Realizations

Keeping Faith

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IMG_0284She’s a gentle giant. Liquid gold eyes watch us as we move about the house, each of our steps marked in time by the “thwap” of tail on hardwood flooring. Spread across the couch, she seems still — lazy even — but the moment we near the front door she springs to life with the energy of a puppy and the gait of a small horse.

“I don’t want to keep this dog.”

These words have crossed my mind and lips multiple times this week: when she dragged me down the street at 6:30 am, when we tucked away every bit of food normally stored on countertops, when she licked a couch cushion to the point of saturation… And yet, she’s a gem. A peaceful spirit. A lapdog inside a 70+ lb body.

And I do want to keep her. But to keep her, and love her well, some things are going to have to change.

During the day, when I’m at work in the church and community, I’m all about change. It’s my bread and butter, something I love and embrace more often than not. Heck, it’s even the field of study for my Doctor of Ministry program: Transformational Leadership for Women in Ministry.

Yet, when I head home at the end of a long day, change is the last thing I want to think about. Instead, it is comfort and routine that call my name. I want something I can count on, something dependable, something that is the same. For all that talk of transformation, at the end of the day I’m no different from the folks who want everything to remain unchanged in our life together as church.  I crave the comfort of continuity, just in different parts of my life.

But we have to change.  I have to change.

Some of those things I’ve come to count on when I head home simply aren’t healthy.  They may have been at one time, but it turns out that my needs changed when I wasn’t looking…and my mode of being morphed into something unhelpful.  Comfort turned into clutter, rest became inactivity, and something’s got to give.  It’s time.  This enormous pup, with her zeal for long walks and open space, may be the very one who can break me out of the rut I’ve mistaken for stability.

Our life together as church is no different.  Over time, our patterns become unhealthy.  Instead of being informed and moved by the Holy Spirit, we become predictable.  Instead of striving for the Kin-dom of God, we rest on fading laurels.  Instead of being alive and energetic, our comfy ways of being turn into lethargy, and something’s got to give.  It’s time.

Sometimes, in order to keep faith (or to keep a dog named Faith), things can no longer remain the same…and that’s a very good thing.

 

 

What Not to Wear: Church Edition?

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I had started to believe that we church folk had moved beyond judging one another’s clothing choices.  Clearly, I was wrong. 

In the past two months, I’ve heard enough snippy remarks about “those young people” and the clothes they wear to church that I could have scripted an entire season of What Not to Wear: Church Edition.  And I’m not just talking about remarks made in my own congregation – I’m talking about things I’ve overheard in other churches and in restaurants during the Sunday lunch hour.  I’m also talking about myself.

Sometimes while on vacation I visit other places to get my worship on and see what other folks are doing.  Just yesterday, as I walked up the steps to visit another place of worship, I saw a young woman in a skirt that was slit way up in the back.  I mean, waaaaaaay up.  Her rear end wasn’t exposed, but one wrong move could easily have changed that.  And boy howdy did I start judging.

You may have heard these things before (or thought them yourself):

  • “What is she thinking leaving the house in that, let alone wearing that to CHURCH!?”
  • “What are her parents thinking?  ARE they thinking?”
  • “You’d think that people would KNOW what is APPROPRIATE to wear to worship!”
  • “If only girls today had more respect for themselves and their bodies…”

Now, here’s the funny thing: when people have said these sorts of things about kids in any one of the youth groups I’ve served, my immediate reaction is to shut them down. I tell folks we should be glad those young ones are here, no matter what they wear.  I tell them that I won’t be a part of shaming young women and men for their bodies or their clothing choices. I explain that the judgments we make about women’s clothing are directly linked to the victim blaming that often accompanies sexual assault and rape.  I advise them to get to know the young people in question, because if they do, they will discover that health problems have caused the weight gain that makes clothing snug, that tight finances mean wearing clothes that no longer fit “properly”, that those jean shorts and t-shirt really are the nicest outfit a young one owns.

And yet, in a situation where I don’t know the teen, I catch myself making the same unhelpful judgments.  Oh, what a hypocrite I can be!

But enough is enough.

