Scripture: Isaiah 116; John 13...
You have one life.
One.
“I love the LORD, because he has heard my voice and my supplications. Because he inclined his ear to me, therefore I will call on God as long as I live.”
You have one life.
One.
“What shall I return to the LORD for all his bounty to me?”
You have one life.
One.
I asked the youth several weeks ago at Encounter on a Wednesday night what they would choose to do vocationally if they had a million dollars but were required to work a job nonetheless.
I received a spectrum of answers.
“I’d be a trash man.” No you wouldn’t. “Alright, I’d be a carney!” Fine.
“I’d sell Dr. Pepper.”
“I’d be a fortune teller.”
Interesting answers. Some of the responses were a little more believable though, and actually inspiring.
“I’d be a teacher.” Isn’t that what you want to be now? “Yes, it’s what I want to do.” Good for you.
“I’d be a zoologist.” Really!
“I’d still be a youth minister,” said Kevin.
The community writing the Psalms responded to a similar defining question. They described God as the one who loosed their bonds. God untied the cords binding them, and set them free. Once set free, the community in the Psalms chose to give back. They chose to drink from the cup of salvation, publicly declare their devotion to God and offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving.
You have one life. One. What will you do with it?
When we turn to the gospel, to the night Jesus took his cup and gave it to his disciples to drink, took his bread and gave it to them to eat, he did something else. He washed their feet.
He bent low to the ground, crawling off his comfy cushion. On all fours he crawled one by one to the disciples and sitting back on his haunches, he dipped the cleansing cloth into the water basin. He held it to their dirty, cracked, calloused, dust-painted feet and wiped, scrubbed, washed their feet. He performed a servant’s job. Out of his devotion for his disciples, he chose to serve them, do the dirty work so they would be clean.
The foot washing was symbolic of Jesus’ whole ministry. He spent most of his time healing and affirming and loving the children of God, but this foot washing was literal too. As if touching their leprous sores and feeding their crying children and healing their contagious parents and hearing out their ego-centric questions and loving the obnoxiously unlovable people of this world that you and I encounter on a daily basis - people that you and I go to work with or worse yet, for, and sit beside at PTA meetings and sit behind in rush hour traffic, all these obnoxiously unlovable people of which each of us is one… as if that were not enough, he washed his disciples’ feet too.
He gave his life, and he also washed their feet. That’s what Jesus chose to do with his one life here on earth.
And I wonder if perhaps we couldn’t see the worth in each other the way Jesus saw the worth in us. I wonder if we couldn’t spend a little time improving our world for the greater good. I wonder if we couldn’t do what we really want to in life – fully be the children of God we are called to be – unique and beautiful and gifted and flawed and God’s.
You have one life.
One.
I read the other day the letter that the man who gunned down the people at New Life Church in Colorado Springs wrote and left in his car. Angry, confused and frustrated by hypocritical Christians and a quiet God, he took out his angst on a church and killed four people in the process.
He wrote, “I’ve heard good things about what Jesus can do, yet everywhere I go in Christianity, all the Christians I meet or see are miserable, angry, selfish, hypocritical, proud, power-hungry, abusive, uncaring, confused, lustful.”
These are not words I would use to describe my Christ, and truthfully they are not words I’d like to describe his followers, his disciples, his people, me and my community, the community of the Saints.
But that’s what Matthew Murray wrote.
I hope that when I discover that I have been set free by God, that I have one life to live fully and abundantly, I won’t choose to embody any of the repulsive qualities Matthew Murray ascribes to followers of Christ.
And yet, I will. I’m human. I screw up. All those Christians he observed and learned to distrust were humans. He was human when he opened fire on a church ending four lives and then killed himself.
Only human.
“I call upon God…. I lift up the cup of salvation… I become God’s servant… I pay my vows to the LORD in the presence of all the people… I offer a thanksgiving sacrifice.”
“I wash your feet and you also ought to wash one another’s feet.”
You have one life. One. What will you choose to do with it?
See, your life goes far beyond what job you have, what vocation you choose - million dollars or not. Your one life and my one life include the jobs we have but more importantly, our life really is how we do those jobs. Life is about attitudes and worldviews. It’s about how we treat the people we love and how we treat the people we hate. It’s about eliminating a vocabulary of hate.
Maybe it’s because I’m turning thirty in May or maybe it’s because my ex-boyfriend died last month from cancer, or maybe it’s because I work in a church with humans, you and your friends and me and mine, who experience great pain and make mistakes, or maybe it’s just the change in weather, but recently I have been impressed by the realization that we get one life. One. And I have been reminded that Jesus Christ came to earth not to toss us a rulebook and give a good luck nod, he came so that we may have life and have it more abundantly.
My former pastor and friend who died several years ago used to close our Sunday morning service with the same benediction every week: Love God, embrace beauty and live life to the fullest.” That was what he reminded us to do, who he reminded us to be every week. And if you haven’t experienced the deliverance that comes when you encounter the divine, if you don’t feel the freedom that comes in a connectedness to Christ, if living life to the fullest isn’t even on your radar screen, the I have a message for you:
You have one life.
One.
And God came to earth to make sure you get to live that one life abundantly.
When the psalmist figured that out, he took the cup that Christ offered to the disciples 900 years later (and still offers to us today), he took that cup of salvation and drank from it. He publicly declared his affection for God, just as 6 people here at FBC will do when they are baptized this upcoming Easter Sunday. And he lived a life of Thanksgiving.
We have the same opportunity. We too can become servants not to money or alcohol or bitterness or sex or our jobs or anything else that lures us to the edge of self-loathing or a self-destructing life. Rather, we can become servants to the Life Giver. To the one who lived and died and washed our feet.
“I call upon God…. I lift up the cup of salvation… I become God’s servant… I pay my vows to the LORD in the presence of all the people… I offer a thanksgiving sacrifice.”
“I wash your feet and you also ought to wash one another’s feet.”
You have one life.
One.
Love God. Embrace Beauty. And live life to the fullest.
Amen.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
It Happened To My Cat
So everyone's received those funny emails of cats who are wet or have horrible haircuts, etc. I always kind of wondered if they were photoshopped or something. Well, last week I discovered they were real.
.jpg)
Poor Zorba had mats on her two hindquarters. When I took him to the vet just to have them check to make sure Zorba didn't have some major, awful, horrible disease, they said that I could try and cut them out myself, but knowing Zorba's history (I got bit, four incision marks on my wrist trying to cut one mat out earlier in the week), they offered to cut them out for me. Except that some of the mats were so bad that they would need to shave them off. "Zorba will look really bad if we do this though," Dr. B said. "Have you ever heard of a Lion Cut?"
Well, I hadn't but I could imagine.
Suggesting that he would look much "better" with a Lion Cut than with huge bald spots, I conceeded to the shave.
When we got home, Potter puffed up all his fur and hissed and spat. Janie began jumping and racing and chasing Zorba. They thought I had brought home a new cat...
Truthfully, Zorba is really soft now, and one can't help but try and pet him. My new roommate has been trying to refrain, knowing the potential ramifications. but it's hard. He's just so cute...
.jpg)
Poor Zorba had mats on her two hindquarters. When I took him to the vet just to have them check to make sure Zorba didn't have some major, awful, horrible disease, they said that I could try and cut them out myself, but knowing Zorba's history (I got bit, four incision marks on my wrist trying to cut one mat out earlier in the week), they offered to cut them out for me. Except that some of the mats were so bad that they would need to shave them off. "Zorba will look really bad if we do this though," Dr. B said. "Have you ever heard of a Lion Cut?"
Well, I hadn't but I could imagine.
Suggesting that he would look much "better" with a Lion Cut than with huge bald spots, I conceeded to the shave.
When we got home, Potter puffed up all his fur and hissed and spat. Janie began jumping and racing and chasing Zorba. They thought I had brought home a new cat...
Truthfully, Zorba is really soft now, and one can't help but try and pet him. My new roommate has been trying to refrain, knowing the potential ramifications. but it's hard. He's just so cute...
Saturday, March 08, 2008
RIP Mike Rudd
My ex-boyfriend died.
I feel bad writing this because I'm not seeking sympathy or attention. There are people hurting more than me and i know that. I just need to process.
Process.
I deleted pictures of him off my computer last year, so I have nothing to look at.
Except two pieces of art. He was a photographer. I have one of his pictures framed in the back bedroom. A picture he printed and gave to me. Another one was buried underneath a pile of papers that I sorted through today.
Mike is buried underground.
With Kyle, and Radley and my grandparents. And everyone else who's died.
I keep thinking, "But I didn't get to say good-bye!" It's quite frustrating. I wish he had called and told me he was sick. I understand it happened very quickly, but I still wish he would have called.
I've thought of him several times over the past year. Should I send him a Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year's text? No, it might give him the wrong impression.
Might give him the wrong impression.
The impression that I didn't care anymore?
God, this sucks. I didn't get to say good-bye.
He said he believed in God, but he didn't go to church. He said he would go with me on Sundays if I wanted him to, but not to Wednesday nights or any during the week stuff...
He broke up with me because he thought I had argued with his brother about politics. He accused me of being mean. It wasn't true though. We had talked politics, but we hadn't argued. His brother was high and I was probably just being my bold little know-it-all self. But we hadn't argued. I hadn't been mean.
I cried when we broke up even though I knew it was for the best.
My friends said, "Good riddance." And it made me sad.
Just because he wasn't right for me doesn't mean he wasn't right.
He made me laugh. I loved watching movies with him on the couch: Kill Bill and Kill Bill 2. I loved his asparagus speghetti. And his art.
