Wednesday Prayers on Saturday

Holy bananas, you guys. It's been one heck of a month to both weep with those who weep, and rejoice with those who rejoice. (Not a thing happening in our own household, for which I am immensely grateful.)

While I was thinking of dear ones, and their highs and lows, I realized I hadn't asked what you would like prayers for lately. Let me know, and I'll add you to my daily list.

And if you pray for me, I could use the wisdom and the generosity to hold all those highs and lows as well as possible.

Petty Tyrants

What are you doing to overthrow tyranny?

Nope.  Not the tyrants ruling countries. The ones ruling offices, congregations, and families.  The ones who live on your block and rule their own tiny fiefdoms.  I want to know what you're doing to topple the regime of the office bully, of the parish despot who silences opposing viewpoints, of the teacher who publicly humiliates his students. I don't want to hear a damn word about the inaction of congressional Republicans until we practice taking down the autocracies in our neighborhoods.  (No, that's not true.  I still want congressional Republicans to step up...)

But I'm not kidding: what we tolerate small-scale is what we experience large-scale.  Courage is courage, and if we don't exercise it, it atrophies.  

A few weeks ago, I mostly kept my mouth shut when someone in power trounced a minority opinion.  I wish I'd had the presence of mind to speak up, and do it well.  I didn't want to sacrifice my standing for an un-winnable fight. I had no leverage in that group, and frankly had never met some of the players.  So, I probably wouldn't have changed the outcome. Also, no kidding, I got my ass handed to me the last time I spoke up in a situation with similar dynamics.

But I wouldn't have lost as much as I did the last time.  I'm older now, and jaded in a useful way.  I'd rather lose a fight than lose myself. (Truthfully, that's exactly what I concluded in Round One, but it hurt like hell and took too long to figure out.) A very smart Palestinian Christian observed in church on Sunday that we aren't necessarily called to fix, but to be faithful and obedient.  (And some of you know how I feel about "obedient.")  He's right, though: we're called to be obedient to what we understand to be the greatest good, whether that's God or a code of ethics.  

And hypocrisy isn't any prettier in us than in our elected officials.  

Stand up, dear ones.   

Opportunities to Struggle

The Biscuit's bedtime has become madness.  Developmentally-appropriate madness, but still crazy.  Some days, I can handle it calmly.  When I forget to take a breath because I'm preoccupied by the things I'd like to do, the husband I miss, and worries about who the President is going to bomb next, I do not handle it calmly. Calm is not my default setting when frustrated.  (Humiliatingly, my default setting when frustrated looks a lot more like the President's.)

But here's the thing: I badly don't want the Biscuit to make his choices based on other people's anger.  I don't want him to chose out of fear.  Self-defeating as it might seem, I want the little dickens to keep popping out of bed for a while, so that he and I can practice working alongside each other, even when I feel angry.  I fervently hope that conflict and frustration continue, and that I handle myself in such a way that my child does not become submissive in response to it. 

The same struggle, over and over again, is a chance to practice.  I did not start out with much innate talent, but if I take the opportunity to use these drills, I might wind up a patience virtuoso.  Or at least finally catch up with average.  

Learning from Soup Night

Wednesdays are the days I write about spiritual practices. In theory. Sometimes in reality, too, but also in paper and ink, so you all haven't seen it.

I've got a small handful of commonly-recognized spiritual practices going on, but I've discovered Soup Night is also a spiritual practice.  (Soup Night is rarely packed. I worry that people imagine it is.  It's not bustling over here, I want to be very clear with you. One or two families come over, typically.  Stop imagining a party all the time.  It freaks me out, and makes me think you're going to be really disappointed when you finally come over.)

Anyway, one of the ways that Soup Night is a spiritual practice is that we do it even when we're not feeling it, and we invite people we might not socialize with otherwise.  I invite friends and strangers-- I keep postcards in my purse with all the relevant info, so that I can share with anyone I chat with (and I chat with everyone).  