If you don’t have a real relationship with a teenager in your faith community, you don’t have a right to make statements about his choice in clothing…and neither do I.  In relationship, I can begin to discover who this teen really is: what she cares about, who and how she loves, what motivates her and what makes her feel defeated, how she dreams and works for a future, how she hurts when no one is looking.  I can begin to appreciate her full humanity, instead of seeing her as an object – a mannequin – dressed in a particular style of clothing.  In relationship, I also build the credibility and trust to begin having conversations about clothing, embodiment, self-image and self-esteem in ways that are compassionate instead of judgmental, loving instead of shaming, and mutual instead of unilateral.

Outside of real relationship I lack any necessary context for understanding the person or outfit in question.  For example, with the young woman I observed on the church steps, I know NOTHING about her.  Though she walked in with her family, I don’t know them or what they value.  I don’t know the circles they run in, the professions they choose, the schools they attend.  I don’t know where she plans to attend college, what event she was attending after worship, when or if she was baptized, or which family member helped her choose and purchase her outfit.  I don’t know that she attends 2 Bible studies or none at all.  I don’t know that she’s a Girl Scout or a cheerleader or a member of the math club.  Hell, I don’t even know her name.  And even if I did know her name, even if over the years I’d observed her from five pews back as she grew from a curly-haired cherub of a child into this young woman, if I’m not in real relationship with her then I don’t have the right to comment. 

Outside of real relationship, the judgments I make about this beloved child of God are more about me than about her. They are about my assumptions, my prejudice, my tastes, my beliefs and my own sense of shame. Outside of real relationship, if I judge and grouse and complain about what she’s wearing, I’m acting like a jerk.  And so are you.

We all become jerks when God’s house is closed to those who don’t have the right wardrobes.  That’s not church, that’s a country club.
If we strive to be about right-relationship more than we’re about the “right” hem lengths and start loving each other better…we’ll start acting like the Church again.

Let’s be Church, y’all.

*NOTE*  Though I write primarily about the judgments we make about young people, I’ve heard remarks about people of all ages and the choices they make in church clothing.  Too sexy, too frumpy, too loud, too shabby…these labels get thrown at adults too.  And they’re just as wrong.  We’ve got to cut it out, people.  Myself included.

*SECOND NOTE*  In response to the question of a dear friend, I am not advocating judgment WITHIN relationship.  My hope is that when we enter into real relationship (and start doing the hard work that is a part of that), the temptation to judge will turn into a desire to talk, know, understand and, if necessary, hold accountable in a way that is loving instead of all those other alternatives (a way that allows the other person to say “I disagree, and here’s why…”).  Also, while I’m at it, I recognize that this may rub folks of certain generations the wrong way.  After all, if you were raised in a time/manner in which church dress was all about respect for the sacred, it is obviously difficult to let particular styles of dress slide. We’re all welcome to think what we think and feel what we feel, and some of our most deeply held views may never change.  But let’s give others the benefit of the doubt and not assume that their choice of clothing is made out of malice or disrespect, acknowledging that we don’t know their heart, mind or difficulties.

A Longing Fulfilled (or, why I took the leap into a D.Min program)

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Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.
-Proverbs 13:12

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When I was a little girl, my career path practically changed with the weather.  For a time, I wanted nothing so badly as to be a paleontologist, to spend my days under the sun patiently unearthing the bones of prehistoric monsters.  Eventually, books about dinosaurs gave way to tomes of Greek and Roman mythology.  Then I yearned to be an archaeologist (Indiana Jones style, of course), pouring over the written remains of ancient civilizations by day and snatching artifacts from mischievous thieves by night.  Somewhere in there I also wanted to be an astronaut and a medical doctor, though those dreams didn’t last as long or come with the same reading lists. By middle school, I’d returned to my love for the animal kingdom and announced my intent to become a marine biologist (oddly enough, a choice most influenced by my family’s love for Star Trek 4…the one with the humpback whales).  And when I graduated from high school I’d again returned to that obsession with our human story, entering TCU as a history major and religion minor with the hope of becoming a history professor in the academy.

These dreams pointed toward such varied paths.  My lifestyle, location, and the contents of my bookshelves would have been so different, depending upon the adventure I chose.  And yet, those   largely incompatible dreams all shared one moment for which I yearned: the day I would walk across a stage and hear the words “Congratulations, Doctor Blackwood.”  As silly as it might seem, those words were the hardest thing to give up when God called me into ministry.  Changing majors was a delight.  I loved the study of religion even more than I loved studying history (it was the same thing only somehow better), so the switch was more joy than sacrifice.  The bargaining took place over the PhD:

“God, I’ll do this thing that you want of me…  I’ll get a PhD in church history and teach in a seminary.”  