I've always ignored heaven and hell. I don't think they really exist. I hate scare tactics used to make people "love/choose" God. I hate identifying God with something evil: hell. I hate how primitive and human it sounds: if you're good, you get this; if you're bad, you get this. Please. How much more reductionistic can we get? But after I found out about Mike's death, I felt uneasy that I didn't know if he "knew" Christ. Did he say he believed in God, or did he just pacify me? I can't remember. Was he really a Christian? He didn't exactly remind me of one...
Isn't that awful? I judged his lifestyle. I gave into fear. I reduced him to nothing but a decision.
I reduced him to a spirit. A spiritual being.
Are we more than that though? Are we only that?
I can't think anymore. All I can think about is him. How I didn't get to say good-bye. And how I think I'm going to cry...
I feel bad writing this because I'm not seeking sympathy or attention. There are people hurting more than me and i know that. I just need to process.
Process.
I deleted pictures of him off my computer last year, so I have nothing to look at.
Except two pieces of art. He was a photographer. I have one of his pictures framed in the back bedroom. A picture he printed and gave to me. Another one was buried underneath a pile of papers that I sorted through today.
Mike is buried underground.
With Kyle, and Radley and my grandparents. And everyone else who's died.
I keep thinking, "But I didn't get to say good-bye!" It's quite frustrating. I wish he had called and told me he was sick. I understand it happened very quickly, but I still wish he would have called.
I've thought of him several times over the past year. Should I send him a Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year's text? No, it might give him the wrong impression.
Might give him the wrong impression.
The impression that I didn't care anymore?
God, this sucks. I didn't get to say good-bye.
He said he believed in God, but he didn't go to church. He said he would go with me on Sundays if I wanted him to, but not to Wednesday nights or any during the week stuff...
He broke up with me because he thought I had argued with his brother about politics. He accused me of being mean. It wasn't true though. We had talked politics, but we hadn't argued. His brother was high and I was probably just being my bold little know-it-all self. But we hadn't argued. I hadn't been mean.
I cried when we broke up even though I knew it was for the best.
My friends said, "Good riddance." And it made me sad.
Just because he wasn't right for me doesn't mean he wasn't right.
He made me laugh. I loved watching movies with him on the couch: Kill Bill and Kill Bill 2. I loved his asparagus speghetti. And his art.
I've always ignored heaven and hell. I don't think they really exist. I hate scare tactics used to make people "love/choose" God. I hate identifying God with something evil: hell. I hate how primitive and human it sounds: if you're good, you get this; if you're bad, you get this. Please. How much more reductionistic can we get? But after I found out about Mike's death, I felt uneasy that I didn't know if he "knew" Christ. Did he say he believed in God, or did he just pacify me? I can't remember. Was he really a Christian? He didn't exactly remind me of one...
Isn't that awful? I judged his lifestyle. I gave into fear. I reduced him to nothing but a decision.
I reduced him to a spirit. A spiritual being.
Are we more than that though? Are we only that?
I can't think anymore. All I can think about is him. How I didn't get to say good-bye. And how I think I'm going to cry...
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Texas Two-Step
I voted. After much deliberation, I chose one. And I'm not telling you who. :) It was a hard decision, but this morning before I flew out of Austin, I had my new roommate drive me to the polls so my small little voice would be heard.
Except that because I'm in Abilene now and nowhere near my caucus location, it appears I will only get to vote once for this election.
I really don't understand the Texas Two-Step.
Except that because I'm in Abilene now and nowhere near my caucus location, it appears I will only get to vote once for this election.
I really don't understand the Texas Two-Step.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Just Because...
Sometimes I can't think straight. Or I have so much to think about, I can't focus. So I do Sodoku. I have no Sodoku here. (Am I even spelling that right?) Perhaps this will help me fall asleep...
8 Things I'm Passionate About:
1) Jesus
2) the Old Testament
3) social justice
4) the arts
5) equality of the sexes
6) mental health disorders
7) my job
8) my friends
8 Things I Want to do Before I Die:
1) write a book
2) travel to Africa (more central or southern africa)
3) get married and be in a healthy marriage (is that two?)
4) raise children (please note i didn't say Have children)
5) catch up on my scrapbooking
6) be in a professional play or musical
7) preach at a conference
8) go back to France
8 Things I Say Often:
1) Eh?
2) Pop
3) I'm just sayin'.
4) I cannot tell a lie.
5) Rad.
6) That's rude.
7) Pretty princess.
8) You know what I mean?
8 Books I've Read Recently:
1) Watermelon
2) The Trial of Judas Iscariot
3) Doubt
4) Eat, Pray, Live (in the middle of...)
5) Jesus Hopped the A Train
6) New Day Revolution
7) Exodus
8) The Trembling Cup (in the middle of...)
8 Songs I Could Listen to Over and Over:
1) That I Would Be Good
2) Coming Toward
3) On My Own
4) Fire In Babylon
5) Samson
6) Delicate
7) Macy's Day Parade
8) No Need to Argue
8 Things that Attract me to my best friends:
1) laughter
2) honesty and the ability to tell the truth in each other
3) sense of self/ ability to reflect
4) similar interests (music, theatre, spirituality, etc)
5) similar faith
6) care for the world (resourcefulness)
7) intimate knowledge and acceptance
8) non-judgmental
8 Things I'm Passionate About:
1) Jesus
2) the Old Testament
3) social justice
4) the arts
5) equality of the sexes
6) mental health disorders
7) my job
8) my friends
8 Things I Want to do Before I Die:
1) write a book
2) travel to Africa (more central or southern africa)
3) get married and be in a healthy marriage (is that two?)
4) raise children (please note i didn't say Have children)
5) catch up on my scrapbooking
6) be in a professional play or musical
7) preach at a conference
8) go back to France
8 Things I Say Often:
1) Eh?
2) Pop
3) I'm just sayin'.
4) I cannot tell a lie.
5) Rad.
6) That's rude.
7) Pretty princess.
8) You know what I mean?
8 Books I've Read Recently:
1) Watermelon
2) The Trial of Judas Iscariot
3) Doubt
4) Eat, Pray, Live (in the middle of...)
5) Jesus Hopped the A Train
6) New Day Revolution
7) Exodus
8) The Trembling Cup (in the middle of...)
8 Songs I Could Listen to Over and Over:
1) That I Would Be Good
2) Coming Toward
3) On My Own
4) Fire In Babylon
5) Samson
6) Delicate
7) Macy's Day Parade
8) No Need to Argue
8 Things that Attract me to my best friends:
1) laughter
2) honesty and the ability to tell the truth in each other
3) sense of self/ ability to reflect
4) similar interests (music, theatre, spirituality, etc)
5) similar faith
6) care for the world (resourcefulness)
7) intimate knowledge and acceptance
8) non-judgmental
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Good Quotes
Some quotes I've appreciated overhearing this past week...
Presidential Hopeful Hilary Clinton: "I'm returning health care into the hands of the people. I'm giving it to you!"
Voter Scott: "I don't want that responsibility."
A bored republican at a Texas Obama/Clinton debate party initiated this conversation:
Adam: "Look at your wedding pics!"
Amy: "Yeah..."
Adam: "Is this girl reading from the book of 1 Corinthians or Phonecians?"
Amy: "Huh?"
Ann: "Phonecians?!"
Adam: Philistines?
Ann: "You mean Philippians?"
Adam: "Whatever. One of those classic love passages they always read at weddings."
What the...?
Cam: "You know that movie that made everyone cry?"
Frank: "Terms of Endearment?"
Cam: "Yeah."
After reading the grumbling wilderness narratives in Exodus a student said under his breath:
"God should have chosen the Egyptians."
Presidential Hopeful Hilary Clinton: "I'm returning health care into the hands of the people. I'm giving it to you!"
Voter Scott: "I don't want that responsibility."
A bored republican at a Texas Obama/Clinton debate party initiated this conversation:
Adam: "Look at your wedding pics!"
Amy: "Yeah..."
Adam: "Is this girl reading from the book of 1 Corinthians or Phonecians?"
Amy: "Huh?"
Ann: "Phonecians?!"
Adam: Philistines?
Ann: "You mean Philippians?"
Adam: "Whatever. One of those classic love passages they always read at weddings."
What the...?
Cam: "You know that movie that made everyone cry?"
Frank: "Terms of Endearment?"
Cam: "Yeah."
After reading the grumbling wilderness narratives in Exodus a student said under his breath:
"God should have chosen the Egyptians."
Thursday, February 21, 2008
A Parable
A puppy followed me home yesterday.
Janie and I were on our morning walk when a yellow puppy came bounding up to us. After some slobbery kisses to my sweatpants and a menacing growl from Janie, the pup began running up ahead of us and then throwing herself on the ground, on her back right in front of Janie. "I'm submitting to you - please like me!" she cried. But Janie, being her normal snobby, disinterested self, walked right past the dog. Stumbling over her too big paws, the puppy would scramble to her feet, bound down the sidewalk and throw herself on the ground again. A good ten times this happened! I got the giggles. Finally the pup conceeded that she would be getting no love from janie and contented herself to scamper alongside us ALL THE WAY BACK TO MY HOUSE.
"Whatchu doin' wid dat dog?" my neighbors jeered.
"It's following me - I'm not sure where it came from. What should I do?"
"Go home and name it! Youse got yerself a new dog."
Great.
So I took the little thing home and put in it the back yard, gave it water, and gave myself a pep talk. "You cannot keep this puppy, Ann. Puppies have too much energy and have to be potty trained. You don't have time for that."
Janie picked up her toy football, took it to the puppy and set it down in front of her. I about died.
So I put the leash on the puppy and began a walk around the neighborhood, knocking on doors. "Do you recognize this dog?"
