Talk With the Preacher

Just back from a week at the beach where I had the opportunity to learn some critical life lessons:

1. Best not to touch a jellyfish.
2. “even coverage” spray sunscreens do not provide “even coverage”
3. If you happen to be responsible for applying said “even coverage” to another individual’s back, it’s best to go the extra mile and distribute with hands (or those individuals might get mad the next day when they have a back covered with red, painful splotches of sunburn).
4. There are very few-and I mean very few-people who actually look good wearing a bathing suit.
5. It is much easier to drive down to the grocery store and purchase seafood than to catch your own, no matter how exotic the whole idea sounds.
6. Playing football in the surf is actually kind of fun (who knew?).
7. The best way to live is reading at the pace of one great book a day.
8. My family is really fun to hang out with.

I already told you, I love this book.  Again, if you haven’t already, please read it. 

Here’s yet another passage that struck me, especially from Calvary’s perspective, the standpoint of a church with a long, long history . . . from pages 74-75:

“On my way back home I take a little detour and stop at the address in Rome I find most strangely affecting–the Augusteum.  This big, round, ruined pile of brick started life as a glorious mausoleum, built by Octavian Augustus to house his remains and the remains of his family for all eternity.  It must have been impossible for the emperor to have imagined at the time that Rome would ever be anything but a mighty Augustus-worshipping empire.  How could he possibly have foreseen the collapse of the realm?  Or, known that, with all the aqueducts destroyed by barbarians and with the great roads left in ruin, the city would empty of citizens, and it would take almost twenty centuries before Rome ever recovered the population she had boasted during her height of glory?

Augustus’s mausoleum fell to ruins and thieves during the Dark Ages.  Somebody stole the emperor’s ashes–no telling who.  By the twelfth century, though, the monument had been relocated into a fortress for the powerful Colonna family, to protect them from Assaults by vaious warring princes.  Then the Augusteum was transformed somehow into a vineyard, then a Renaissance garden, then a bullring (we’re in the eighteenth century now), then a fireworks depository, then a concert hall.  In the 1930s, Mussolini seized the property and restored it down to its classical foundations, so that it could someday be the final resting place for his remains.  (Again, it must have been impossible back then to imagine that Rome could ever be anything but a Mussolini-worshipping empire.)  Of course, Mussolini’s facist dream did not last, nor did he get the imperial burial he’d anticipated.

Today the Augusteum is one of the quietest and loneliest places in Rome, buried deep in the ground.  The city has grown up around it over the centuries (one inch a year is the general rule of thumb for the accumulation of time’s debris).  Traffic above the monument spins in a hectic circle, and nobody ever goes down there–from what I can tell–except to use the place as a public bathroom.  But the building still exists, holding its Roman ground with dignity, waiting for its next incarnation.

 I find the endurance of Augusteum so reassuring, that this structure has had such an erratic career, yet always adjusted to the particular wildness of the times.  To me, the Augusteum is like a person who’s led a totally crazy life–who maybe started out as a housewife, the unexpectedly became a widow, then took up fan-dancing to make money, ended up somehow as the first female dentist in outer space, and then tried her hand at national politics–yet who has managed to hold an intact sense of herslef throughout every upheaval.

I look at the Augusteum, and I think that perhaps my life has not actually been so chaotic, after all.  It is merely this world that is chaotic, bring changes to us all that nobody could have anticipated.  The Augusteum warns me not to get attached to any obsolete ideas about who I am, what I represent, whom I belong to, or what function I may once have intended to serve.  Yesterday I might have been a glorious monument to somebody, true enough–but tomorrow I could be a fireworks depository.  Even in the Eternal City, says the silent Augusteum, one must always be prepared for riotous and endless waves of transformation.”

 Amen.

I am not comparing myself to Jason Bourne or anything but I am beginning to suspect a conspiracy.

I recall not too long ago-last year, I believe it was-when I happened to be having an orientation session with my new pastoral intern. We were walking down a busy Washington, D.C. street together and I was animatedly talking about something (which I am quite sure was very important).

I’m not sure what happened next but if I recall correctly, I suddenly found myself sprawled on the street, having unwittingly tripped over something or stepped in a hole or (more likely) just basically unable to walk and talk at the same time.

As you might imagine, this made a stunning first impression on my new intern.  (And, come to think of it, life around here during her internship was, at times, not unlike lying sprawled in the middle of a busy Washington, D.C. street . . . but I digress.)  To this day I wholly admire her for not falling down herself–in raucous laughter.  It was the moment I knew she’d be a great pastor.