*long pause from God* (translation: “That’s not who I’ve called you to be.”)

“Ok, God.  I’ll do this thing you want of me…but I’ll do it like this:  I’ll get a PhD in religious ethics and teach future ministers how to parse out the ethical quandaries that come with ministry.”

*similarly long pause from God*  (translation: “That’s ALSO not who I’ve called you to be.”)

“God, listen.  I’ll do this thing you want of me.  Really.  How about this?  I’ll get a PhD in whatever You choose, and I’ll teach…”

*sound of God banging head on table*  (No translation necessary)

Ultimately, I accepted that my call was to congregational ministry, finished a Master of Divinity and was ordained (we’ll just skip over the years where I kicked and screamed and dragged my feet and lived out an embarrassingly long hissy fit, m’kay?).  And the truth is, I love this calling.  I love that I get to share in the holiest, scariest, most joy-full and sacred moments of life with our congregants.  I love teaching and being taught by our teenagers, preaching the Gospel with words and action, immersing baptismal candidates in the freezing waters of God’s grace (the heater’s broken…sorry kids!), introducing new babies to their church family…  Though sometimes we don’t see eye to eye, I am in love with this life and these people.

And still, at every college graduation when those PhD candidates receive the words “Congratulations, Doctor  ______,” I weep.  This is why being a student in the Doctor of Ministry program at Phillips Theological Seminary means so much to me.  When I read the program description for the Transformational Leadership for Women in Ministry track, my heart leapt with hopeful possibility…and for the first time since I’d begun bargaining with God about my future, GOD SAID YES!

This is the right program and the right moment for me; it is a way to re-engage my inner academic for the sake of God’s call into ministry, not in spite of it, and a way I can develop and use my particular set of God-given gifts to help our church be transformed for faithful new possibilities in ministry and service.  The program of study is for me, but not only for me.  It’s for the church, but not only for the church.  It’s a hell of a lot of work in addition to everything else, and to some folks around me it seems downright crazy.  But it’s right.  It is a longing fulfilled, a tree of life that promises to bear good fruit in God’s good time.

This time God said yes.

Some Truth About Rape

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Spoiler alert:  This may be overkill.  Most of us are now fully immersed in election-overload, and the thought of reading one more rant about politics may be too much to handle.  It may also be too personal for you.  If that’s the case, that’s fine.  Don’t read it.  Today I write for myself.

This week I have come to realize a few important things about myself and the ways I’ve been personally affected by this election cycle:

  1. The more the election cycle has heated up, the harder it has become for me to write.  Anything.  At all.
  2. At the same time, it has been harder and harder for me to read – especially the books on the history of women in Christianity that make up the assigned reading for my January D.Min fortnight. They are all on one of my favorite topics, but I’ve hardly been able to bring myself to read them.
  3. These emotional blocks have everything to do with the rhetoric of women and rape that has saturated our political discourse.

It has taken months to sift through the emotional sediment contributing to these blocks.  But earlier this week, while talking politics with one of my youth, everything clicked into place.  This depression, this funk I’ve been in, is about rape:  both my own, and rape/sexual assault “in general”.

An appalling number of the women I have worked with, young and old, have been raped or otherwise sexually assaulted at some point in their lives.  I’m one of those women.  You wouldn’t know it by looking at us – the scars are buried deep inside.  We haven’t forgotten – even if our minds would let us, our bodies won’t allow us to forget.  So we’ve tucked the wounds away in a special holding cell – not so that we can avoid the pain, but so that we can function; so that we can heal; so that we can love and hope and dream; so that we can be the women God has called us to be.

The hurt usually hibernates under the surface.  But in a usual world, on a usual day, the topic of rape isn’t brought up – at least not in polite company.  When things are as they usually should be, you can turn on the television and not be slapped with phrases like “legitimate rape”.  On a normal day, politicians don’t talk about how some women “rape easy”.  In election cycles of the past, we haven’t had to witness arguments about the level of violence and brutality required in order for a rape to be “real”.