One set of neighbors come fairly regularly, even though before Soup Night we only waved or chatted occasionally.  Two weeks ago, I was a little grouchy to start with, and Sam was a total lunatic, and eventually I snapped at our neighbor. (Doesn't that make you want to come receive our hospitality?)

That was Sunday, and Monday morning we were leaving to go out of town.  I don't like to leave my dumb-shit decisions dangling all week, so I wrote her a letter and told her I'd like to apologize in person when I got back.

Here's my point about Soup Night being a spiritual practice:

Without Soup Night, I could easily avoid this neighbor.

Because of Soup Night, we have a relationship, and when there's conflict and difference, we have to move forward, instead of just away from each other.

The Benedictines sometimes talk about the spiritual value of that one monk who's a real pain in the ass to love, let alone live with.  I submit for your consideration that my Soup Night may well be a spiritual practice for others, as well.

Oh, and? My neighbor saw my taking out the trash today, and came out to hug me.  Love attempted, love sputtered, love carried on.  

All Kinds of Holy Work

I had my first facial today.  It was amazing.No, I'm serious.  I'm stone-cold serious.

I don't know how to relax without professional help.  Even with professional help, it's like trying to keep a beach ball submerged-- my brain is clearly trying to kill me. It's always been hard, but since my son was born, it's been nearly impossible.

For about an hour this morning, a kind, knowledgeable woman did 3/4 of the work of keeping the beach ball down.

That's holy work.  When I have totally and completely lost the ability to let go, that's a sacred service that's being provided. If I can't figure out how the hell to be still, then I need help.  I need someone to show me.

It's a lot easier to recognize heroes if you watch for them.  Sometimes they hang out in old Victorian houses and wear smocks.

This is my rock.

There are many like it, but this one is mine.

When I was a little girl-- a tiny kid, shortest in my class until 4th grade-- I found this huge rock on the beach.

I loved it.

The adults I was with laughed, told me that if I wanted it, I could carry it the mile+ to the car.  As though I could not.

I still love my rock.

Overwhelm and Offices

A decade ago, I took a year-long discernment class.  A few things from that class have stayed with me: the excellent reading list, the respect with which the clergy leader spoke of lay ministry, and this advice: Be in the habit of praying the daily offices, because when you suddenly need them, they will carry you.

The truth is, I dip in and out of the practice, but in the last week, I've been so grateful to know where to find a life raft.  The weeks following this election have been more frightening than 9/11 ever seemed to me.  In the last month I've had mouth ulcers, my first major migraine in a decade, and my normal cycle is now over a month late (yes I saw a doctor, no I'm not expecting).  Messages about unity and how the side that loses is always disappointed haven't come close to speaking to me (have in fact offended me).

On Sunday, I picked up my trusty Daily Offices.  This Sunday, I'll switch to Year 1 as we begin Advent, the new church year, the season when we are alert with expectation for Godliness and Goodness that is not here yet.  I don't have my own words to pray this month, but I am being fortified by the psalms and canticles of generations who also knew that the world they walked in was both holy and insufficient.

Heroes Next Door

Our first Soup Night was last week.  It wasn't crowded, but it was amazing.  Sweet neighbors that we've only known on a waving basis came, as did a family from the little Biscuit's preschool.  Our neighbor cares for elderly people, and loves her job.  She danced with my son, and his grin nearly touched his ears.  The infant sister of our preschool friend found my husband's naan irresistible-- she leaned forward on her mama's lap until she managed to gum her very first solid food.

Look around.  The people we know are doing good.  I'm reading Joan Chittister's Wisdom Distilled from the Daily, because I need big heroes, book-sized heroes, and women religious so often are that for me-- but it's good to pay attention to what's happening next door.  People are working hard, loving faithfully, and laughing at the joy and ridiculousness that's right here.

What good are you doing this week, and what good are you watching?