No luck.
We returned home and I fed the puppy and pet her and left her and Janie outside to play while Clarence's dog, Bandit, barked mercilessly through the fence. The dirt is always dirtier in some other dog's backyard.
I'm pretty sure the puppy slept most of the night (I can't be sure, I had in my super-duper ear plugs). But when I awoke in the morning, the banging on the doggie door (which I had locked) was unnerving to say the very least. Not to mention that getting in and out of the backyard was quite a task with two hyper dogs egging each other on underneith. Fed, pet and doted on, I left the energetic children in the backyard.
When I came home at lunch, the puppy practically ate the sleeves off my arms and covered my jeans with dirty paw prints. I loved on her anyway but with my legs still throbbing from the morning's puppy scratches, I threw the football to try and get her away from me. She just looked at me with big eyes while Janie took off across the yard, retrieving the toy and triumphantly bringing it back to me. "See, I'm your dog remember? Do you still love me? Remember me. I can fetch! Come on! Love me! Look at me!" It was precious but depressing. Never ask your children to compete at the same task.
After lunch, I headed out the door with Puppy while Janie whimpered from the backyard. I tried to get the leash on her but this proved to be quite a task. She's a rowdy little thing and I couldn't get her to sit still long enough to get the dang leash on.
"Raising children's hard ain't it?" Clarence called from across the bushes. "You named your new dog yet?"
"Puppy, Clarence. The dog's name is Puppy. And it's not my dog. I can't handle another dog."
He shook his head and smiled. Puppy and I started down the block.
"Hey y'all," I called out to some children on Bunche and crossed into the yard where the 11 year olds were scattered, having returned from school and caught in the space between television/isolation and playing outside/community, greeting family/doing homework and greeting the sticks and rocks on the ground/processing the day as only a child can do. I digress. "Y'all recognize this dog."
"Yeah, das Baby D's dog."
"Can you show me where Baby D lives?"
"Hey show her where Baby D lives. Das his dog."
"Ah know dat dog. It got big!"
"If ah found dat dog... I'da kep it!"
"Yeah we'll show ya," two boys finally agreed. "Come on Princess," they spoke to the dog like an old friend.
Princess? Puppy's name is princess? That's a horrible name for this dog. She has way too much energy and gumption to be called Princess. Not my dog though.
We arrived at a house that i had knocked on yesterday but received no response. A little boy named Timothy answered the door.
"Is this your dog hon?" I asked timidly. Had I really found it's owner?
"Yeah, das ma brother's dog."
"Are you parents home?" I just wanted to be sure it was really their dog.
"Yeah, hold on."
He left the doorway and I peered through the opening into a living room with mattresses on the floor, a tv against the wall and everything you can imagine littering the beds and floor area. There was barely room to walk. There were cracks in the walls and giant holes where an elbow or table edge had plastered through the plaster.
A young man came out and agreed that indeed, this was his nephew's dog. He thanked me and I sort of lingered, but then slowly began backing away. "You're welcome. You know I think her collar's too tight," I cautioned. "Um, it's tied with a shoelace and i really think that should be cut off and loosened." No one was listening to me. The dog had run into the neighbor's yard. "Okay, well. Cool. Great then. I'll see ya." I walked back towards my house. I turned to glance one more time at Puppy who was prancing around the yard trying to be corralled unsuccessfully by the children.
I walked a few more yards and felt my stomach drop and my head spin a little, a feeling all too familiar to me over the past few weeks. "Don't cry, Ann. What is up with you? It's a dog. And it's not your dog."
But it was given to me to care for for two days. For two days I fed it and loved it and nurtured it and provided for it and then I handed it back over to it's owners, to the people who dictate it's life, to it's world, and...
"It's a parable," my co-worker Kevin said. We had been discussing the great gift and the tenacity of being ministers, of working with youth and college kids and young adults.
"Yes," I realized. I invest in these people that I love. I feed them and encourage them and teach them and listen to them and love them and pray that somehow in the little time I've got, I make a difference. And then I hand them back to school, college, work, divorces, illnesses, car wrecks, suicides, felonies, drugs, alcohol, greed, addictions, perfectionism... and I pray that when they get back into their crazy homes that they will remember their real Home and that they will make it through.
And I teared up again. At a parable. At a dog and a youth and a college student and an inability to detach.
Janie and I were on our morning walk when a yellow puppy came bounding up to us. After some slobbery kisses to my sweatpants and a menacing growl from Janie, the pup began running up ahead of us and then throwing herself on the ground, on her back right in front of Janie. "I'm submitting to you - please like me!" she cried. But Janie, being her normal snobby, disinterested self, walked right past the dog. Stumbling over her too big paws, the puppy would scramble to her feet, bound down the sidewalk and throw herself on the ground again. A good ten times this happened! I got the giggles. Finally the pup conceeded that she would be getting no love from janie and contented herself to scamper alongside us ALL THE WAY BACK TO MY HOUSE.
"Whatchu doin' wid dat dog?" my neighbors jeered.
"It's following me - I'm not sure where it came from. What should I do?"
"Go home and name it! Youse got yerself a new dog."
Great.
So I took the little thing home and put in it the back yard, gave it water, and gave myself a pep talk. "You cannot keep this puppy, Ann. Puppies have too much energy and have to be potty trained. You don't have time for that."
Janie picked up her toy football, took it to the puppy and set it down in front of her. I about died.
So I put the leash on the puppy and began a walk around the neighborhood, knocking on doors. "Do you recognize this dog?"
No luck.
We returned home and I fed the puppy and pet her and left her and Janie outside to play while Clarence's dog, Bandit, barked mercilessly through the fence. The dirt is always dirtier in some other dog's backyard.
I'm pretty sure the puppy slept most of the night (I can't be sure, I had in my super-duper ear plugs). But when I awoke in the morning, the banging on the doggie door (which I had locked) was unnerving to say the very least. Not to mention that getting in and out of the backyard was quite a task with two hyper dogs egging each other on underneith. Fed, pet and doted on, I left the energetic children in the backyard.
When I came home at lunch, the puppy practically ate the sleeves off my arms and covered my jeans with dirty paw prints. I loved on her anyway but with my legs still throbbing from the morning's puppy scratches, I threw the football to try and get her away from me. She just looked at me with big eyes while Janie took off across the yard, retrieving the toy and triumphantly bringing it back to me. "See, I'm your dog remember? Do you still love me? Remember me. I can fetch! Come on! Love me! Look at me!" It was precious but depressing. Never ask your children to compete at the same task.
After lunch, I headed out the door with Puppy while Janie whimpered from the backyard. I tried to get the leash on her but this proved to be quite a task. She's a rowdy little thing and I couldn't get her to sit still long enough to get the dang leash on.
"Raising children's hard ain't it?" Clarence called from across the bushes. "You named your new dog yet?"
"Puppy, Clarence. The dog's name is Puppy. And it's not my dog. I can't handle another dog."
He shook his head and smiled. Puppy and I started down the block.
"Hey y'all," I called out to some children on Bunche and crossed into the yard where the 11 year olds were scattered, having returned from school and caught in the space between television/isolation and playing outside/community, greeting family/doing homework and greeting the sticks and rocks on the ground/processing the day as only a child can do. I digress. "Y'all recognize this dog."
"Yeah, das Baby D's dog."
"Can you show me where Baby D lives?"
"Hey show her where Baby D lives. Das his dog."
"Ah know dat dog. It got big!"
"If ah found dat dog... I'da kep it!"
"Yeah we'll show ya," two boys finally agreed. "Come on Princess," they spoke to the dog like an old friend.
Princess? Puppy's name is princess? That's a horrible name for this dog. She has way too much energy and gumption to be called Princess. Not my dog though.
We arrived at a house that i had knocked on yesterday but received no response. A little boy named Timothy answered the door.
"Is this your dog hon?" I asked timidly. Had I really found it's owner?
"Yeah, das ma brother's dog."
"Are you parents home?" I just wanted to be sure it was really their dog.
"Yeah, hold on."
He left the doorway and I peered through the opening into a living room with mattresses on the floor, a tv against the wall and everything you can imagine littering the beds and floor area. There was barely room to walk. There were cracks in the walls and giant holes where an elbow or table edge had plastered through the plaster.
A young man came out and agreed that indeed, this was his nephew's dog. He thanked me and I sort of lingered, but then slowly began backing away. "You're welcome. You know I think her collar's too tight," I cautioned. "Um, it's tied with a shoelace and i really think that should be cut off and loosened." No one was listening to me. The dog had run into the neighbor's yard. "Okay, well. Cool. Great then. I'll see ya." I walked back towards my house. I turned to glance one more time at Puppy who was prancing around the yard trying to be corralled unsuccessfully by the children.
I walked a few more yards and felt my stomach drop and my head spin a little, a feeling all too familiar to me over the past few weeks. "Don't cry, Ann. What is up with you? It's a dog. And it's not your dog."
But it was given to me to care for for two days. For two days I fed it and loved it and nurtured it and provided for it and then I handed it back over to it's owners, to the people who dictate it's life, to it's world, and...
"It's a parable," my co-worker Kevin said. We had been discussing the great gift and the tenacity of being ministers, of working with youth and college kids and young adults.
"Yes," I realized. I invest in these people that I love. I feed them and encourage them and teach them and listen to them and love them and pray that somehow in the little time I've got, I make a difference. And then I hand them back to school, college, work, divorces, illnesses, car wrecks, suicides, felonies, drugs, alcohol, greed, addictions, perfectionism... and I pray that when they get back into their crazy homes that they will remember their real Home and that they will make it through.
