Talk With the Preacher

As one who does not own an ipod I am in the minority in my family (and, it seems, in the world).

It’s not that I have a moral objection to ipods, it’s just-it seems overwhelming to me, this choosing of a personal soundtrack. Maybe that sounds ridiculous but it’s true: I watched dear friends Kevin and Elizabeth Hagan make an exhaustive list of music for their wedding, after all, and all I could think was that I was so relieved that task was not on my to-do list. It feels overwhelming to choose a soundtrack for your life.

But I had the sudden realization today that, ipod or no, we all create personal soundtracks, largely made up of the voices of people around us. Some voices are happy voices, of course . . . some critical, to be sure. What finally occurred to me was that, not unlike picking the music on an ipod . . . I can choose the soundtrack of my life. 

This can also be exhausting.

See, I don’t know about you, but I have a troubling tendency to skip tracks in my head to the negative, critical voices I hear, then set the player of my life’s soundtrack on repeat. Over and over and over I hear the angry or critical or hurtful words. Over and over the echo, louder and louder, until I’d swear there were no other words at all.

Words of love, tenderness, encouragement, challenge, praise? Nope, can’t hear them.

That’s some way to live, you know . . . opening your ears only to a negative soundtrack until the words echo, even in the silence . . . until they become the only words, and until I dangerously begin to believe they are the only truth in my life.

But I also just realized today: I don’t have to keep that negative soundtrack repeating. I can choose the soundtrack of my life. I can choose to fill my ears and my mind and my heart with good and helpful messages expressed in the voices of people whose lives challenge my living in positive, growth-inducing ways.

So, today I’m going back to the beginning, starting the playlist over one more time, moving to the top of the cue words and messages that push me to grow and that heal my battered soul.

I can choose the soundtrack of my life. Today, this is what I choose.

(Well, so much for my fear of ipods.  My husband Mark is helping me overcome this fear, starting with the gift of my very own red ipod for my birthday.  But here’s the best thing: he loaded all my music on the ipod and taught me how to use it, so now I really can choose the soundtrack of my life!)

Witness my excellent birthday present from a colleague:

Yorkie Puppy—$350, male/female, 12 weeks yrs old, 202-347-8355

It seems a little strange that a small pile of dirt gives me such comfort, but it happens to me every single year. 

Since we Baptists don’t generally do the Ash Wednesday thing the experience of the ashes is pretty new for me. Because of my historical unfamiliarity with the rite, every year it seems that some kind of logistical hilarity ensues. (I’ve never had an experience quite like my colleague Elizabeth’s, but you know what I mean.)

Thank goodness we have a church administrator who comes from a different tradition (who has a little bit of sense) and who knows where to order ashes. (In my defense: if you suddenly had to produce a pile of ashes would your first thought really be the Cokesbury catalog? I rest my case.)

Once we actually acquire the ashes and get to worship, though, that’s when the holiness starts.

To me, anyway.

I get to stand at the front, get my hands covered in soot, and share these incredibly touching moments with individuals as they worship. There’s a holy moment when I put the ashes on a forehead and say “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” and then, “But the steadfast love of the Lord endures forever.” Our eyes meet and we both know that, for just this moment, we frail humans get to hang on tight to a little piece of forever.

This year it was a little different for me. After the service, after I’d scrubbed and scrubbed my fingers and gotten as much ash off of them as I could, I spent the rest of the day working. But that night I got to worship again, and this time I did not administer ashes. I just sat next to them, in the flickering light of a whole bunch of candles, at an hour of meditation and prayer to end the day.

As I sat there praying I looked up occasionally to see the ashes on the plate set on the altar. Just a little pile of dirt, but it seemed to call me closer, extending to me the comfort of a smudged finger and a kinship in the reality of existing as a little pile of nothing compared to the big Everything Else. I put my clean fingers back in the ashes, crumbling them until my hands were sooty again . . . and, sure enough, the dark smudges all over everything brought me comfort again this year.

I think the ashes help me remember: I am nothing, really. But the steadfast love of the Lord endures forever.

Thanks be to God.

Calvary showed the documentary film For the Bible Tells Me So last Sunday afternoon.  We’d done quite a bit of publicity about the film but even we were shocked when 250 people showed up for the film and subsequent panel discussion. 

Originally we thought we’d show the film to our deacons as part of an ongoing conversation in our community of faith, a continuing discernment of how God’s Spirit is working in our midst.  The interesting thing I’ve found, though, is that folks seem downright suspicious about this declaration.  They aren’t convinced a conversation is what we’re shooting for; a lot of people seem to think browbeating and polarization are the goals.

That’s totally understandable, of course, given the complexity of the issue combined with all the emotions surrounding it . . . not to mention the political, religious and societal baggage that can’t be separated from a discussion of homosexuality and the church.  Nevertheless, this whole turn of events has allowed me the opportunity to really dig in and get my hands dirty in the adventure of true conversation. 

I had an email exchange in this week with someone I do not know who is not a member of Calvary.  I thought his engagement on this difficult issue was so healthy; I felt our conversation was a great example of how we can listen to each other; stay true to the leadership of God’s Spirit; and live “in the tension of unresolved relationships:”

Sincerely,

[removed]

_________________ 

Subject: Re: Reaction to the Homosexual Lifestyle Film

It was his sermon title but, I have to tell you, I got complaints later after I got back to church. “I was so excited! A 15-word sermon! We’re sure to be out of there early.”

Well, if they had shared that expectation with me ahead of time I would have told them that I’ve never heard Jim Somerville contain himself to 15 words under any circumstances . . . .

Sunday the pastor of First Baptist Church of Washington, DC and I swapped pulpits. His aim was to get a woman in the pulpit for Martha Stearns Marshall Women’s Day of Preaching (here I am with a group of FBC deacons who ably led the service). In the process of filling FBC’s pulpit, my congregation heard a masterful pulpiteer who did, in fact, use more than 15 words. From what I heard they were really good ones.

Chime in if you disagree, but I think it’s fairly unusual to have a colleague in ministry who is a good friend, someone you’d kill to welcome to your pulpit, and a pastoral resource-not just for yourself but also for your congregation (you can always use another pastor, right?).

Thanks, Pastor Jim and the FBC and Calvary congregations. Let’s do it again soon!