Art & Faith, Session Two

Art and Faith:

finding beauty and claiming it…

(From my lecture series to Baptist pastors in Guatemala, January 2011)

What is art? It’s a question my professor posed to us in my seminary class my final semester seven years ago. What is art? Is art good?

Art, I believe looks like a lot of different things, and art, I believe, has a lot to do with faith. James writes, “Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.”[1] James echoes the Psalmist who writes in chapter 16 verse 2, “I said to the LORD, ‘You are my Lord; I have no good besides You’.”[2] In other words, all good comes from God. If we see something in this world that is good, that is of God, for goodness cannot be attributed to anything but God.

It is with this presupposition that we approach our topic “Art and Faith” today. All good comes from God.

I would also like to presuppose that Beauty exposes God. We see beauty, which excites us, and reminds us of what is good. Beauty allows us to catch a glimpse of the deep longing of the soul. As such, Beauty mediates truth and goodness to us. And in that way it is wonderful when it reminds us of all that is good in the world and of the goodness of God, but beauty has a painful side too, because it represents what we cannot yet have.

While in the United States art in churches has made resurgence in the past fifteen years, in the grand scheme of church history, art and faith were not concepts that remain segregated. Rather, art has played a vital part of Christians worship and faith journey since the beginning.

In archaeology we find fresco walls and floors in houses of both Jewish and Jewish-Christians. We find mosaics and drawings, sculptures and paintings. As the church developed into a separate entity, indeed, a religion of its own, iconography developed as a way that people could connect with God. If you’ve ever heard a song that stirred your soul, or seen a painting that moved you to tears, or watched a play in a theater the drew you into contemplation of the divine, then you understand the point of iconography. And while in the US, we worship in boring square buildings with grey walls and brown folding chairs, early Christians took great pride in their worship buildings and even their architecture was designed to draw people’s eyes heavenward.

There’s a beautiful story about Prince Vladimir the Great, the pagan monarch of Kiev, and in this version of the story, Prince Vladimir was looking for a new religion to unify the Russian people. He invited missionaries from many countries to come to Kiev: Moslem Bulgarians, German Latins, Jews and Greeks. Islam, Judaism, Roman Catholic, and Orthodoxy.[3] The Prince asked them about their creeds, and each of the visitors offered him a summary of his own belief system. Upon counseling with his boyars, Vladimir sent 10 wise men to check out each of these men’s worship places in person. The envoys that had investigated Christianity in the Byzantine capital of Constantinople reported finding a faith characterized by such transcendent beauty that they did not know if they were in heaven or on earth. "And we went into the Greek lands, and we were led into a place where they serve their God, and we did not know where we were, on heaven or on earth; and do not know how to tell about this. All we know is that God lives there with people and their service is better than in any other country. We cannot forget that beauty since each person, if he eats something sweet, will not take something bitter afterwards; so we cannot remain any more in paganism."[4] When the Russian envoys arrived in Constantinople they were impressed to the depth of their souls by the splendor of the St. Sofia cathedral, the harmonious singing of the royal choir and the grandeur of the service conducted by the Patriarch.[5] What affected the envoys and persuaded Prince Vladimir to embrace Christianity was “not its apologetics or ethics, but its aesthetics—its beauty. Thus we might say it was beauty that brought salvation to the Russian people."[6]

Additionally, much of the beautiful art that decorates cathedrals and churches across Europe came from Papal Commissionings. In the Pope’s budget was a line item for “Art.” Beautiful physical expression of what we believe about God. Of course from this Papal Commissioning we get one of the most famous works of Christian faith: the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

“Beauty will save the world.” Fyodor Dostoevsky once wrote. And my former pastor, Kyle Lake, at the end of every service would say, “Love God, Embrace Beauty and live life to the fullest."

What these two men were getting at is what we noted before. Beauty is redemptive and it is all around us. So we must cling to it.

And we must claim it.

A pastor in my home town asks and answers his own question, “Along with apologetics and ethics is there also an aesthetics that belongs to the gospel of Jesus Christ? Yes! Beauty is integral to the gospel."[7]

Oftentimes as Christians we try to separate ourselves from our culture. We try to be “in the world, but not of the world.” And in the U.S., many Christians reject what they call the “secular” world because they figure what good can come from people who aren’t of God. Well, a lot of good, I’d wager. Remember those verses we read earlier? All good comes from God. So when a Hollywood movie teaches us about peace, I can call that story good. Or when a novel about politics exposes corruption in the world and demands restitution be made, I can call that good. Or when a song on the radio tells the story of love conquering all, I can call that good. And all of that goodness comes from God.

Enuma Okoro, a conservative Baptist woman who gives conferences about art and faith in the U.S. writes, “I've come to believe that the arts are an essential tool for spiritual formation. Perhaps surprisingly, I've also come to recognize and appreciate that even art devoid of intentional Christian imagery can have transformative effects on how I understand the human condition and my relationship to God."[8]

As Minister of Discipleship at my last church, I was given a grant to create an intimate Black Box Theater (seating between 50-115 people). With a team, we began the theater troupe: Trinity Street Players (our church was located on Trinity Street). We used this sacred space on this fourth floor quadrant of our church to produce not "Christian" plays meant to manipulate or moralize our audiences, but good theatrical works, that we invited the city of Austin to participate in watching, laughing, crying and learning from. It was a theater that could produce well-written plays and musicals for the entertainment, education and enlightenment for not only our own members, but the greater Austin arts community. And in doing that, people began to audition for these shows who were from other churches (I'm always a fan of collaboration!) and some were people who don't attend church at all. One person who hadn't even come yet to see one of our productions but heard about our theater and our church said, "Now that's a church I could get behind!"

Regarding worship...