In this election cycle, we kicked “normal” and “usual” to the curb months ago.  And for some of us, the layers of protection and salve have been stripped back, allowing that pain to wake up and move closer and closer to the surface.  It’s become accessible, visible, tangible all over again.  We’ve started to relive our rape again and again.  With all the arguments over “legitimate rape”, this is especially true for those of us whose rapes “don’t make the cut” because they weren’t brutal or violent enough to count.  Those of us who weren’t beaten half to death, who didn’t have the opportunity, the undrugged motor skills, the physical strength, or the fight-response required to fight back – we not only relive our rapes, but we also relive the judgment of the people around us, the assumptions that we must be lying because we don’t have visible bruises.  Some of us relive our rapist’s sneering indictment that it doesn’t count as rape because “you’re my wife”, “you’re my girlfriend”, or “you should have just put out more in the first place.”  We relive it all.  Over. And. Over. Again.

Here’s the thing about rape:  rape simultaneously reinforces and destroys everything a woman or girl suspects about herself and her worth.  All that cultural crap about our value being tied to our bodies?  Our rapists confirm that with every unwanted touch or thrust, and at the same time they destroy us with the knowledge that while our value is in our breasts and between our legs – those things are ultimately worthless, deserving of nothing but violence and indignity.  Simultaneously we are told: you are your body, and your body is worthless – You are worthless.

This is what I wish these politicians and commentators knew.  Rape is about more than sex, and the abortion question doesn’t make their flippant conversations okay.  For the sake of this conversation, the abortion question is immaterial.  It helps politicians avoid responsibility for the violence perpetrated by these callous words about rape.  It enables us to turn a blind eye to the fact that when we talk about “rape” we separate it from the broken bodies and spirits of the women and men who have been violated, as though rape could exist without the victims.  Rape survivors ourselves come to different conclusions about abortion.  Pro-choice, pro-life, undecided – none of these viewpoints change the fact that the screwed up way we’ve been talking about rape hurts people.  It’s hurt me, it’s hurt the women with whom I minister, and I suspect it has hurt many many more.  It has got to stop, and no matter how important voting is (and I believe voting is critically important), voting alone won’t fix the problem.

I know that tonight we’re all preoccupied with the election.  But starting tomorrow, we’ve got to do better.

Relief

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It’s strange how sometimes the human brain (or perhaps the human spirit) is able to cordon off the darkest of our fears, creating a pen for them so that we can function. They’re still there with us, never far off – but there are times when we can forget them, if only long enough to get a job done, tuck the kids into bed or be present for a loved one who has needs and fears of her own.

Sometimes, the pen works so well that we forget just how dark our fears actually are – until they erupt, a maelstrom of tears, shouts, pain and violence. And sometimes, there’s a day like today.

For several months I’d worried over the knot in her little abdomen, alternating between quick furtive touches and thoughtful caresses, like someone probing a new cold sore with her tongue. Each time I felt it under her skin, the nerves in my fingers screamed a single fear throughout my consciousness: cancer. Then the memories would flood in: finding the lump on Bartleby for the first time; hearing the vet speak my fear into reality; watching him waste away; after the final decision was made, watching him seize as the drugs worked death through his body; the mournful cries of his playmate as she grieved him each night once he was gone.. Would our Shelby, our fur-child, go out this way too? It hurt too much to think about, so all that fear, all those memories were slowly herded into the pen. Without realizing it, I became numb.

Today, at her annual check up, I finally mustered the guts to ask about the knot. The vet probed the spot, his expression darkening. A few hinges on the pen began to twist and complain. He examined her from multiple angles, following the knot to where it originated on her belly. The pen’s crossbeams splintered. Then, with a smile, he announced two surprisingly beautiful words: umbilical hernia. Like rainwater tearing through a drought-cracked creek bed, relief ripped through the pen, washing all the stored up emotional debris out into the light. With a very confused dog in the passenger seat, I cried most of the way home.

Shelby doesn’t have cancer, she has the canine equivalent of an outie belly button. As I smile about that almost whimsical revelation, I’m also stunned by how much this blessed relief hurts. How numb had I forced myself to become if good news is this painful? At the same time, I marvel at the strength of the spirit within us – that we are able to cope with things like this and things far worse. And in this recuperative wonder, I sit with a sleeping Westie curled beside me, thanking God for every breath she has left.

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Me? McGonagall?

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I love the Harry Potter books and films.   I’m pretty much smitten with the characters, the detailed map of a magical world both behind and within our own muggle realm, the ways that the mundane struggles of kids in a boarding school become enmeshed with the cosmic struggles of good versus evil…all of it.  Man, oh man, do I love Harry Potter.

