” I said, exclaiming in sudden and complete understanding. I almost had to stop the car I was laughing so hard.  The minute Hayden used his new phrase, I knew what he meant.   

(Hannah, our resident dramatically gifted motormouth, is the child who wrote her first grade “What I Did This Summer” essay about our wonderful trip to Florida to visit our grandparents, where she “dipped her toe into the Atlantic Ocean”—which was all very beautiful, except for the fact that her grandparents live in Mississippi and we’d just returned . . . from Wisconsin. “Should we be concerned? What does this mean?  Whatever it is, it CAN’T be good” we whispered to each other at Parents’ Open House night.  Later, when we asked, she explained: “Well, the story I made up sounded way more fun than what we really did.”) 

I’m delighted to know, of course, that Hayden is not just learning Algebra this summer, he’s also actively expanding his vocabulary.  While I probably would not describe him as, well, ultimate Hannah, he is quite a wordulous* sort of kid, wouldn’t you say? 

*wordulous  (adjective) : given to inventing creative new words because one’s large vocabulary needs sustenance.  You are so wordulous, it’s scary!  

It’s a notable day, friends. 

I finally took the plunge, after years of frustration with Blogger, and moved on over here to Word Press.  And today I echo the words of that monumental . . . Swiffer commercial:

“We’ve been together a long time.  But I need a change.  You’re dirty.  You’re sloppy.  And I feel like we go over the same stuff again and again.  And I know it hurts, but I found something better . . . .”

See, I just wasn’t getting what I needed from the relationship–emotionally I had moved on; I didn’t feel we were working together well anymore. 

But . . . the memories! 

I’ll miss Blogger, that’s for sure, but, you know . . . it’s a whole new day.  Thanks for coming on over.

Okay.Here’s how it all went down.Some time ago, the executive director of a local group to which the church belongs sent out a mass email to clergy in the area introducing us to new a new religion reporter on the staff at the Washington Post.

Since I did not have any urgent breaking news to report, however, I invited her to come to our young women’s clergy meeting. We meet, you see, about once a month to get caught up; discuss work; support each other, etc. (The very cool members of this group are Rachel, Joui, Susan and Megan.) Due to scheduling difficulties our new reporter friend has been unable to make our last two meetings, but she could come today.Of course, today was the one day during the year that we’d planned to meet around the pool.When she arrived we made her swear everything we said was off the record. And we had a great time chatting with her. Most of the time, though, she looked stunned and surprised—so many young women clergy in one place . . . overwhelming.

In the end, the good thing is she had to leave before we went swimming, so technically we did not meet her with our bathing suits on. For my slowly recovering reputation in the press . . . and for everyone who might ever read a journalistic recounting of such a sight, I can only say: Thanks be to God.

It’s that time of year again . . . you know, Vacation Bible School!

If you are a church member you face this part of the summer suppressing memories of macaroni necklaces and crosses made out of toothpicks and Elmer’s glue.

If you are the pastor, you work very hard to be supportive in every way excluding the creation of macaroni necklaces, and then you get busy doing everything you can to avoid recreation time (playing soccer in the gym).

If you are a VBS teacher, you stumble home every night wondering why the heck you signed up for this in the first place, and sampling the bath salts recipe so you can go back the next day and tell the kids, “Yes! I DID use the bath salts we made!”

If you are a Calvary kid, well, (and I know this because I live with three of them) you breathlessly report the events of the day (“Hey Mom! Did you know that male seahorses have babies? It’s true! We learned it in Bible School! (?????!?!????!)) and you anxiously plan for the next day of adventures.

I have to say, if my perspective is accurate, Vacation Bible School these days rocks compared to my experience, which, in addition to macaroni necklaces, also included red Kool Aid and felt boards. My kids, in fact, LOVE VBS and can’t wait for the next adventure they’ll encounter.

As the pastor (and as a parent, of course) this brings me quite a substantial amount of joy. It means our staff is doing its work; our laity is participating; our kids are benefiting.

But the best part of all . . . the best part, hands down . . . is (not the fact that I am not responsible for snack time—though that is something to certainly celebrate) walking past the bathroom tonight after my harried attempts to herd said children into the shower and hearing as I walk by, a very clear, high voice singing through the water: “I will hold the Christlight for you, In the night-time of your fear, I will hold my hand out to you, Speak the peace you long to hear . . . “.

Tears.

Tears, I tell you, spring to my eyes.

I don’t know. Maybe they think they’re parroting a catchy tune they learned in a fun music session?

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing and the kind life-giving and often life-saving role it plays for me. Here’s what’s on my screen saver–I read it somewhere in a book and I can’t remember where now–but it seems to sum up how I feel a lot.

I’ve long since come to terms with the unarguable reality that my job often brings me to the doorstep of deep pain . . .

The days on which I hate it are usually the days I forget, even briefly, that working with human beings can be unpredictable, that, no matter how jaded I feel, I should never, ever think for one minute that I’ve seen it all.

