This word cloud (created at www.wordle.net) was created using the full text of Chapter Four in the new book from Chalice Press entitled “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! – Young Adults Speak Out about Sexuality and Christian Spirituality.” This book, which will be released in February 2010, can be pre-ordered at www.wtfbooks.com
Typically, ministers and military personnel have at least one thing in common: we know how to move, and we know that it is likely we will move several times during our careers.
In some ways, these moves are similar. Our families are uprooted (or they are forced to change our entry in the family address book), our houses are littered with boxes and packing paper and we must say “goodbye” or “until we meet again” to friends and co-workers. But, for some in the branch of service called “ministry”, there is a very different component to such wanderings, especially when a move sends us to another state – in other words, we must search anew for health insurance.
This year, my husband and I embarked on such an interstate journey, leaving a beloved community behind and heading into the great unknown of new church, new city, new house…and new healthcare. While I was excited about this new call, the healthcare question left me in a full-blown state of the jitters. My denomination, the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), has a health care program for its ministers and church employees – but this plan is rather expensive. As is the case in most denominations, a large percentage of our ministers are older and often in need of considerably costly healthcare, and this means that younger ministers and their families take on a portion of those higher costs in order to care for the many.
This arrangement is a worthy sacrifice in the quest to care for so many of God’s servants – but it is also one that is sometimes impossible for younger, lower-paid ministers who bear the additional burden of substantial student loan debt (ah, the price of seminary!) and high-dollar rent. Many ministers just can’t make their budgets work without finding insurance through different providers.
As one of those under-paid and highly indebted ministers, I had made the decision a couple years ago to leave the denominational plan and join one of the larger insurance giants. It grieved me to do it, but at the same time I could insure both myself and Chuck for nearly the same price as individual coverage in the church-wide plan. With the state of our budget, that decision was a no-brainer.
But joining the behemoth had its costs. In the time that we were at my old church, Chuck and I had developed some health issues – and though they were relatively minor, when the time came to apply for new insurance in a new state, we were stamped with the pariah-mark: “pre-existing condition.” On top of that, the program in our new state would only offer maternity coverage if we purchased the most expensive plan and waited for two years before conceiving. Apparently, being a woman of child-bearing age is, in and of itself, a pre-existing condition.
I was crushed. I was angry. I was dumbfounded and terrified. And I was privileged. For, in the middle of all the nonsense, my new congregation was paying me a living wage, AND they would pay a huge portion of any plan I chose, AND the companies still deemed me worthy of insurance (albeit insurance at a high price) – a right that everyone has but so many are denied.
Ultimately, my husband and I rejoined the ranks of those insured by our denomination’s plan. While they are more expensive in some ways, they don’t penalize for pre-existing conditions and they treat pregnancy as a natural part of human life (just as illness is a natural, though unwanted, part of our existence). We are covered, and we are grateful for it.
Still, this experience leaves me with so many questions and so much outrage. What about the millions of people who can’t afford or gain approval for coverage of any kind? And what about the members of my own congregation who pay for my care but can’t afford care for themselves and their families? As one who bears the yoke of justice-seeking for all of God’s children, I find no justice in this arrangement despite the relatively happy resolution of my own situation.
The facts of the matter are these:
God of healing and wholeness, let that day come…
(This essay was originally published on November 5, 2009 in the Divine Details column of Fidelia’s Sisters, the online journal of the Young Clergy Women Project. You can read this essay and more articles by young clergy women from a variety of denominations by visiting www.youngclergywomen.org )
Ministers tend to have odd habits.
One of mine pokes its head up every time I set foot in a major bookstore. Regardless of my purpose for entering the establishment, whether it be the need for a new cookbook or a fluff-filled sci-fi paperback, I inevitably end up staring at the shelves upon shelves of religious fare. The racks of Bibles are of particular interest to me – in part because of my turbulent relationship with the Book, but mostly because of the various and sometimes sundry ways that the Book is marketed to a wide array of readers.
There is the “Duct Tape Bible” – an edgy-looking tome presumably intended for teenagers and some young adults, “The Green Bible” – for burgeoning environmentalists,”The Life Application Study Bible” – for those who want to bring the Bible into conversation with their day-to-day living, “The Extreme Faith Youth Bible” – for young people who need scripture that goes beyond the normal, boring faith of their parents, “The Apologetics Study Bible” – for Christians looking to defend the reasonableness of their faith, “The Oxford Annotated Study Bible” – for the more academic of believers, “The Good News Bible” – for those who didn’t enjoy reading the Bad News Bible… the list goes on and on and on. And then, of course, there are dozens of varieties of “The Holy Bible” to choose from.