Beyond my fascination with the story (I’m a super geek, as demonstrated by my passion for science fiction and high fantasy narratives), I’ve also learned something intriguing about myself while following Harry and his comrades through those ever-shifting halls:  I most strongly identify with Minerva McGonagall, the no-nonsense yet compassionate professor of transfiguration at Hogwarts.

At first this realization was rather alarming.  If I identify with one of the profs, does that mean I’m getting old?  Why McGonagall?  Why not that lovely Luna Lovegood?  Why not smart and perpetually-prepared Hermione Granger?  There was certainly a time in my life when I might have identified with either of them – and not one of the teachers. 

I suppose that on the surface the answer is pretty obvious.  I am getting older and now I’m a teacher of sorts – a figure within the institution whose job is to teach, care for and walk alongside teenagers.  Of course I identify with one of the professors!

But why McGonagall?  Is it because she’s one of the few women on staff?  Perhaps.  But after watching the last of the films (HP 7.2) a couple times and experiencing her all-consuming desire to protect those kids with such intense, gut-wrenching determination that during both showings I found myself shaking, teary-eyed in the theater seat – well, after that I’ve begun to think that there might be a bit more to this than my age, profession or gender.

It could be that I’m ridiculous.  A grown woman weeping during magical movie battles?  Come on now…

I am, admittedly, a little bit on the silly side more often than not.  But I don’t think that’s what’s going on either.  Instead, I believe something in Rowling’s storytelling has struck a chord deep inside me, rattling loose an instinct that I never really knew I had, or at least never recognized as such:  the desire to protect.  When I read the Harry Potter books (or watch the films), especially from Order of the Phoenix onward, and I see the way the world is crumbling into chaos around those kids, every fiber of my being screams “They’re only children!  Why does it have to be them who must save the world??”.  I reckon Minerva McGonagall wonders the same thing. 

In similar fashion, when I look at this world of ours and see the way chaos laps at us from every direction, every bit of me starts to howl that same refrain.  Why must it be these kids, these precious ones in my care who must solve our problems and stand in the face of so much hatred, violence and destruction?  “They’re only children!  Why does it have to be them who must save the world??”

So there it is.  I want to protect “my” kids.  I want to keep them from harm and put a wicked boot in anyone and anything that threatens their well-being.  It’s a normal, perhaps maternal/parental instinct – and yet it is also deeply unsettling.  Why?  Because now that I know it is there, I have to tend it. 

A drive to protect can become an act of violence against the very person or thing you are protecting.  Hemming someone in, eating away at her freedom of movement or voice or action, perpetually doing for the other instead of letting him do for himself – all of these things ultimately harm more than they help.  And yet they are so tempting when you love someone and yearn for their safety.

This is why I both identify with and feel drawn to the character of Professor McGonagall:  in spite of her consuming desire to protect the students at Hogwarts, she only does what she is especially able to do and then she gets out of their way.   She knows her students.  She knows their gifts.  And even though it pains her to see them in harm’s way, she recognizes that they are a part of things and must be allowed to help.  So she does her bit and helps those students to discern and play out their parts.  She’d die for them if it came to that, but she won’t force them to die the slow death that comes from squelched talents, hopes and dreams all in the name of safety.

I want to protect “my” kids, but not at the expense of their potential.  It’s terribly risky business, but that’s who I want to be – which is why I’m a Minerva McGonagall. 

 

Let’s Talk…About Sex?

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A Gathering Voices Post

This weekend I’ll be leading workshops on some hows and whys of talking about sex(uality) and embodiment in our local congregations. It’s a tricky subject and one that, though I’ve somehow managed to acquire a “local expert” label, makes me uncomfortable every time I prepare to talk about it. Creating the slides, choosing the right words, preparing the handouts – in all of these things, I catch myself fighting back anxiety by holding my breath. Which, of course, begs the question: If you’re so uncomfortable, why talk about sexuality at all?