And I teared up again. At a parable. At a dog and a youth and a college student and an inability to detach.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Saturday, February 09, 2008
This is the world we live in. For everything beautiful to arise, something else must die. Why is it this way? I kill the weeds so the cacti will grow and look beautiful in my front yard garden. I kill so more life will be recogized, will flourish and be more fully beautiful...
My day off was great. Gardening, shopping, cleaning, hanging out, dinner... a phone call. and then it became another unpredictable day. i say another, because such days come frequently enough to be "another" but are so unexpected that they deserve the label of unpredictable. Another, Unpredictable, Day.
And so I pray for healing, fidelity, honesty, humility, courage, discernment and all the other assets one would want when experiencing what I witnessed tonight. and hopefully something will die, and something more beautiful will be reborn.
My day off was great. Gardening, shopping, cleaning, hanging out, dinner... a phone call. and then it became another unpredictable day. i say another, because such days come frequently enough to be "another" but are so unexpected that they deserve the label of unpredictable. Another, Unpredictable, Day.
And so I pray for healing, fidelity, honesty, humility, courage, discernment and all the other assets one would want when experiencing what I witnessed tonight. and hopefully something will die, and something more beautiful will be reborn.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Ash Wednesday Contemplation
"Tonight we will come and have the ashes of last year’s celebratory palms burned to symbolize the joy that is departed and the suffering that will ensue imposed on our foreheads, and on our lives. The ashes symbolize our confession that from ashes we have come and to ashes we will one day return. In humility, we surrender to this Lenten season and we journey with Christ in his suffering all the way to the cross. This is lent. It is not about chocolate or beads or fish on Fridays, it is about suffering.
Suffering’s not that difficult, I’ve actually got suffering down quite well, thank you – you may say. And I grant you, this world offers its unfair share of hardships under which we all labor, but in choosing to suffer alongside Christ, we often choose to deprive ourselves of something – you know the routine. We give up something and pretend the loss of caffeine or alcohol or television is actual suffering.
But choosing to suffer alongside Christ as we journey to the Christ means choosing to give up something else if we reflect closely. Suffering requires giving up our pride. Suffering requires admitting our sin. And that may be the hardest sacrifice we make: admitting we are wrong and giving up our sin.
At the front of the pews is a pile of leaves. Deadened by the winter winds and cold, these once green leaves have dried and fallen from their life source. They were found lying beneath their origin. And so does our sin cripple and diminish us until we are crusty, dull colored replicas of what we originally were created to be. We will each take a leaf.
And then we will bring that leaf to the front table. We will write our sin in permanent marker on it. We will acknowledge it in our lives and then we get rid of it. We will take the dead leaf with our sin written on it and we will crumple it into the bowl. For just as leaves die and fall from their source, so does their decomposition eventually nourish the tree to bring new life.
We choose a sin. We give it a name and then we give it away. We crumple it and we choose to walk away. And though sin is dangerous and lures us back time and time again, for this time, we acknowledge our weakness and we walk away. We humble ourselves, confess our sin and choose to walk with Christ to the cross where indeed, soon enough, new life will rise again.
Amen."
Last night, before we received the ashes, we each took a dried up leaf, confessed a sin by writing it on the leaf in permanent marker, and crumbled it in our palms letting it fall into a clear bowl set on a black-clothed table underneath the cross. I was the first to go forward after giving the above introduction. I was startled by how loud the leaves crunched in the silent sanctuary with all eyes on my back. Did they wonder what I wrote? Were they guessing, judging me, estimating my confession? Crunch, crackle. The dismantled leaf tumbled into the empty bowl. I wiped my hands on my jeans and returned to my seat, a little overwhelmed. How would I move from the symbolic decomposition of my sin-filled leaf to the true repentance and turning from sin in my own life? I sat down and exhaled.
It took a second, as most communal activities do, and then people crowded patiently into line, anxious for their leaf, ready to confess their chosen sin and let it go. Old women, who couldn't walk by themselves, scuffled up front with their dead leaves. Youth, always quick to participate and bright enough to grasp the symbolism, picked up the markers resolutely. Those who would criticize even doing a "catholic" service wrote on the leaves. Pristine business partners crumpled the dead leaves to dust between their manicured hands. Mothers and daughters, the sick and the well, all lined up for the leaves, and most even lined up for the ashes.
After the service, I picked up the bowl of broken leaves to dispose of them. It was all I could do to keep from spying into the dusty remains to piece together leaf fragments and sin confessed. We are forever voyeurs, fascinated by evil. I didn't, though. I sighed knowing my own sin was enough to keep me busy and dumped the leaves into a trash bag.
Ash Wednesday. From dust you have come and to dust you shall return. 39 days to go.
Suffering’s not that difficult, I’ve actually got suffering down quite well, thank you – you may say. And I grant you, this world offers its unfair share of hardships under which we all labor, but in choosing to suffer alongside Christ, we often choose to deprive ourselves of something – you know the routine. We give up something and pretend the loss of caffeine or alcohol or television is actual suffering.
But choosing to suffer alongside Christ as we journey to the Christ means choosing to give up something else if we reflect closely. Suffering requires giving up our pride. Suffering requires admitting our sin. And that may be the hardest sacrifice we make: admitting we are wrong and giving up our sin.
At the front of the pews is a pile of leaves. Deadened by the winter winds and cold, these once green leaves have dried and fallen from their life source. They were found lying beneath their origin. And so does our sin cripple and diminish us until we are crusty, dull colored replicas of what we originally were created to be. We will each take a leaf.
And then we will bring that leaf to the front table. We will write our sin in permanent marker on it. We will acknowledge it in our lives and then we get rid of it. We will take the dead leaf with our sin written on it and we will crumple it into the bowl. For just as leaves die and fall from their source, so does their decomposition eventually nourish the tree to bring new life.
We choose a sin. We give it a name and then we give it away. We crumple it and we choose to walk away. And though sin is dangerous and lures us back time and time again, for this time, we acknowledge our weakness and we walk away. We humble ourselves, confess our sin and choose to walk with Christ to the cross where indeed, soon enough, new life will rise again.
Amen."
Last night, before we received the ashes, we each took a dried up leaf, confessed a sin by writing it on the leaf in permanent marker, and crumbled it in our palms letting it fall into a clear bowl set on a black-clothed table underneath the cross. I was the first to go forward after giving the above introduction. I was startled by how loud the leaves crunched in the silent sanctuary with all eyes on my back. Did they wonder what I wrote? Were they guessing, judging me, estimating my confession? Crunch, crackle. The dismantled leaf tumbled into the empty bowl. I wiped my hands on my jeans and returned to my seat, a little overwhelmed. How would I move from the symbolic decomposition of my sin-filled leaf to the true repentance and turning from sin in my own life? I sat down and exhaled.
It took a second, as most communal activities do, and then people crowded patiently into line, anxious for their leaf, ready to confess their chosen sin and let it go. Old women, who couldn't walk by themselves, scuffled up front with their dead leaves. Youth, always quick to participate and bright enough to grasp the symbolism, picked up the markers resolutely. Those who would criticize even doing a "catholic" service wrote on the leaves. Pristine business partners crumpled the dead leaves to dust between their manicured hands. Mothers and daughters, the sick and the well, all lined up for the leaves, and most even lined up for the ashes.
After the service, I picked up the bowl of broken leaves to dispose of them. It was all I could do to keep from spying into the dusty remains to piece together leaf fragments and sin confessed. We are forever voyeurs, fascinated by evil. I didn't, though. I sighed knowing my own sin was enough to keep me busy and dumped the leaves into a trash bag.
Ash Wednesday. From dust you have come and to dust you shall return. 39 days to go.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Journey to the cross...
Ash Wednesday.
I intended to celebrate Fat Tuesday in the usual debaucherous fashion, but alas, I fell asleep at 9:30pm. So Ash Wednesday rolled around without the chimes of glasses chunked together or gluttonous feasts being gulped down.
Truthfully, I haven't decided what exactly to give up anyway. I have decided that it would be a good spiritual discipline to write every day, so be prepared :) Either in my journal or on my blog I need to more in tune with where I am spirtually and emotionally and writing will help me do this.
I also confessed to myself that all I really want to do is walk with people to the cross. With all the pain and lamentations that have risen up in my church community over the past two weeks, that seems like the best thing I can offer God... to walk with God's people, to make a difference simply by being.
I'm reminded of this poem that I have taped to the front of my computer at work, Tell Me... by Mary Oliver.
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean --
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth in stead of up and down --
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Journey to the cross.
I intended to celebrate Fat Tuesday in the usual debaucherous fashion, but alas, I fell asleep at 9:30pm. So Ash Wednesday rolled around without the chimes of glasses chunked together or gluttonous feasts being gulped down.
Truthfully, I haven't decided what exactly to give up anyway. I have decided that it would be a good spiritual discipline to write every day, so be prepared :) Either in my journal or on my blog I need to more in tune with where I am spirtually and emotionally and writing will help me do this.
I also confessed to myself that all I really want to do is walk with people to the cross. With all the pain and lamentations that have risen up in my church community over the past two weeks, that seems like the best thing I can offer God... to walk with God's people, to make a difference simply by being.
I'm reminded of this poem that I have taped to the front of my computer at work, Tell Me... by Mary Oliver.
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean --
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth in stead of up and down --
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Journey to the cross.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Daisy Shadows
while filing my taxes from 2006 into my already overstuffed file cabinet, i became frustrated with my tendency to save EVERYTHING and began to clean house. after recycling probably 200 pages of notes from classes in college that i cared nothing about then and even less about now (you know those classes they force you to take, not the beautiful ones like Faulkner and Minority Literature), I ran across a folder full of poems I've written over the years.
keep in mind that i quit writing poetry probably three years ago and even by then, the poems were few and far between. the glory years were in college when an off and on three year relationship with a guy provided excellent material for sad bastard poems.
so, at the risk of being ridiculous and nostalgic, here's a poem from 2001 (post-college)...