Those Who Conceal Their Good Works

It's no secret that I'm a huge fan of Gregory the Great, throwing my... well, if not my knickers, then at least my high regard onto the rock-star stage of his work, "The Book of Pastoral Rule." (But everyone feels that way about 6th century popes, no?) A central premise of Gregory's Book is that different people require different sorts of pastoral care.  Sounds basic, but I don't hear it discussed much, and I love it.  (It is, in fact, part of why I find the Enneagram useful-- how I screw up, and where I can grow are different than they are for you.) Gregory sets up a number of binaries, and explores how to minister to each-- rich and poor, loud-mouthed and timid, givers and thieves, etc.

After this dark week, after this election, I'm thinking of this guidance Gregory gives to people whose only good work is done in private:

"For anyone who is able to suppress the lust for praise is, in effect, guilty of a bad example if he hides the good that he does."

I need to see the good that you're doing right now.  I need your good example.  In the language of Fred Rogers, I need to be able to see the helpers.  I need to know that we're together in the tasks ahead of us.  

Of course there's danger of bragging, and of words instead of action (Gregory addresses them in the same chapter), but I want you to know: I need heroes.  I need historical ones, I need literary ones, but I also need the ones who have their sleeves rolled up right now all around me.  

So please come to my door, tell me about your work and the work you see being done by others.  I have great hope for what we can do together.

Soup Night

Well, the real kitchen door is finally open, too.  After decades of believing in hospitality, and practicing in dribs and drabs, my better chef and I are starting a habit of casual dinners at our house.

Because I badly want people to come together and care for one another right now.

Because being in one another's homes is radically different than going out together.

Because my shabby little beige home is still capable of holding and feeding and warming others.

Because we need each other.  Because I need you.

If you're in town on Sunday nights, come on over.

The Kitchen Door is back open.

The door is open.  The kettle is hot.  Now is the time for radical hospitality.  Let's do this together.

There are a lot of ways to do the work of Christ in the world.  These are some of the places I'll be tithing in the months ahead:

The Southern Poverty Law Center

The National Organization for Women

The American Civil Liberties Union.

"So keep fighting for freedom and justice, beloveds, 

but don't forget to have fun doin' it. Be outrageous... rejoice in all the oddities that freedom can produce. And when you get through celebrating the sheer joy of a good fight, be sure to tell those who come after how much fun it was!"  -Ms. Molly Ivins

Bathsheba and Stanford

After a week of reading about the Stanford rape case, I was stunned to see that David and Bathsheba as the subjects of this morning's Old Testament lectionary reading.

I listened to the lector read about Bathsheba mourning her husband (Uriah), David called to account (for theft of Uriah's property and for murder-- not for rape), and I listened to the words of the prophet Nathan: "Now the Lord has put away your sin; you shall not die. Nevertheless, because by this deed you have utterly scorned the Lord, the child that is born to you shall die."


And then we all very peacefully said, "Thanks be to God," and moved on. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.  

Before I go any further, I want to say: sexual violence is a raw and personal subject for an enormous number of people, and springing it on a congregation from the pulpit is probably not a wise idea.


We have to talk about it somewhere, though, because when we gloss over violence, when we hear it a thousand times in the same scripture stories, it becomes normalized.  We the Church develop an attitude that minimizes assault, minimizes abuse of power, and entirely shuts out the story and perspective of the survivor.  We the Church are participants in rape culture when we read the stories of violence and abuse in scripture without questioning where God really is in the story.  

If we were willing to be uncomfortable, willing to tolerate the cognitive dissonance that comes from seeing David our Beloved Patriarch at the same time as we truly see the horror of David's sexual assault, we would have a powerful foundation for dealing with violence and abuse in our midst. We could recognize the truth that abusers look just like the people we respect-- because they *are* the people we respect.  We could see our part in protecting abusers and rejecting survivors.  We might reach forgiveness by going through the overwhelming fury and pain, instead of leaping to a false forgiveness where nothing changes. If we spoke openly about how the violence of our forefathers afflicted their families and communities, then we could look at what we've inherited from our spiritual family, and begin to heal.