Leah was back again today, in town to visit and catch up-what fun! We had lunch together in a little Indian restaurant around the corner. It seems so long ago now, remembering the feeling of happiness when the waiter led us to a table in the front window . . . up to an elevated platform higher than the rest of the dining room. We could really catch up there without too much bother from any of the other diners, I remember thinking.

And we did. She’s a gem, really . . . or that’s what I thought until, in a moment of animated response I happened to move my chair backwards.

And fall off the platform.

It was soon after I managed to gather what little remained of my dignity, pull myself up off the floor, participate as waiters (and owner, I think . . . kitchen staff? There were a lot of people who came out . . .) lifted a large wooden screen off my toe (oh, yeah, I fell off the platform into a wooden screen, which fell over and hit a mirror then landed partially on my little toe . . .) that I started to think: why is it that I fall over into totally embarrassing physical positions in public places ONLY when I am with Leah?

It’s an interesting, if not burning, question to consider.

It could be a conspiracy . . . a retaliation for making her practice her first sermon in the sanctuary in front of just me?

I am still pondering the answer, but I think I like the conspiracy theory a lot more than the alternative conclusion that apparently I can’t walk OR sit and talk at the same time . . . ? 

We came upon her crumpled on the living room floor in tears.

Her back heaved as she sobbed.

We immediately ran to her aid: “Hannah, what’s wrong? What happened?”

She sat up and said: “Oh, don’t worry. I’m just practicing my death scene.”

I had the passing thought once that maybe I should try my hand at writing fiction.

But then, I thought, “What could I possibly make up that is weirder than my real life?”

Last Sunday we held a baptism. I love baptisms. I especially loved this one because it was the baptism of someone dear to me.

Administrative matters run pretty smoothly around here, mostly thanks to Paul our Church Administrator, but, as you might guess, this does not keep my Type A personality from kicking in as it did Saturday night when, pretty late, I called Paul at home just to double, triple check that the baptistery was full.

(For those of you who sprinkle you may not be aware: it takes several hours to fill up that big tub, you know.)

Paul calmly and kindly (while no doubt rolling his eyes) explained to me that, as I already knew, the baptistery is still leaking (that’s another blog altogether). Since the leak is temporarily fixed until the plumber can permanently fix it (when we have extra money in the church budget hahahahahahaha!), Paul felt it was safer to hedge our bets and fill the baptistery Sunday morning. Staff would be in, he told me, before 8 to begin filling the tank.

With that reassurance comforting me I was able to fall back asleep, rise early on Sunday morning and set off for church as usual.

While I trust Paul with (most of) my heart and mind and soul, I fully admit I went up first to the sanctuary where I saw with my own eyes that Paul was correct and water was filling in the tank.

And not that I obsess about things, but I just happened later to wander back into the sanctuary again around 10 am and stroll nonchalantly past the baptistery. Glancing at the water while trying to act like I was not checking on things I noticed something strange.

First, the tub was filled only about 1 foot of water.

And second, the water was not running.

THE WATER WAS NOT RUNNING.

It was me, then, who was running . . . to find a staff member who knows how to turn the baptistery faucet on.

When I found Demy, the man in charge of the water, he explained to me that there was a problem and he’d had to turn the water off. Remember when we replaced the hot water heater a few weeks ago, he asked? Installation went very well. It was the regulation of the temperature that was, sadly, overlooked.

So . . . the water pouring into the baptistery, he explained, was hot.

Scalding, really.

And there was no way to adjust temperature at this time. He felt it was better, then, to turn the water off and let it cool.

I said that I didn’t think it would work to baptize someone in less than a foot of water. Well, very easily, anyway. And, though not personally trained in the intricacies of plumbing, at my house when the water runs a long time, I told him, the hot water runs out and then it gets cold (and people who take showers after you get really mad).

“Turn the water back on!” I said (with desperation). “Please!”

And so he did.

And the water did not get cold.

So, imagine this:  it is 10:45 and worship begins in 15 minutes. There are already people in the pews. The baptistery, while not full, has a little more than two feet of water in it now and can probably be used for a baptism.

If the individuals in the water, of course, don’t mind 3rd degree burns.

(Did they teach us about this in seminary?  No.  Just add it to the list.)

It was into this urgent situation that my friend and fellow church member Amy Dale swooped to the rescue. Peering with me over the edge of the baptistery (and receiving a steamy facial in the process) she said: “Hey, Amy, don’t we have an ice machine in the kitchen?”