When all noise has gone to sleep
Save the ringing in my ears
Daisy shadows on the wall
And the candle that cannot tell all
Attract attention from the bed.
I remember last night when I
Asked if you wanted me to leave,
To go, and
You answered no,
And momentarily something
Shivered inside with your
Acceptance of me
And I realized I was pleased, that I
Wanted to stay and that you had
Said more than just no,
You didn't want me to go.
keep in mind that i quit writing poetry probably three years ago and even by then, the poems were few and far between. the glory years were in college when an off and on three year relationship with a guy provided excellent material for sad bastard poems.
so, at the risk of being ridiculous and nostalgic, here's a poem from 2001 (post-college)...
When all noise has gone to sleep
Save the ringing in my ears
Daisy shadows on the wall
And the candle that cannot tell all
Attract attention from the bed.
I remember last night when I
Asked if you wanted me to leave,
To go, and
You answered no,
And momentarily something
Shivered inside with your
Acceptance of me
And I realized I was pleased, that I
Wanted to stay and that you had
Said more than just no,
You didn't want me to go.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
NBC Atlanta Observations
my roommate at the New Baptist Covenant gave a short synopsis in numbers the first night of the NBC. I found it helpful and quick, so i'm re=posting it with my own answers. truth be told, i'm really tired, depressed and feeling guilty about not blogging. So this is my quick-fix way of blogging. love to all anyway...
"the Celebration of a New Baptist Covenant by the numbers,"
MLK references by major speakers: 9 day one (but stay tuned to Tx in Africa for the full count)
Exes run into: 1
Number of times semi-acosted by members of the Secret Service who were escorting Jimmy Carter through: none - i wish i'd been accosted by Carter's secret service. that means i would have perhaps been able to shake his hand. i was about 20 rows behind him for one of the sessions though and it was awesome!
Level of fanhood of Al Gore: higher than before
Total number of sermons that Tony Campolo still has: 1 (according to Tx in Africa)
Quality of Tony Campolo's one sermon: skipped it to sleep in - knew i had heard it before :)
Best sermon: aw man... um... james forbes/joel gregory/charles adams - that's cheating, i know.
New hero: Julie Pennington Russell - i want to be her someday - except i want to be me being her.
Number of times I grabbed my neighbor's arm and whispered, "Can you believe we're about to hear Clinton? Where IS he!?": 3
Number of times I called Jimmy Carter "cute": innumerable
Number of welcoming and affirming Baptist groups allowed to sponsor the NBC: 0
Number of welcoming and affirming Baptist groups that have a booth at the NBC: 1
Number of buttons I wore to protest the welcoming and affirming Baptist groups not being allowed to sponsor the NBC: 1 (thank you Alan)
Number of buttons I had supporting welcoming and affirming Baptist groups: 2
Most ridiculously over-the-top displays in the entryway to the plenary hall that can apparently be bought when your president plans the event: Mercer University. (I didn't even find Truett's booth until the last day!)
Number of times our alarm clock made a funny, inexplicable sound all night long every hour on the half hour: 6
Amount of REM sleep I got, even with earplugs: 0 - plenty of nightmares though
Parts of my life from which I have run into people associated with those times and places: Truett, William Jewell, Mosaic, Current, IME, SWBYC, Austin, CBF...
So that's her quiz with some of my answers. It was such a beautiful experience. I will try to write more when I'm feeling better. Unity is amazing.
And these three remain: faith, hope and love. And the greatest of these is love.
"the Celebration of a New Baptist Covenant by the numbers,"
MLK references by major speakers: 9 day one (but stay tuned to Tx in Africa for the full count)
Exes run into: 1
Number of times semi-acosted by members of the Secret Service who were escorting Jimmy Carter through: none - i wish i'd been accosted by Carter's secret service. that means i would have perhaps been able to shake his hand. i was about 20 rows behind him for one of the sessions though and it was awesome!
Level of fanhood of Al Gore: higher than before
Total number of sermons that Tony Campolo still has: 1 (according to Tx in Africa)
Quality of Tony Campolo's one sermon: skipped it to sleep in - knew i had heard it before :)
Best sermon: aw man... um... james forbes/joel gregory/charles adams - that's cheating, i know.
New hero: Julie Pennington Russell - i want to be her someday - except i want to be me being her.
Number of times I grabbed my neighbor's arm and whispered, "Can you believe we're about to hear Clinton? Where IS he!?": 3
Number of times I called Jimmy Carter "cute": innumerable
Number of welcoming and affirming Baptist groups allowed to sponsor the NBC: 0
Number of welcoming and affirming Baptist groups that have a booth at the NBC: 1
Number of buttons I wore to protest the welcoming and affirming Baptist groups not being allowed to sponsor the NBC: 1 (thank you Alan)
Number of buttons I had supporting welcoming and affirming Baptist groups: 2
Most ridiculously over-the-top displays in the entryway to the plenary hall that can apparently be bought when your president plans the event: Mercer University. (I didn't even find Truett's booth until the last day!)
Number of times our alarm clock made a funny, inexplicable sound all night long every hour on the half hour: 6
Amount of REM sleep I got, even with earplugs: 0 - plenty of nightmares though
Parts of my life from which I have run into people associated with those times and places: Truett, William Jewell, Mosaic, Current, IME, SWBYC, Austin, CBF...
So that's her quiz with some of my answers. It was such a beautiful experience. I will try to write more when I'm feeling better. Unity is amazing.
And these three remain: faith, hope and love. And the greatest of these is love.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
I am in Atlanta and I am tired.
This past week - actually the past five days (not counting today) have been some of the hardest days of my 10,848 days of existence. (don't ask me what compelled me to attempt the math on that). That's one reason for the lack of blogging. Even my ever-faithful grandma has almost given up checking.
Although it is not appropriate to share details of these five days on the internet, suffice it to say I have a very hard job. It's right up there with social workers and psychologists and probably acrobats.
But I'm alive. I'm breathing. I have hope. And not everyone is that lucky.
So I'm counting my blessings and helping others count theirs. And helping them to count their sorrows. Because lamentation is a key element to spiritual health and also healing.
By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we thought of home so far away.
On the branches of the willow trees we hung our harps, and hid our hearts from the enemy.
And the men that surrounded us made demands that we clap our hands and sing.
Please don't make us sing this song.
It used to be happy when we were free and home.
If I can't remember, may I never sing a song again.
And so, if you think your life is hard, call me and I will tell you about the lives of my friends. And I will tell you about the stellar staff that I work with, and the amazing church that i call community. This will remind you that you are not alone... or make you feel bad for complaining.
The church of Christ in every age, beset by change, but Spirit led,
must claim and test its heritage and keep on rising from the dead.
This past week - actually the past five days (not counting today) have been some of the hardest days of my 10,848 days of existence. (don't ask me what compelled me to attempt the math on that). That's one reason for the lack of blogging. Even my ever-faithful grandma has almost given up checking.
Although it is not appropriate to share details of these five days on the internet, suffice it to say I have a very hard job. It's right up there with social workers and psychologists and probably acrobats.
But I'm alive. I'm breathing. I have hope. And not everyone is that lucky.
So I'm counting my blessings and helping others count theirs. And helping them to count their sorrows. Because lamentation is a key element to spiritual health and also healing.
By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we thought of home so far away.
On the branches of the willow trees we hung our harps, and hid our hearts from the enemy.
And the men that surrounded us made demands that we clap our hands and sing.
Please don't make us sing this song.
It used to be happy when we were free and home.
If I can't remember, may I never sing a song again.
And so, if you think your life is hard, call me and I will tell you about the lives of my friends. And I will tell you about the stellar staff that I work with, and the amazing church that i call community. This will remind you that you are not alone... or make you feel bad for complaining.
The church of Christ in every age, beset by change, but Spirit led,
must claim and test its heritage and keep on rising from the dead.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
a poem
neglect. neglect. neglect.
I know, know, know.
But I'm too tired to go.
So milk the cows yourself today.
I know, know, know.
But I'm too tired to go.
So milk the cows yourself today.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Book Tag
As one of the two people who I guess read his blog, I've been tagged by Blogging Yosarian.
1. One book that changed your life:
Genesis by God, the Yahwists, the Elohists and probably a few other people...
2. One book that you’ve read more than once:
To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
3. One book you’d want on a desert island:
The Bible - I know, I'm just like that. It's so long though! And it'd keep you occupied for days. Months even!
4. Two books that made you laugh:
Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott
5. One book that made you cry:
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
6. One book that you wish had been written:
The one in my head...
7. One book that you wish had never been written:
Any book by Ann Coulter :(
8. Two books you’re currently reading:
Watermelon by Marian Keyes - the children's minister at my church handed it to me and said, "this is what I imagine your family is like..." awesome.
Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt - I don't actually own it. I started reading it in a Barnes & Noble on the Plaza and now need to finish it!
9. One book you’ve been meaning to read:
The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama - I'm quite curious about him and Hilary.
10. Now tag five (or so) people:
Lynnette Davidson
Sam Davidson
Sarah Pitre
Michelle Gold
Frank Drew
1. One book that changed your life:
Genesis by God, the Yahwists, the Elohists and probably a few other people...
2. One book that you’ve read more than once:
To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
3. One book you’d want on a desert island:
The Bible - I know, I'm just like that. It's so long though! And it'd keep you occupied for days. Months even!