This bizarre (and VERY abbreviated) list brings me back to the habit I came close to describing: I am very nearly obsessed with watching others select Bibles from the shelf.
Some walk up knowing exactly what they are looking for. They scan the shelves, irritated by the various other Bibles present – and when they find the “right” one, they snatch it and leave with satisfied, victorious expressions on their faces. Others pace in front of the shelves, obviously overwhelmed by the sheer volume of options at their fingertips. Still others walk up, see the plethora of Bibles and stiffen as though they have abruptly encountered a brick wall – these folks usually leave the section empty-handed with a slightly glazed expression. And every once in while – very, very rarely – someone peruses the shelves with wonder, his or her face backlit with the whimsical joy of discovery and love for the written Word.
But, more often than not, the individuals I’ve watched don’t come looking for a new version, a new perspective, a new twist…
Instead, they come looking for “THE RIGHT” version.
During one of my people/Bible watching sessions, I gave in to the temptation to help someone find what she was looking for. When I asked her which version of the Bible she was trying to find, she snorted at me with contempt and disbelief: “I’m looking for the HOLY Bible.” She then snatched a slimline leatherbound copy of the KJV off the bookshelf and stomped away.
I’m still trying to figure out which Bibles are holy – and which ones are not.
And I still watch people select scripture from the stacks.
And while I don’t know the answer to the “un-holy Bible” question, there is one thing I do know:
The holiest of those people-watching moments has never depended upon a particular translation, version, endorsement or binding.
Instead, the most sacred of those moments has invariably come in faces awash with wonder, resplendent with joy — the faces of people thrilled to discover that there is more than one way to know God, more than one way to interpret the Word, and more than one way to share that word with others.
That love. That joy. That energy…
That’s what keeping something holy is all about.
And in that regard, they are all holy. Even if “holy” isn’t printed on the spine.
Elders at particular congregations may minister in a variety of ways, but the one common ministry setting for elders throughout the denomination is weekly ministry at the Lord’s Table. This resource is designed to give elders the instruction and assistance they need for their Table Ministry without expecting them to read a lengthy volume on history and theology.
You can pre-order the booklet by clicking here: Eldership at the Lord’s Table
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My, how quickly things can change…
Six months ago I believed that today, July 1, would be a wonderful day. On this day of this year I would become a full-time Associate Minister here at First Christian Church. On this day, in this place, I would begin growing and expanding the borders of my ministerial efforts – pastoral care, visitation, oversight of a new foray into Rotation Model Sunday School… There were so many plans, so many hopes…
My, how quickly things can change.
Yesterday I accepted a call to full-time ministry at a different congregation in a different state. Due to economic fears, financial fears, fear of change (the operative word here is fear), my position was not made full time and two months ago I found myself sticking a hesitant toe into search and call waters… Now, two months later, I am experiencing a new call (or at least a new direction for the call that has always been)… and despite the sadness of leaving what was, despite the grief for what could have been, I am excited for what is and what can be. Everything has been spun around…and it is invigorating!
My, how quickly things can change!!
In the midst of all this, I can’t help but contemplate change. I like to think myself a savvy embracer of change, but the past few months have forced me to acknowledge that change absolutely terrifies me. I know that change is better than stagnation. I understand that without change, we die. I believe that the Spirit is constantly urging us towards more faithful manifestations of the Kin-dom of God on earth. I preach these things, teach these things, pray these things…but when the breath of God starts blowing my direction, my first inclination is to dive for the storm cellar and wait it out in fretful hiding.
Why does change scare us so much?
I’m not sure that I have a definitive answer – but I can definitely speak for myself on this one. Change terrifies me not because it points me towards the unknown but because it forces me to acknowledge that I am not in complete control of my life. I’m not your stereotypical control freak – I enjoy chaos, am at home in liminal spaces, and am comfortable being flexible…so long as the chaos, liminality and flexibility don’t directly apply to my own life. I don’t try to control the lives of others – but this doesn’t keep me from holding my own life between white-knuckled hands. More often than not, I imagine myself in control of my own destiny – and consequently, even a breeze through the screen door of my life is usually treated like a tornado.
But are any of us really in control? More importantly, do I really want to be in control? The Dr. Phil inside my head leers at me with a “How’s that working out for you?” – and if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that it hasn’t worked out very well. When I hold my life in a vice-like grip, it doesn’t keep change from happening. It just means that I arrive in a new place with more bruises than necessary.