Seriously, should we talk about these tough topics in church? I not only believe we should, but also that we must – and here’s why:

  • Because sex(uality) and embodiment make us uncomfortable. Avoiding and repressing things that make us uncomfortable inevitably creates space for those things to twist up and fester. Whether the topic is money, or power, conflict or sexuality, when conversation is taboo it becomes all the more likely that abuses will flourish.
  • Because sex(uality) is about more than just sex (that’s what the parentheses are all about!) – it is about relationship with self, with others and with God. It is about how we feel in our own skin, how we love and relate with our own bodies. It is about being completely vulnerable with another human being. It is about a sensual nature woven within us by our Creator. To only talk about sex(uality) in terms of individual sex acts is neglectful, inaccurate and even dangerous!
  • Because sex(uality) and embodiment are matters of life and death. Often this reality gets condensed down to a simple “sex kills”. Yet while that can be true, there is even more at stake than potentially life threatening STIs – there’s also the fact that shaming others about sex, sexuality and their bodies has the power to kill. Too many GLBTQ people in our communities, young and old, have taken their own lives or been murdered because of both our words and our silence about sexuality. Too many people (across lines of age, gender, ethnicity and sexual orientation) have taken their own lives because they either hated their bodies or hated themselves for past sexual choices. When we refuse to discuss these topics openly, we are complicit in the violence – and when we create safe space for open and loving conversation about sex(uality), we are given the power to save lives.

The truth is, we are going to disagree – especially when conversation leads us to questions about “the” biblical understanding of sex. Some of us will insist that the “traditional way” is the only biblical way, and some of us will point out biblical passages that don’t fit neatly into that traditional understanding. Some of us will advocate for programs that teach about everything including contraception, and some of us will demand abstinence-only curriculum. At times, our conversations may will be painful and frightening – but none of these realities are an adequate excuse for not talking about sex(uality) in our congregations.

So I wonder:

  • How are you making these conversations a part of the life of your faith community?
  • What part of talking about sex and bodies makes you the most uncomfortable? Or, is this not a source of discomfort at all?
  • Are you willing to risk discomfort and disagreement for the sake of greater spiritual and sexual health in your faith community?

 

Friendship as Spiritual Discipline

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(Originally written as a Gathering Voices post on April 8, 2011)

 

As I type these words, I’m sitting in a Catholic retreat center in Saint Louis with two dear friends/colleagues.  The official purpose of this meeting of the minds is a writing retreat (we’re chewing on something that has the potential to be pretty exciting!).  Computers are out, keys clicking a symphony of ideas – and we really are getting some serious work done.

Yet, in many ways, the real work is happening aside from the writing.  We laugh.  We feast. We pad around in bare feet for late-night conversation.  Words ebb and flow, dancing from silly to vulnerable and back again.  We dream out loud.  Exhausted, we sleep hard so we can get up and do it all again.  This is the labor of soul friends.

Friends have always been important to me, and at the same time, friendship has often been difficult.  As an “army brat”, moving from place to place, I learned early on that friendships can swiftly evolve or end and take lots of work to maintain – especially over geographical distance.  Often, it was easier to just move on.

As a minister, I’ve moved with the same sort of frequent irregularity that is becoming more and more characteristic of young adults across the board.  Consequently, I have sometimes found myself living in a new place, isolated except for the rich tapestry of friendships that exist beyond my physical locale.  But I haven’t always reached for the tapestry.  Hiding behind my “introvert badge”, I’ve instead savored my isolation, even wallowed in it – only to discover somewhere down the road that (go figure!) my spirit was literally starving.

I’m beginning to understand that friendships aren’t “just” friendships.  Friendships (and the work of cultivating them) are a form of spiritual discipline, just like prayer or scripture reading or mindful eating.  When I don’t pray, my spirit suffers.  When I don’t spend time reading the Word, my spirit/mind become impoverished.  When I don’t eat mindfully, my spirit/body become stressed and broken.  And when I don’t practice the art of friendship, my spirit begins to turn in on itself.

As it turns out, I’m not alone in this.  The friends who journey alongside me need this too.  It is part of the human mold, this yearning to be connected in meaningful relationship.  So now, we carve out time.  One small group of soul friends meets every fall, another meets for both business and relationship twice a year, and this trio will meet each spring.  We stay in conversation via social media throughout the year, but we also need this time set apart to laugh and cry and dream “in the flesh”.

While, to a casual observer, there’s nothing about these gatherings that screams “work”, this is holy work all the same.  It is part of our vocation (not just as ministers, but as Christians) to be the best friends we can be…and that requires practice!

Speaking of which, my friends are waiting and it’s time to get back to work…

  • Who are your soul-friends (friends who walk with you on your journey through life)?
  • How can the Church help us to cultivate deeper, life-enriching friendships?
  • What other seemingly-mundane activities could actually be spiritual disciplines?