We’re still waving goodbye to the caravan of Baptists that came through town a few weeks ago. It was tiring and great and wonderful and a little nerve-racking to have so many folks here and so many opportunities to get involved in really great Baptist events.

I realized early-on (like, last year) that, to navigate the week and emerge with what little sanity I possess still intact I was going to have to be rather selective as far as scheduling was concerned.

So I pored over all the events going on and tried to pick ones that I thought were especially important or notable. One of those was the Baptist Unity Rally for Religious Liberty, hosted by the Baptist Joint Committee for Religious Liberty.

It was quite an honor to participate in reading George Truett’s sermon from 1920, as his words about religious liberty are still relevant. But bigger than the words was the experience itself . . .

. . . there we were, standing in the shadow of the Capitol, surrounded by a whole group of people who won’t give up on the dream . . . and I thought for the first time in such a long time: I’m really glad to be a Baptist.

I know, I know. It shocked me, too.

It’s just that it has been about 15 long, hard years of insisting to myself and to other incredulous observers of my journey that I really, really think this Baptist way of following Jesus is worth just one more try.

And, let me tell you, this strange insistence has survived through: many gifted colleagues searching out ministry opportunities in other denominations after getting sick and tired of running in place; the co-opting of Baptist identity by people who insist they are Baptists but aren’t, really; encouragement and several really tempting invitations to find a path to congregational ministry another way; news story after news story of ridiculous Baptist behavior year after year after year; struggling to explain myself at parties . . . you know, all those times when it just didn’t seem worth it.

To gather then, in the shadow of the Capitol, surrounded by a whole group of others who stuck it out, too . . . it seemed, well, like a hard-won victory.

Or at least another vocal expression of Baptist identity, (finally!) getting a hearing.

It confirmed what I’ve believed for so long (often with no evidence whatsoever): that Baptist principles like separation of church and state, priesthood of the believer, autonomy of the local church . . . well, these are important ideas whose expression will not be stifled by cultural or national identity, political power or influence, or even reckless disregard and malpractice by some prominent folks who take the Baptist name.

It’s not over, I know, the wondering whether sticking around is worth the pain. (I know this when I read about churches changing their names to take out the word “Baptist” in an effort to appeal to a general public that equates the word Baptist with, well, you know.)

But the experience that morning glancing up at the Capitol, such a symbol of freedom and hope for so many, and then catching the eyes of so many who believe we can show the world, again, what it really means to be Baptist . . . well that experience gave me hope.

And it inspired me to say and write, for the first time in quite awhile, such a shocking declaration: You know? I think I’m really glad to be a Baptist.

People weren’t meant to fly.

That’s what I told her when she told me there are times in the life of every human being in which we hang, suspended, between what used to be but is not anymore . . . and what will be but is not yet.

It’s like a trapeze artist, she said.

Part of the artist’s job is to let go of something . . . and grab hold, of course, of something else. And when he does that, there is that moment, a split second, when he is flying through the air not holding onto anything.

People weren’t meant to fly, I repeated.

The only thing, though, she continued, is that sometimes in real life, that moment of sheer fear, when you’ve let go of something but haven’t quite grabbed ahold of something else, lasts a little longer than a split second.

And while you hang there, suspended between what was and what will be, the “split second” stretches into a huge expanse of time . . .

. . . time enough to look up at the next thing you are supposed to grab and notice it seems rather far away.

. . . time enough to look down at the ground, notice it rushing toward you and wonder how it would feel to end up there. On your face.

My point exactly, I thought to myself. People weren’t meant to fly.

But if we don’t let go, she explained, we swing there indefinitely, never going anywhere . . . just staying in the same place, with momentum eventually waning to a full, dead stop. We have to let go, she said, in order to catch the next thing.

But what if you fall?, I asked, as this seemed like a very basic question.

But what if you don’t?, she asked back.

Well, I told her . . . people weren’t meant to fly.

Maybe we were, she said.

Maybe we were.

Hannah (10) and Sammy (9) and I (no comment) were driving home from church discussing a very important day this week: Mark’s (36, uh, 37!) birthday.

To celebrate Mark’s birthday Tuesday, I explained, the kids and I would be making cupcakes and taking them down to cheer for Mark and the Baylor Alumni Softball Team during their game Tuesday night. We’d make enough cupcakes, I explained to Sam and Hannah, for everybody on the team to have one and celebrate after the game.

I heard a small voice from the backseat ask: “Mom, but what if Dad’s team loses? You know they lose a lot. What if they lose on Dad’s birthday and then they are so sad they can’t eat cupcakes?”

Good question, I answered. I then went on to repeat one of the first phrases they teach you in Parentese: “I think they’ll be able to celebrate no matter what happens in the game, Sam. Remember, it doesn’t really matter if you win or lose. What’s really important is how you play the game!”

After a moment of silence I heard this: “Yeah, but there are only grown-ups on Dad’s team, and grown-ups don’t know about that.”

Tell me about it, Sammy.