4. Two books that made you laugh:
Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott
5. One book that made you cry:
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
6. One book that you wish had been written:
The one in my head...
7. One book that you wish had never been written:
Any book by Ann Coulter :(
8. Two books you’re currently reading:
Watermelon by Marian Keyes - the children's minister at my church handed it to me and said, "this is what I imagine your family is like..." awesome.
Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt - I don't actually own it. I started reading it in a Barnes & Noble on the Plaza and now need to finish it!
9. One book you’ve been meaning to read:
The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama - I'm quite curious about him and Hilary.
10. Now tag five (or so) people:
Lynnette Davidson
Sam Davidson
Sarah Pitre
Michelle Gold
Frank Drew
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Epiphany Sermon
The first Christmas present I received this year arrived in the mail late November. I opened the brown box with my name embossed in black permanent marker to find a crèche inside. “My first nativity,” I squealed, “and it’s Olive wood.”
I called my mother before I had even finished unwrapping the scene and sure enough, she had purchased it from her pastor who excavates in Israel every year and always brings home extra gifts. “Thank you,” I told her. “I love it.”
There was the stable with a star shooting over the top of it. There was a palm tree and a cow, a Mary, a Joseph and a removable Jesus in a manger. There were two shepherds complete with removable crooks, two sheep and two wise men.
Two wise men.
“I’m missing a magi!” I cried in dismay.
“Come on Ann,” my roommate said. “You know we don’t know how many there actually were anyway.”
“Of course I know that,” I retorted. “But I want three. This is my first crèche and I want the traditional three magi. I want them to stand just a bit further off than the shepherds since they arrived late and I want three of them.”
I mean, who puts only two magi at the manger scene?
It’s not even aesthetically pleasing.
Of course I set up my crèche on top of my grandma’s old record player anyway and resolved not to tell my mother she bought a nativity scene missing a wise man. I didn’t want her to feel bad. It did come all the way from Israel. ☺
The magi however came from the East – in the original story. They followed a star, so we call them astronomers and they brought at least three notable gifts: gold, frankincense and myrrh, so we call them rich.
Truth be told, they probably were astronomers, or better put, astrologers, since they attributed meaning to what they observed in the sky. Everyone in the Middle East did. So if Herod hadn’t been so paranoid about the baby king, he would have been troubled by the appearance of the star alone. The text says all of Jerusalem was. Stars and comets and galaxies meant something tangible to the people back then and moving celestial bodies certainly drew everyone to attention.
The magi probably were Gentiles too, foreigners from Persia-Babylonia although in tradition we like to designate the three men as from Africa, Asia and Europe. This is our efficient way of assuring that we communicate that the magi were definitely foreigners. But these Gentiles speak of a desire to see the King of the Judeans. This was not terribly out of the ordinary. Everyone in ancient Mesopotamia was waiting for a messiah, or in the case of the Essenes, messiahs. And when these foreigners saw the star over Judea, the set out to find what special event accompanied it; they set out to find the king.
These magi were not, as they are now commonly called in Christmas carols, kings, but curious men who bowed before the Jesus-child and chose to call him king. Though they weren’t kings, they knew well enough to bring gifts fit for a king and despite his humble beginning; they bowed before the young child in worship.
And while I may insist on three magi next to my manger, there may have been as many as five or 15 persons who took that long trip to Jerusalem, and brought the king of the Jews the three treasured gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. The however many men or women pooled their riches into their treasure chest and began to head west.
For as little as we know about them from these 13 verses in this one gospel, we do know enough to recognize them. Like several of the people listed in Jesus’ genealogy, the magi were foreigners who knew enough of Israel’s God to know to worship the little king. They looked to nature to teach them about the world and as Paul points out in Romans, the natural world is a valid reminder of our amazing God. They headed off on an adventure, not sure of their destination, but sure they had to go nonetheless. In an attempt to locate themselves alongside the Jewish scripture and religion, they stopped at the local palace and received a private consultation with a paranoid ruler. And they are the men, and perhaps the women, who pooled their resources to offer God the very best. We don’t know much, but we know enough to recognize them.
I’ve encountered the wise men in my life before – have you?
The wealthy people who have everything they can get their hands on but who still search the sky for something they can’t put their finger on. The lost people, the outsiders, the foreigners asking directions of the ones who hold the power, the prestige, the privilege... the map. The optimistic people who insist on giving the very best just based on a hunch that it is only in giving that they will receive. The people who start out unsure of their destination, but with a destiny they surely have to keep. The people who look to the natural and find the scriptural. The magi are all around us and in us and they describe us.
Some of us may be the startled shepherds, the ones off in left field, caught off guard in the middle of the night, but most of us are the magi – in a slow process of discovering Christ. Some of us get the lightening bolt encounter with Christ complete with angels singing and bright lights (the conversion story every youth group longs to hear), but most of us pack up our observations about the world and our questions about God, and head out on a journey to find out if what they say about Christ really is true.
The magi make sense. And yet, they make no sense at all.
I mean, who does that? Who abandons their homeland to go in search of a king of another region – and not just to find him, but to offer him gifts and worship? Speaking of worship, who worships a child, adorned not in purple majesty, but Osh Kosh overalls? Who packs a bag full of presents fit for a king, but doesn’t know who that king is yet?
The story, for all its familiarity, seems a little far-fetched.
But then, much of Matthew has so far.
This gospel writer starts his story with a genealogy that includes royalty. Now, I admit, this part is a little exciting. How many people can say they’re actually related to a king? I mean, the closest I get is that I’m a MacBeth, but that just means the women in my family are prone to killing their husbands. ☺ But Jesus’ genealogy goes beyond royalty into the depths of poverty and deprivation. His lineage includes a prostitute, explicitly noted in the text, not for her vocational infamy, but for her heroism. It includes a story of incest, also not swept under the rug below the family tree, but forthrightly stated with the daughter-in-law-turn-mother, Tamar, named and honored alongside her father-in-law/husband Judah and their twin children. This rather infamous lineage seems a little far-fetched considering it births God incarnate. Certainly God should come from royalty, but a long line of royalty and upstanding citizens. Senators maybe and preachers. Only the best of the best. ☺
And certainly God shouldn’t have been born in a cave. He shouldn’t have been born to a young girl made comfortable on old hay with hungry animals bellowing and stomping nearby. He should have been born to a princess with midwives and cool cloths and oil all around. He shouldn’t have been placed in a feeding trough but in a bassinette, golden with satin pillows and soft toys. The idea of God being born in a cave seems a little far-fetched Matthew, come on.
And shepherds being the first ones to make it to honor the birth – that doesn’t seem quite right either. Might as well have been the tattoo artists, or the café waitresses or the cattle farmers who scurried in that night smelling of their craft and trade. It should have been notable people, foreign dignitaries who came to visit God become man. Thank God the magi showed up. At least they had money to offer adequate gifts and their clothes were surely suitable; indeed the text says they bowed before the king of the Jews. Finally, God gets what God deserves.
Except that these magi, for all their expensive gifts and long travels, were not considered the most trustworthy crew. Astrologers, sages and magi were considered shifty back then - sinister sorcerers. Anyone skilled in the magic of pagan religions ought to be kept at arms length. And they were foreigners. They worshipped other gods, looked to idols for inspiration and probably even ate ham on the holidays. They were foreigners, outsiders, unclean.
And they got lost. They began to doubt the star’s ability to guide them and so they stopped in Jerusalem to consult yet another idolatrous man, King Herod. And what did that get them besides a lesson in Old Testament scripture… nothing! The text says the star eventually led them to Joseph and Mary’s dwelling! But King Herod, King Herod as we learned last week, ordered a slaughtering of the innocents after his encounter with the magi who never returned. Kill every child under two years of age!
And so those magi, the ones who actually seemed to know how to honor the birth of a king, those sorcerers, those foreigners, were the instigators, albeit innocent, but the ones who frightened the king enough to wreak havoc on an innocent town. Truly, they’re the reason pain and anguish accosted the Bethlehem community. It was their questions that ushered in a genocide, albeit unknowingly, to be associated with, spoken of in the same sentence as the birth of God.
They may have trusted greatly and brought gifts and bowed before the little king, but at what cost?
This whole story is ridiculous. Fit for Stephen King or Flannery O’Conner, not Jesus Christ, Savior of the World. What kind of a story is this where the baby King’s own people don’t know enough to worship him, so a bunch of Gentile magic men have to come in to make things right? What kind of a story starts off in cattle stall, provokes the murder of innocent children and ends up eventually with the hero dying the victim of capitol punishment?
Our story. God’s story. That’s how God’s story goes.
And ours joins right alongside it. Here we sit at Epiphany. After Advent and Christmas comes Epiphany: the celebration of the foreigners who knew enough to bow before God. Epiphany: the celebration of the beginning of Christ’s life, baptism and ministry. Epiphany: The magi came to see Jesus, and over the years, the people just kept coming – people like you and me.
Epiphany wraps up this twisted Christmas story with what will mark Christ’s career – all people being brought to God – all people: foreigners, idolators, the rich and the poor, people with names, people unworthy of being named – all come before Christ and receive the blessing of being called a child of God.
And we all get to begin again.
Epiphany. The magi. The baptism. The new birth. The new year. The closing of one chapter and the construction of a new.
As we pack up Christmas and put away presents and decorations and the only-two-magi nativity scene, may we remember the wise men, the foreigners who knew only enough to take the journey, and follow their dreams, follow the stars, and follow the stories home to God.
May this first Sunday of this new year initiate a journey for all of us to move closer to Christ in every aspect of our lives. Whether like the magi we follow nature and find scripture, or give back our gifts to the first gift-giver, or even if our journey means rejecting the Empire and choosing to go home with God – may we embrace that path without fear but with joy and worship in our hearts. He may not be where we expect him, but truly we will find the king.