I’m beginning to realize that part of treating myself gently involves loosening up and letting go. Besides, a glass of iced tea tastes a whole lot better on a breezy front porch than it does in a storm cellar… I haven’t gotten it all figured out, but this glass of tea might just be the beginning of some much-needed change.
Things were supposed to get better in 2009. After the chaos of 2008, we had such high hopes…
And now, here we are.
I don’t know about you, but things haven’t improved. If anything, things have gotten worse. The economy tanked, people are despairing to the point of self-destruction, marriages are falling apart due to stress and worry and financial woe, depression rates are soaring… the list goes on and on, and I’m intentionally only describing the happenings in our small Arkansas community. I imagine that things are very much the same around the country and in your churches.
I’ve been trying very hard to keep my spirits up, and the effort was proving mostly successful – at least it was until the “C-Bomb” dropped.
Cancer.
Damn, I hate cancer.
Three weeks ago, my aunt was a perfectly healthy middle-aged woman. She felt fine and her energy level was up, which is a good thing when you need to chase your 2 1/2 year-old grandson around every day. When she went in to have a cyst removed, the doctors sent it off for tests as a matter of course even though they were certain it would prove to be benign.
Wrong.
Three weeks after that little outpatient surgery, our lives are upside down. As it turns out, the cyst was merely the tip of a much larger iceberg. Cancer has taken up residence throughout her body – liver, lungs, pancreas, brain – and fear has taken up residence in all of our hearts. Just as the systems of the body are tied together and affected by the disease, ripples of terror have swiftly spread through the family. She is a mother, a daughter, a sister, a grandmother, an aunt… each role points to another person grieving this bitter news.
And we each grieve in our own way.
One, the classic midwestern stoic, keeps a stiff-upper lip in public and breaks down into puddles when she is alone. Another, rooted in a very particular religious background, plows forward with cheerfulness – certain that any display of grief is a sign of unfaithfulness. My cousin grieves publicly – and feels crazy because “no one else around [her] is grieving”. And here I stand in the middle, like a multifingered sign at a cartoon-crossroads, directing everyone towards the truth that we all grieve differently – AND THAT IS OKAY.
As for me, I am angry. Angry that family members have to deal with this horrible reality. Angry that we haven’t found a cure for cancer. Angry that I can’t ball up my fist and shout at the heavens because, as the minister of the family, it is my job to be that aforementioned road sign.
The good news is, its okay to be angry. Just as it is okay to cry or hide (for a while), it is okay to be mad as hell. God can take it. Sometimes, in the face of tragedy and loss, the most profound and theological thing we can manage to say is: “God, this sucks.”
Why is that profound? Because it is true. This does suck.
And why is it theological? Because it acknowledges that God knows this sucks and that God cares enough to listen to us in our anguish.
No matter what we deal with, no matter how we grieve, God knows our pain and hurts with us. The Good News of the Gospel is not that God will whip out a magic wand and fix everything with a wrist-flick and a little “presto-chango.” Instead, the good news is that when things hurt so bad that all we can do is cry, or hide, or scream, God is there with us.
Sometime this week I will probably take a moment to go outside. As the sun shines down upon my face, I will thrust my fist into the air. With all my breath, I will shriek out my theodicy:
“THIS SUCKS! OH, GOD, THIS REALLY REALLY SUCKS!”
And when I’m done – when my breath is gone, my throat is tattered, and all I can hear is the exhausted rasping of my lungs – I’ll sit down on the curb, wrap my arms around my knees like a child, and rock in time with the Holy who whispers in return:
“I know, and I am here.”
Whispering God,
your wisdom rustles through
the river reeds
and nudges us with watery tongue
when we stand upon the shore.
Help us hear you.
Laughing God,
your mirth resounds in
songbird gaiety
and bubbles forth from
chortling babes.
Help us hear you.
Shouting God,
your passion roars with
crashing wave
and pounds the senses
with avalanche crashing.
Help us hear you.
Thinking God,
your contemplation hangs
in the silence before morning
and pulsates through
misty mountain meadow.
Help us hear you.
You, O God,
Are in everything we hear,
If only we will listen.
Give us new ears and
work a new hearing within us
That we might be filled with wonder
as we receive strains of You
in your melodious creation.
Help us hear you.
Amen.
Persistence
(The Mythic Tale of My Family)
Bob spent his tour of duty in World War II flying over England and North Africa. He’d been lucky during the war and returned unscathed to his hometown in Southwestern Missouri. Shortly after his homecoming, he met Dorothy. Dorothy was slender and beautiful with a vibrant wit and eyes that lit up when she laughed. The first time he met her he was overcome. He couldn’t help himself. It was love at first sight. “Dorothy,” he said, “one day I’m going to marry you.”