Forgive Us Our Trespasses…

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(This was originally written for Gathering Voices – The Thoughtful Christian Blog, a blog which I highly recommend you check out in the near future!)

 

Having grown up in a border city, it is safe to say that I know more (at least experientially) about the US/Mexico border than your average Midwesterner.  So, when I went to our local ministerial association meeting this week (knowing that the topic was immigration and border issues), I was attending in order to be supportive of the presenters and the people affected by our immigration policies.  I didn’t anticipate that I would learn much and I certainly didn’t expect to have my mind blown.

 

Luckily, a mindset tinged with arrogance is just rigid enough to be broken open…

 

There was lots of information presented that was new to me.  I’m most familiar with the stretch of border that runs between El Paso and Ciudad Juarez, but the presenters had attended a program in San Diego/Tijuana.  The program, run through the Daniel F. Romero Center for Border Ministries, provides immersion opportunities in Tijuana as well as space/language for theological reflection about immigration and the economic disparity that exists between the US and Mexico.

 

The stories shared during our meeting piqued my interest and tugged at my heart, but for some reason what really got me was a single photograph of an official sign on the border.  The sign reads:  US Property – No Trespassing.

 

Trespassing When I saw the sign, the word “trespassing” struck me like lightning.  I’ve long been familiar with the language of the immigration debate: illegal, alien, undocumented, migrant, immigrant, and so on.  I’ve heard the arguments back and forth – the position of scarcity (“those people are taking our jobs, our resources, our money”), the position of abundance and welcome (“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”), the Hebrew Bible mandates for welcoming the stranger and caring for the alien (passages like Exodus 22:21-24 and Hebrews 13:2).  But for some reason I’d never connected “illegal immigration” with trespassing.

 

Personally, I have always been more swayed by the position of abundance and those passages from the Hebrew Bible.  In my mind, immigration and our treatment of “the other” has always been about justice and the dignity of all people as children of God, yet justice, dignity and abundance don’t seem to be values universally claimed by those who claim the name of Christ.  Finding the language needed to explain myself to Christians who are passionately against undocumented immigrants has always been difficult for me – but now that I’ve seen that border sign, I think I’ve found another track, something so basic that all stripes of Christians know it in their bones:  the Lord’s Prayer.

 

If, at its core, this immigration debate is about trespassing (as that official border sign asserts), then it makes sense that we followers of Christ would contemplate the issues and people involved in light of the prayer that he taught his followers.  As a person committed to thoughtful Christianity, I won’t come down and say that you must come to the same conclusion to which I have come (I know my own tendency towards arrogance well enough to see the danger and hypocrisy in that).  But I do hope that each Sunday, as we ask God to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” we all might take a moment to meditate upon the lives of the undocumented immigrants who live amongst us – and use our holy imagination to contemplate what such forgiveness could look like if we (and they) were to live it out in the world.

When I Look in the Mirror…

/ joyousjava / 2 Comments

I’m trying something new this week.  In an attempt to start posting more here (I’ve been focusing on writing for The Thoughtful Christian Blog, sometimes at the expense of my personal blog), I’m participating in “Five Minute Friday” – a blog project started by The Gypsy Mama.

Each Friday she shares a prompt, and folks who dare will write with reckless abandon (no concern for editing and other such restrictions) for five minutes.  Only five.  Sort of the blogging version of those inkblot tests: here’s a thought, and GO!

TODAY’S PROMPT:

When I look in the mirror, I see…

AND, GO!:

When I look in the mirror, I see white hair.  A year ago there was one, but lately more and more of them keep cropping up.  When my hair is down, you can’t really see them, but when it is back in a ponytail (and, more often than not, it is) there they are, poking up through the less unruly “normal” tresses.

I like to laugh about it, to say that I don’t mind them.  But that must be a lie.  I know it’s not true because they are the first thing I see each morning as I peer into the mirror.

I’m not sure why they bother me so much.  Is it fear of aging?  I don’t think so.  I mean, most days I don’t feel old at all.  Perhaps that’s the issue – that I associate white hair with advanced age, and I’m not there yet!  But, my grandmother’s hair went stark white at an early age (in her thirties, which is where I’m at), and I’ve always loved her shining silver-white mane.

I wonder if she felt this way back when those first snowy sprouts emerged…