Amen.
Ann Pittman
First Baptist Church January 6, 2008
I called my mother before I had even finished unwrapping the scene and sure enough, she had purchased it from her pastor who excavates in Israel every year and always brings home extra gifts. “Thank you,” I told her. “I love it.”
There was the stable with a star shooting over the top of it. There was a palm tree and a cow, a Mary, a Joseph and a removable Jesus in a manger. There were two shepherds complete with removable crooks, two sheep and two wise men.
Two wise men.
“I’m missing a magi!” I cried in dismay.
“Come on Ann,” my roommate said. “You know we don’t know how many there actually were anyway.”
“Of course I know that,” I retorted. “But I want three. This is my first crèche and I want the traditional three magi. I want them to stand just a bit further off than the shepherds since they arrived late and I want three of them.”
I mean, who puts only two magi at the manger scene?
It’s not even aesthetically pleasing.
Of course I set up my crèche on top of my grandma’s old record player anyway and resolved not to tell my mother she bought a nativity scene missing a wise man. I didn’t want her to feel bad. It did come all the way from Israel. ☺
The magi however came from the East – in the original story. They followed a star, so we call them astronomers and they brought at least three notable gifts: gold, frankincense and myrrh, so we call them rich.
Truth be told, they probably were astronomers, or better put, astrologers, since they attributed meaning to what they observed in the sky. Everyone in the Middle East did. So if Herod hadn’t been so paranoid about the baby king, he would have been troubled by the appearance of the star alone. The text says all of Jerusalem was. Stars and comets and galaxies meant something tangible to the people back then and moving celestial bodies certainly drew everyone to attention.
The magi probably were Gentiles too, foreigners from Persia-Babylonia although in tradition we like to designate the three men as from Africa, Asia and Europe. This is our efficient way of assuring that we communicate that the magi were definitely foreigners. But these Gentiles speak of a desire to see the King of the Judeans. This was not terribly out of the ordinary. Everyone in ancient Mesopotamia was waiting for a messiah, or in the case of the Essenes, messiahs. And when these foreigners saw the star over Judea, the set out to find what special event accompanied it; they set out to find the king.
These magi were not, as they are now commonly called in Christmas carols, kings, but curious men who bowed before the Jesus-child and chose to call him king. Though they weren’t kings, they knew well enough to bring gifts fit for a king and despite his humble beginning; they bowed before the young child in worship.
And while I may insist on three magi next to my manger, there may have been as many as five or 15 persons who took that long trip to Jerusalem, and brought the king of the Jews the three treasured gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. The however many men or women pooled their riches into their treasure chest and began to head west.
For as little as we know about them from these 13 verses in this one gospel, we do know enough to recognize them. Like several of the people listed in Jesus’ genealogy, the magi were foreigners who knew enough of Israel’s God to know to worship the little king. They looked to nature to teach them about the world and as Paul points out in Romans, the natural world is a valid reminder of our amazing God. They headed off on an adventure, not sure of their destination, but sure they had to go nonetheless. In an attempt to locate themselves alongside the Jewish scripture and religion, they stopped at the local palace and received a private consultation with a paranoid ruler. And they are the men, and perhaps the women, who pooled their resources to offer God the very best. We don’t know much, but we know enough to recognize them.
I’ve encountered the wise men in my life before – have you?
The wealthy people who have everything they can get their hands on but who still search the sky for something they can’t put their finger on. The lost people, the outsiders, the foreigners asking directions of the ones who hold the power, the prestige, the privilege... the map. The optimistic people who insist on giving the very best just based on a hunch that it is only in giving that they will receive. The people who start out unsure of their destination, but with a destiny they surely have to keep. The people who look to the natural and find the scriptural. The magi are all around us and in us and they describe us.
Some of us may be the startled shepherds, the ones off in left field, caught off guard in the middle of the night, but most of us are the magi – in a slow process of discovering Christ. Some of us get the lightening bolt encounter with Christ complete with angels singing and bright lights (the conversion story every youth group longs to hear), but most of us pack up our observations about the world and our questions about God, and head out on a journey to find out if what they say about Christ really is true.
The magi make sense. And yet, they make no sense at all.
I mean, who does that? Who abandons their homeland to go in search of a king of another region – and not just to find him, but to offer him gifts and worship? Speaking of worship, who worships a child, adorned not in purple majesty, but Osh Kosh overalls? Who packs a bag full of presents fit for a king, but doesn’t know who that king is yet?
The story, for all its familiarity, seems a little far-fetched.
But then, much of Matthew has so far.
This gospel writer starts his story with a genealogy that includes royalty. Now, I admit, this part is a little exciting. How many people can say they’re actually related to a king? I mean, the closest I get is that I’m a MacBeth, but that just means the women in my family are prone to killing their husbands. ☺ But Jesus’ genealogy goes beyond royalty into the depths of poverty and deprivation. His lineage includes a prostitute, explicitly noted in the text, not for her vocational infamy, but for her heroism. It includes a story of incest, also not swept under the rug below the family tree, but forthrightly stated with the daughter-in-law-turn-mother, Tamar, named and honored alongside her father-in-law/husband Judah and their twin children. This rather infamous lineage seems a little far-fetched considering it births God incarnate. Certainly God should come from royalty, but a long line of royalty and upstanding citizens. Senators maybe and preachers. Only the best of the best. ☺
And certainly God shouldn’t have been born in a cave. He shouldn’t have been born to a young girl made comfortable on old hay with hungry animals bellowing and stomping nearby. He should have been born to a princess with midwives and cool cloths and oil all around. He shouldn’t have been placed in a feeding trough but in a bassinette, golden with satin pillows and soft toys. The idea of God being born in a cave seems a little far-fetched Matthew, come on.
And shepherds being the first ones to make it to honor the birth – that doesn’t seem quite right either. Might as well have been the tattoo artists, or the café waitresses or the cattle farmers who scurried in that night smelling of their craft and trade. It should have been notable people, foreign dignitaries who came to visit God become man. Thank God the magi showed up. At least they had money to offer adequate gifts and their clothes were surely suitable; indeed the text says they bowed before the king of the Jews. Finally, God gets what God deserves.
Except that these magi, for all their expensive gifts and long travels, were not considered the most trustworthy crew. Astrologers, sages and magi were considered shifty back then - sinister sorcerers. Anyone skilled in the magic of pagan religions ought to be kept at arms length. And they were foreigners. They worshipped other gods, looked to idols for inspiration and probably even ate ham on the holidays. They were foreigners, outsiders, unclean.
And they got lost. They began to doubt the star’s ability to guide them and so they stopped in Jerusalem to consult yet another idolatrous man, King Herod. And what did that get them besides a lesson in Old Testament scripture… nothing! The text says the star eventually led them to Joseph and Mary’s dwelling! But King Herod, King Herod as we learned last week, ordered a slaughtering of the innocents after his encounter with the magi who never returned. Kill every child under two years of age!
And so those magi, the ones who actually seemed to know how to honor the birth of a king, those sorcerers, those foreigners, were the instigators, albeit innocent, but the ones who frightened the king enough to wreak havoc on an innocent town. Truly, they’re the reason pain and anguish accosted the Bethlehem community. It was their questions that ushered in a genocide, albeit unknowingly, to be associated with, spoken of in the same sentence as the birth of God.
They may have trusted greatly and brought gifts and bowed before the little king, but at what cost?
This whole story is ridiculous. Fit for Stephen King or Flannery O’Conner, not Jesus Christ, Savior of the World. What kind of a story is this where the baby King’s own people don’t know enough to worship him, so a bunch of Gentile magic men have to come in to make things right? What kind of a story starts off in cattle stall, provokes the murder of innocent children and ends up eventually with the hero dying the victim of capitol punishment?
Our story. God’s story. That’s how God’s story goes.
And ours joins right alongside it. Here we sit at Epiphany. After Advent and Christmas comes Epiphany: the celebration of the foreigners who knew enough to bow before God. Epiphany: the celebration of the beginning of Christ’s life, baptism and ministry. Epiphany: The magi came to see Jesus, and over the years, the people just kept coming – people like you and me.
Epiphany wraps up this twisted Christmas story with what will mark Christ’s career – all people being brought to God – all people: foreigners, idolators, the rich and the poor, people with names, people unworthy of being named – all come before Christ and receive the blessing of being called a child of God.
And we all get to begin again.
Epiphany. The magi. The baptism. The new birth. The new year. The closing of one chapter and the construction of a new.
As we pack up Christmas and put away presents and decorations and the only-two-magi nativity scene, may we remember the wise men, the foreigners who knew only enough to take the journey, and follow their dreams, follow the stars, and follow the stories home to God.
May this first Sunday of this new year initiate a journey for all of us to move closer to Christ in every aspect of our lives. Whether like the magi we follow nature and find scripture, or give back our gifts to the first gift-giver, or even if our journey means rejecting the Empire and choosing to go home with God – may we embrace that path without fear but with joy and worship in our hearts. He may not be where we expect him, but truly we will find the king.
Amen.
Ann Pittman
First Baptist Church January 6, 2008
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Beginnings
Beginnings.
The New Year. You gotta love it. Saying good-bye to anything and anyone even remotely unpleasant from your year and in a flash, in a matter of seconds, in a couple of bubbles swirling up out of your champagne, you call out five… four… three… two… and it’s over. A whole entire year will cease to exist ever again and a new one is upon us.
It happens that fast.