And perhaps Bathsheba, like the glorious Stanford survivor, could become a full character in the story, and not a prop. 

Mondays: Simul Justus et Peccator

I'm energized and excited by learning about people who wring out every drop of their gifts to do good. Whether it's my seminary friend or a long-ago President, the courage and action of others sends motivation surging through me. I've been asking people lately who they're inspired by, and almost every time I do, I hear a robust chorus of, "Don't compare yourself to others!"

Friends, my ego can handle it. 

In the midst of a biography binge, I've been thinking about Martin Luther's perspective that we are, at the same time, both Saint and Sinner. What could free us more than the certainty that all who have concentrated their gifts on their endeavors were also bunglers, in one way or another?

In that spirit, I'll be sharing my favorite sinners and my most exasperating saints with you this year. May you be as delighted by their messy humanity as I am. 

Action-Reflection Friday

In CPE, we used the action-reflection model of learning: do something, process how it went, adjust, and try again.

It occurred to me while I was making my 2016 goals that the same model might be helpful in parenting.  (I seriously considered emailing the other playgroup moms and asking if they'd want to start a peer supervision group, too, but... no.)

So here I am, all set to act and reflect.  I figure I'll pick one thing that worked over the course of the week, and one thing that didn't.  A weekly Ignatian review-- places I saw light and love, and places I struggled.

That's the weekly plan.  We'll see how it goes.

The Compassion Collective is Us

I'm overwhelmed by the sadness and collective need of Syrian refugees. I'm not sure how to find hope in a situation so huge and so devastating. 

Fred Roger's mom told him to look for the helpers in difficult times. I think that's the right answer for small children, but for the rest of us, I think we also have to join the helpers. The Compassion Collective is one way to do that-- small gifts that add up to meet big needs. I gave, Dave is giving, and I'd like to invite you to join us. 

http://thecompassioncollective.org/

The 18th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Are you imagining the horrible, helpless grief of refugee parents whose children are dying in the process of trying to get safe? What do we do with this kind of horror? How do we live in a world like this?  

This week, the news was catastrophic, and the lectionary readings were timely:

"Do not rob the poor because they are poor, or crush the afflicted at the gate;for the LORD pleads their cause..."

"Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the LORD their God, who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them; who keeps faith forever; who executes justice for the oppressed; who gives food to the hungry. The LORD sets the prisoners free; the LORD opens the eyes of the blind. The LORD lifts up those who are bowed down; the LORD loves the righteous.The LORD watches over the strangers; he upholds the orphan and the widow, but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin."

"If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, "Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill," and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead."

As I joined the corporate confession this morning, I thought about our serving God in newness of life.  Surely being freed from our sin means that we are freed from the fear that drives us to hide from tragedy and pain in our world.  We are released so that we can roll up our sleeves.  

If Jesus heals, and we are the body of Christ, we can trust that God can and will use us to heal.  We weep with those who weep, and while we're doing that we get to work.  We don't have the strength to do it on our own-- God knows I feel utterly overwhelmed-- but the Spirit who lives in us and renews us is bigger than every news report I see.

It is our job to execute justice for the oppressed, to free prisoners, to watch over strangers, to feed and clothe the poor.  Not to imagine first-century Christians doing it, but to look for the needs around us now.  Not because we're earning our way into heaven, but because grace of God enables us to do the work of God.  My blood boils at the thought of someone watching my son get hurt and not reaching out.  My spine freezes when I think of him left starving, sick, or in the path of violence. I imagine God has a much stronger visceral reaction to the suffering of all those created with joy in God's own image.  

And if that's not the case, then God is not someone I want to know, and grace is not something I'm interested in.  If God is not liberating us for practical, visible love to every one of God's beloveds, then I think we're better off going fishing than being the church.  

Mandatory Waiting Period

Mr. M and I have a Mandatory Waiting Period in our house. No, it's not about the purchase of handguns (he's a pacifist, and I'm more inclined towards a crowbar and an Iron Man mask). It's a conversational waiting period. 