The war hadn’t been kind to Dorothy. Her fiancé had gone to war with the intention of marrying her upon his return. But instead of a wedding band, Dorothy had received devastating news: her fiancé had been killed in action. In her grief, Dorothy vowed that she was through with love. It wasn’t worth the pain of loss, wasn’t worth the heartache. She would be better off alone. When Bob announced his intentions after their first meeting, all she could do was laugh. Who did this strange young man think he was?
Bob courted Dorothy with calm determination. They went for sodas and talked about the exotic locales he had seen while overseas. He took her roller-skating and discovered they both had a knack for ballroom dancing on wheels. As time went by, his occasional date turned into a regular dance partner; he’d whirl her around the rink while the local children watched in awe. And through it all, though not an inherently pushy man, Bob ended every day by calmly stating, “Dorothy, one day I’m going to marry you.”
His persistence paid off. In December of 1947 they were married. Life took them many places, from the lows of the Great Depression to the highs of raising four children and eight grandchildren. When adversity struck, they handled every situation with the same calm determination that Bob had during their courting days. Jobs came and went and money was usually tight, but they rode each wave together and, more often than not, they were happy. This happiness was bred into their children, creating a legacy in its own right.
In the 1990’s Bob’s health started to fail him. A heart attack led to bypass surgery and then Parkinson’s disease began to shake his frame. With every tremor, Dorothy stood by him, mirroring the persistent care he showed her so many years prior. As family funds swirled down the whirlpool of prescription bills, she took on an extra job as bookkeeper, all the while tending him with loving calm. When she was no longer able to handle the physical requirements of work or his care, her daughter Pam stepped to the plate, moved back in and practiced the persistent love her parents had taught her. Similarly, their other children helped as they were able, combining their strengths and efforts to support their parents and one another.
On a Saturday in August of 2000, Bob had a second heart attack. He spent the night in the local hospital, Dorothy at his side whenever the doctors would allow it. The next morning, when he would usually have been watching Dr. Schuller’s Hour of Power, a powerful second cardiac arrest took his life. The doctor entered the waiting room and sorrowfully told Dorothy that Bob was gone. The attack was too quick, too powerful, too unexpected. She sat with family, soaking in the reality of the situation: her partner in persistence was dead.
Half an hour later, she still sat in the waiting room. As children and grandchildren grieved around her, she saw the ICU door open. The doctor ran to her in a state of shocked disbelief. “I can’t explain it. Not enough time. Come with me.” He grabbed her hand, pulled her into the room where Bob had died, and broke the news: after being dead for thirty minutes, Bob had inexplicably returned. There was no rational way to explain it. He simply wasn’t going to leave this world without saying goodbye to her. She sat with him, holding his hand for nearly fifteen minutes. While he couldn’t speak, his eyes did all the talking. They said their “I love you’s,” said their goodbyes and then, peacefully, he was gone again.
It is easy to lose faith in the existence of love that truly lasts. So many voices whisper to us that true, enduring love does not exist. But I know those voices lie. I have seen true love because I knew Bob and Dorothy. I witnessed the last years of their life, grew up with the legacy of their love, and learned the most important lesson from them that a granddaughter could ever learn: True love does not just happen and enduring love takes more than mere work. In the end, true and enduring love takes that quality that Bob and Dorothy had: persistence.
Prepare the Way!
The Second Sunday of Advent
Surprising, wonderful God
You shock us with your grace
Shepherding us
Gathering us in your arms
When we blindly
Or willingly
Go astray
We wait for you
Shepherd God
Though we know not where you will lead us
We wait for you
Merciful God
unsure of why you offer us forgiveness
We wait for you
Unpredictable God
Knowing your surprises are on the move!
—–
Something new is coming
We can smell it in the air
With its crisp cinnamon sweetness
Something new is stirring
We can feel the thrill of expectation
Rattling our chill dry bones
Something new is growing
We can hear it whisper above the din
Of ringing bells and shopping mall cacophony
—–
The road of Advent-surprise awaits You, God
But it is cluttered with
The debris of our lives.
Fill in the valleys
The chasms we create between ourselves
And those who think or speak or dress differently
Level the hills
The pedestals from which we
Look down upon the choices others have made
Fill in the ruts
The wounds of grief and guilt
That cut into our spirits
Clear out the rocks
The stumbling blocks of our addictions
To drink and food, money and power
Make the way straight.
Like a nesting couple awaiting the arrival of a child,
Prepare the nursery of our hearts
So that we will be ready
For the birth of the Christ-child.
Amen
Serendipity Soiree 