Some things in life happen like that. Some things occurred so quickly we forgot to breathe or so fast that we didn’t get a chance to get everything said or done and then suddenly, there’s no going back. The moment’s gone, the situation has changed, the people aren’t there any more. Good and evil happens quickly sometimes and there’s no going back to change it.
Other things happen much more slowly, like forgetting. For as fast as 2007 leaves us and 2008 ushers us in, the events or people we wish would disappear, we wish would finally dissipate like the last embers of a fire, truthfully still remain. They’re still burning and heating and giving light to what we may wish was the darkness of a closed door, and even if they don’t, the ashes still remain, diligent as we may be to sweep them under a rug.
As fast as the clock’s hand ticks over to 12am, life generally transitions much more slowly. For while events may happen in a second: “You’re fired.” “We’re pregnant!” “Happy 40th Birthday!” “She passed away,” the repercussions of those seconds may last a lifetime. And the clock keeps on ticking whether we want it to or not.
And so while in life oftentimes we get a chance to begin again, we also get the chance to put to rest what caused us to begin again in the first place.
With everything in life, there are doors opening and closing, sometimes so many and so often, we can’t keep track of where we are and often I don’t wonder if I’m in one great big revolving door.
The birth of a child is a beginning of a new life and a closure of the type of life the mother lived before. A new job means less free time. A lost job means more time for reflection. A new pet means more trips to the pet store and more trips to the Vet. A new hobby means a financial cutback elsewhere. A new boyfriend means fewer outings with old friends.
Doors open and close and slam shut and creak open and swing on their hinges to the point that sometimes I can’t tell my beginnings from my endings. What gets left behind and where do I start again?
That’s why I like holidays like New Year’s. It forces one to stop. Reflect. Not go to work, but instead to celebrate. Not to participate in the mundane of every work week, but to interrupt it with cause for reflection. Holidays force us to alter our schedules and in doing so often force us to alter our egos as we pause to examine ourselves and our lives and realize, maybe something needs to change.
Maybe I need to watch what I eat.
Maybe I watch too much TV every night.
Perhaps I should call my parents more often.
Why do I rely on other people’s spirituality to get me through life?
What if I stopped being so co-dependant, and tried taking my own initiative?
I like holidays because sometimes they afford us the opportunity to slow down the clock, examine ourselves and perhaps even, start over.
Begin again.
Beginnings. They’re scary, but refreshing; overwhelming, but exciting.
***
In the beginning before there was land or water or the sky or sea, God made the heavens and the earth. Then God made humanity, and it was good. In the beginning, before there was a manger or a mother or shepherds with their sheep, there was a genealogy, there was a preface, there were the people who brought us finally to the birth of a child, to a new beginning to a new goodness.
Who brought you to where you are today? Who went before you and opened doors that you could walk through them? Who walked beside you in the past, and who walks beside you now? Who in your genealogy defines who you are?
In the beginning there were shepherds and astrologers, familiar faces and foreigners who chose take their story and begin again with Christ at the center of it. In that beginning they chose to worship and they chose to go home another way. How have you reacted to encountering Christ, to hearing the story and experiencing the wonder that is a God who became a human?
In the beginning there was nature to enchant us. Kindness to humble us. Peace to center us. In the beginning as children maybe, we might have called those things God. As teenagers they might have told us that was God. As adults we have to choose to believe that is God. Over the years we might have called those experiences science, a stretch of the imagination, hormones even. But what in the beginning brought you to God? What continues to enlighten you to the grace of God now?
What happened in the beginning that needs to be remembered?
How do we need to begin again?
Maybe I should watch what I eat.
Maybe I should watch less TV.
Maybe I should call my parents more often.
Maybe I should stop relying on the spirituality of others to make me feel better.
Maybe I should stop being so co-dependant, and make up my own mind for myself.
Or maybe we should remember. Remember the beginning when God created the world and it really was good. Remember who came before us to light the way… Abraham and Isaac and Rehab and Ruth and the shepherds and the Magi and President Lincoln and Eleanor Roosevelt and Gandhi and Rosa Parks and my grandparents and my parents. All of them in their imperfect states, finding perfection only in Christ, laid the path for me to be here today.
Maybe we need to remember where we came from – that we came from God, a gift to the world. We came from the creator of the all things to participate in creation. We came to save the world, just a little bit at a time, even as God is little by little saving us.
Maybe we need to remember that life is a process – that we are always in transition. That as many doors as we would like to shut and lock, life doesn’t always work like that and metaphors will never adequately describe how life actually is. We need to remember that when life is hard, God is present and when life is amazing, God is present. And that through all the transitioning and processes and beginnings and endings one thing remains the same: God is always with us. Emmanuel. God with us. Imago Dei in us.
Amen.
Ann Pittman
Beresheth January 3, 2008
The New Year. You gotta love it. Saying good-bye to anything and anyone even remotely unpleasant from your year and in a flash, in a matter of seconds, in a couple of bubbles swirling up out of your champagne, you call out five… four… three… two… and it’s over. A whole entire year will cease to exist ever again and a new one is upon us.
It happens that fast.
Some things in life happen like that. Some things occurred so quickly we forgot to breathe or so fast that we didn’t get a chance to get everything said or done and then suddenly, there’s no going back. The moment’s gone, the situation has changed, the people aren’t there any more. Good and evil happens quickly sometimes and there’s no going back to change it.
Other things happen much more slowly, like forgetting. For as fast as 2007 leaves us and 2008 ushers us in, the events or people we wish would disappear, we wish would finally dissipate like the last embers of a fire, truthfully still remain. They’re still burning and heating and giving light to what we may wish was the darkness of a closed door, and even if they don’t, the ashes still remain, diligent as we may be to sweep them under a rug.
As fast as the clock’s hand ticks over to 12am, life generally transitions much more slowly. For while events may happen in a second: “You’re fired.” “We’re pregnant!” “Happy 40th Birthday!” “She passed away,” the repercussions of those seconds may last a lifetime. And the clock keeps on ticking whether we want it to or not.
And so while in life oftentimes we get a chance to begin again, we also get the chance to put to rest what caused us to begin again in the first place.
With everything in life, there are doors opening and closing, sometimes so many and so often, we can’t keep track of where we are and often I don’t wonder if I’m in one great big revolving door.
The birth of a child is a beginning of a new life and a closure of the type of life the mother lived before. A new job means less free time. A lost job means more time for reflection. A new pet means more trips to the pet store and more trips to the Vet. A new hobby means a financial cutback elsewhere. A new boyfriend means fewer outings with old friends.
Doors open and close and slam shut and creak open and swing on their hinges to the point that sometimes I can’t tell my beginnings from my endings. What gets left behind and where do I start again?
That’s why I like holidays like New Year’s. It forces one to stop. Reflect. Not go to work, but instead to celebrate. Not to participate in the mundane of every work week, but to interrupt it with cause for reflection. Holidays force us to alter our schedules and in doing so often force us to alter our egos as we pause to examine ourselves and our lives and realize, maybe something needs to change.
Maybe I need to watch what I eat.
Maybe I watch too much TV every night.
Perhaps I should call my parents more often.
Why do I rely on other people’s spirituality to get me through life?
What if I stopped being so co-dependant, and tried taking my own initiative?
I like holidays because sometimes they afford us the opportunity to slow down the clock, examine ourselves and perhaps even, start over.
Begin again.
Beginnings. They’re scary, but refreshing; overwhelming, but exciting.
***
In the beginning before there was land or water or the sky or sea, God made the heavens and the earth. Then God made humanity, and it was good. In the beginning, before there was a manger or a mother or shepherds with their sheep, there was a genealogy, there was a preface, there were the people who brought us finally to the birth of a child, to a new beginning to a new goodness.
Who brought you to where you are today? Who went before you and opened doors that you could walk through them? Who walked beside you in the past, and who walks beside you now? Who in your genealogy defines who you are?
In the beginning there were shepherds and astrologers, familiar faces and foreigners who chose take their story and begin again with Christ at the center of it. In that beginning they chose to worship and they chose to go home another way. How have you reacted to encountering Christ, to hearing the story and experiencing the wonder that is a God who became a human?
In the beginning there was nature to enchant us. Kindness to humble us. Peace to center us. In the beginning as children maybe, we might have called those things God. As teenagers they might have told us that was God. As adults we have to choose to believe that is God. Over the years we might have called those experiences science, a stretch of the imagination, hormones even. But what in the beginning brought you to God? What continues to enlighten you to the grace of God now?
What happened in the beginning that needs to be remembered?
How do we need to begin again?
Maybe I should watch what I eat.
Maybe I should watch less TV.
Maybe I should call my parents more often.
Maybe I should stop relying on the spirituality of others to make me feel better.
Maybe I should stop being so co-dependant, and make up my own mind for myself.
Or maybe we should remember. Remember the beginning when God created the world and it really was good. Remember who came before us to light the way… Abraham and Isaac and Rehab and Ruth and the shepherds and the Magi and President Lincoln and Eleanor Roosevelt and Gandhi and Rosa Parks and my grandparents and my parents. All of them in their imperfect states, finding perfection only in Christ, laid the path for me to be here today.
Maybe we need to remember where we came from – that we came from God, a gift to the world. We came from the creator of the all things to participate in creation. We came to save the world, just a little bit at a time, even as God is little by little saving us.
Maybe we need to remember that life is a process – that we are always in transition. That as many doors as we would like to shut and lock, life doesn’t always work like that and metaphors will never adequately describe how life actually is. We need to remember that when life is hard, God is present and when life is amazing, God is present. And that through all the transitioning and processes and beginnings and endings one thing remains the same: God is always with us. Emmanuel. God with us. Imago Dei in us.
Amen.
Ann Pittman
Beresheth January 3, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)