And so it was that Amy and I found ourselves rolling a metal cart laden with big stock pots filled with ice into the sanctuary. I said to Amy that the only way we could pull this off (AT 5 MINUTES BEFORE WORSHIP STARTED, PLEASE NOTE) was to march up on the dais holding the pots, maintain very holy and thoughtful expressions, and dump the ice right in the baptistery as if we were celebrating the holy rite of the baptismal ice.

(What?  Never heard of it?  What kind of Christian are you?)

Amy was a trooper. Both of us managed to proceed looking very, very holy (which is quite unusual in itself). And worship began.

When it came time for the actual baptism I have to say: it was pretty darned toasty in that pool–but not quite scalding, thanks be to God. Since the water was still too low I had to work extra hard to get Mary up (but, I was thinking reassuringly to myself: “She grew up in Florida! She knows how to swim!” . . . and she did eventually get to the surface), but in the end all baptisms were complete and no one needed an ambulance for either drowning or burns.

And then, after it was all said and done, I spent most of the afternoon sitting in front of the fan and wondering to myself: “How it is that my real life is stranger than fiction?”

Here begins the long-awaited countdown to the new house. 

What, you weren’t waiting? 

Well, we were.  Are, to be exact.

Since, well, about February, we’ve been working on moving.  Step one: sell the house.  Step two: find a living situation that meets the criteria we set.  Step three: move into that new situation and live happily ever after.

So, right about now we’re somewhere past step two, no longer treading water but actually moving (if incrementally) toward step three.

We wanted to move, you see, into a physical place that required little upkeep and reflected the kind of family life we try to live.  This decision led us away from our very cute 1920s bungalow and toward a community in the urban center that is eco-friendly, multi-generational and, well, has no grass that we’re required to mow.

Finding Eastern Village was great.  Until we learned there were no units in the community that would meet our space needs, unless we wanted to look at a totally unfinished commerical/residential space . . . down a spiral staircase on the bottom floor?

That first thought has led us here, to week 1 of a 12-week (or so they tell us) construction project that, when finished, will result in a very cool urban living space.  We believe this because we’ve spent quite a lot of time with architects and contractors planning . . . and now it’s coming to be.

So, for the next 12 (?) weeks, walk with us down the spiral staircase until we’re home.  Here’s the official Week 1 picture:

The fact is, I’ve been thinking a lot about metaphors lately, as my spiritual director often begins our sessions by asking me to express my current state of being using a metaphor. This, of course, often dictates the direction of our conversation.

I’ve learned that beginning with something like, “Well, I feel a little bit like a rat, blocked into a corner, trying to climb a slippery wall” often leads to excessive use of Kleenex.

(I’m also pretty sure I’ve learned it’s best to stay away from rodent metaphors altogether.)

I’ve found, though, that overall metaphors help. They help me take a step aside and view the state of everything. They help me put words to feelings I can hardly name, much less describe. They help me draw pictures in my mind to illustrate things I couldn’t understand before.

Ever feel like a tree being watered?
How about stomping around at the bottom of a hill and inadvertently starting an avalanche?
Like you’re taking a nap in a puddle of sunshine?
Running in place?
Walking around with a wet blanket on your head?

(Welcome to the strange place that is the inside of my mind.)

These images have helped me, from time to time, find the words to name a state of being.

I tried to imagine yesterday, however, what would happen if I, say, ran into an acquaintance at the movies and he said, “How are you?” to which I answered using one of my trusty metaphors?

(”Well, today I feel like a fish that’s been caught in a net; I’m struggling to free myself from the net that is . . . “. You get the picture.)

So, back to my original querie . . . metaphorically speaking, is life just a bowl of cherries?

Messy and sticky, leaving stains you can’t get out, sweet as juice running down your chin and full of all the joy that comes from being with people with whom you feel comfortable spitting out pits?

Or, come to think of it, is life more like a bowl of un-gelled cherry Jell-o–lovingly prepared for a constituency that believes cherry Jell-o to be one on a short list of culinary delicacies, mind you–and on the way to the refrigerator when the bowl slips out of your hands and red Jell-o splatters everywhere: down the front of your new white shirt, in the little crack between the stove and the countertop and all over the floor, coating it with a thick layer of stickiness that will never come off no matter how hard you scrub . . . ? 

(Please pass the Kleenex, and just hope you don’t run into me at the movies!)