Years ago, we realized that when big topics come up, the wisest and kindest thing to do is to let my introverted husband mull them over for a few days. He comes back with insightful responses, calmed and more cautious than perhaps other parties might concoct. 

Recently, we decided that Mr. M is not the only one who needs a waiting period. Mine's a little different: I have to wait a few days before I'm allowed to argue with an idea. 

(pause for snickering)

It's damn uncomfortable. The suggestions I most want to fight are the gentlest ones: "Have you thought about talking to X?  I think they're really in your corner?"  "The Biscuit really loves you." "How about you go out with friends this week?"  I can fight absolutely anything, but absorbing kindness and grace, genuinely allowing them to sink in, is far harder. 

I'm taking the idea out of the house a little more these days. When I start to inwardly roll my eyes, I choose to wait a week.* This habit is changing the way I listen. Sometimes. When I'm willing. 

At its best, marriage (intimate relationships, period-- friendships, siblings) can be a safe incubator for all the terrifying growth that helps us become who we were created to be. Last Sunday was Trinity Sunday, and some of my very favorite preachers talked about how the wonder of the Trinity is that God's very self is intimate relationship, and that our call to holiness is a call to be loving, vulnerable, and connected. I've waited a week, and I think that's right on. 

*Sometimes I still think I'm dealing with an idiot a week later. It's growth, not delusion.

What I'm Reading: Where the Dead Pause and the Japanese Say Goodbye

I picked up Marie Mutsuki Mockett's book on a whim, grabbing one adult book along with my stack of Bob Staake-illustrated board books.  It looked exactly up my alley: investigating grief and loss with an eye toward the influence of culture.  Even better, it was described as being part travel-narrative, so I figured I had work reading combined with my favorite leisure reading, all in one go.

Mockett addresses her individual grief over the death of her father, while also exploring the corporate mourning in Japan after the Fukushima nuclear disaster.  I found the work she describes Buddhists priests doing in temporary shelters fascinating-- chaplaincy both similar and dissimilar to the work done in the West.  Her personal grief and pursuit of religious education felt to me very much like Eat, Pray, Love.  Both authors undertook internal work with a publisher's deadline, and the result for me in both cases seems self-conscious and too quick for deep processing.

The written images in the book are beautiful.  When Mockett describes festivals, traditions, temples, the word pictures are stunning.  It's very enjoyable, but by the end I wondered if it was colored by an outsider's idealism (Mockett is Japanese-American).

I'd recommend it, but it's not going on my resource list.

Pew Exchange

One of my goals for 2015 is that once a month, I will (try to) worship somewhere other than the congregation where I am member.  It's fortunate that I'm flexible with my yearly resolutions, because I am really not making it to church every Sunday as it is.  Still, this feels important.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King once famously said that 11 o'clock on a Sunday is the most segregated hour in America.  I think it's still true, and I also think that knowingly perpetuating religious segregation makes my life as a Christian duller, less interesting, less love-soaked, and smaller than it could be.  As I look for other communities to worship with, I'm thinking both about racial segregation and theological segregation.  What it means to be saved (or how much we desire salvation) depends very much on what we most long to be delivered from.  Jesus saves from many things, and if I believe in the whole body of Christ, in the entire communion of saints, then maybe I need to be witness that wide variety of deliverance.  Some churches will have an emphasis that doesn't meet my needs.  That's good.  It's good to be more aware of other needs.  Makes my God less small. Also: some churches will meet needs I don't know I have.  That's good, too.  Makes my heart a little bigger.

I can't bear to think that the Little Biscuit might grow up thinking that saints all look, think, and sound like him.  It's uncomfortable to take in disparate ideas of what it means to be Christian, but choosing to be uncomfortable is also choosing to respect and be formed by our sisters and brothers who practice in unfamiliar ways.  Because God help us when we think that only the familiar is holy.

Weekend Flowers