“We are generally more accustomed to defend Christianity in terms of its truth and goodness. But beauty also belongs to the Christian faith. And beauty has a way of sneaking past our defenses and speaking to us in unique ways. To a generation suspicious of truth claims and unconvinced by moral assertions, beauty has a surprising allure.”[9]

Liturgical elements to consider when reflecting on how to integrate art into worship...

• Architecture
• Building structure
• Interior – baptismal fonts, pews, chairs, etc.
• In a worship space/décor
• Interior Design
• Colors
• Wall art
• Stained glass
• Pews/ chairs
• Pulpit, choir, etc.
• Music
• Lyrics
• Musicality
• Story
• Sermon Testimony
• Retelling scripture
• Poetry
• Dance
• Liturgical dance
• Congregational dancing (children’s movements - putting motions to songs)
• Theater
• In worship
• As an art form (Trinity Street Players performed The Diaries of Adam and Eve by Mark Twain, Inherit the Wind by Jerome Lawrence, Steel Magnolias by Robert Harling, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson, You Can't Take It With You by Kaufman & Hart, The Fantasticks by Jones & Schmidt, and Shadowlands by William Nicholson.)
• Film
• In worship – illustrate a sermon or illustrate a theme
• As an art form: Films and Faith, or God In the Movies small groups or sermon series...

To elaborate...

ARCHITECTURE: God specifically requested "Bezalel ... to devise artistic designs" in Exodus 35, God requested that the tabernacle curtains be made of "fine twined linen and blue and purple and scarlet yarns, with cherubim skillfully worked"[10]; not to mention the breathtakingly beautiful detailed tailoring of the priestly vestments in Exodus 39.[11]

ART: used in worship “in a culture that has become increasingly visual, the traditional spoken sermon is failing to reach people, he said, and may explain why attendance has fallen off in many mainline churches."[12] Check out the following images (more were used in my powerpoint and are listed below):[13]

Portrait of You As the Good Samaritan by James B. Janknegt

Praying at Gethsemene by He Qi

SONG: George Frideric Handel found the lyrics for his Hallelujah chorus in the book of Revelation which would be read better not as a document telling us about the end time, but as a book of songs and poems for a persecuted people to recite and sing and give them hope. Revelation doesn’t have any plans or formulas, but the songs of a broken people.

SERMON: Gail Godwin says, "Good teaching is one-fourth preparation and three-fourths theater." We addressed this yesterday.

POETRY: Walt Whitman writes, “After the seas are all cross’d, (as they seem already cross’d,)
After the great captains and engineers have accomplish’d their work,
After the noble inventors, after the scientists, the chemists, the geologist, ethnologist,
Finally shall come the poet worthy of that name,
The true son of God shall come singing his songs.” Use poetry in your worship services!


THEATER: In worship – "If dramas are performed and immediately interpreted propositionally for the community, this is an act of irresponsibility toward our mind’s ability to imagine and discern and toward the Holy Spirit’s working power. Theology must always be watchful lest anything in the church’s way of stating the gospel reduce rather than enhance its credibility.”[14]

At my last church, I ran an experiential, alternative worship service. Each week I brought in a different worship leader and speaker. The service was created from my ideas about the Genesis 1 creation story: lots of colors and sound and movement. So, on one wall of the chapel where we met, I ran a powerpoint of works of art related to the theme or text and quotes from theologians, historians, comedians, etc. On the other wall was our liturgy which included biblical readings, poetry, prayers, responsive or congregational reading, songs for the congregation to sing, solo pieces by the musician of the week, etc. Lighting candles was another liturgical element (we tried even to engage our sense of smell - without offending any allergy sufferers). In addition, we had silence as a part of our worship service, and the sermon was limited to 10 minutes long. And speakers could do one sermon or two shorter 5 minute spoken words. Remember, in the Genesis text God said, "Let there be... and it is good!" And that's it! So the entire service was not centered around a sermon that served as the climax to the service, but rather all elements of the service were given (or tried to be given) equality opportunity for God to communicate with the people and for us to worship God.

I tell you this not so that you can go recreate this service in your own church. Be yourself! Allow for indigenous worship in your community. Don’t imitate!

Helpful Resources

• www.artsandfaith.com
• www.imagejournal.org
• http://www.faithink.com

“It is difficult to pinpoint what it is exactly that makes our spirits respond in a raw and instinctive way to the arts. Perhaps it is because engaging the arts reminds us that we are made in the image of a divine artist, a God who colored the sky and the flowers; who delights in trees that are pleasing to the eye; who specifically requested us to make things that are beautiful."[15]

It is imperative that we let the imagination and God do their work…. Key is spotting goodness and allowing it to be good. All good comes from God. We don’t have to re-appropriate everything cultural to make it our own, but we can learn from our cultural arts, we can let them teach us. And we can offer back to them…

---

[1] James 1:17

[2] Psalm 16:2

[3] http://www.suite101.com/content/origins-of-eastern-orthodoxy-a4436

[4] (Primary Chronicle, trans. George Kalbouss)

[5] http://www.fatheralexander.org/booklets/english/saints/vladimir_prince.htm

[6, 7, 9] http://brianzahnd.com/beauty-will-save-the-world/

[8, 10, 15] http://www.boundless.org/2005/articles/a0001487.cfm

[11] Exodus 36:8

[12] Diane Reynolds summarizing Douglas Adams.

[13] White Crucifixion by Marc Chagall, a Jewish artist; The Thankful Poor by Henry Ossawa Tanner (an Episcopal Minister’s son); Praying at Gethsemene by He Qi a Chinese Christian; Portrait of You as the Good Samaritan by James B. Janknegt; The Return of the Prodigal Son by Rembrandt; The Baptism by Maria Alquilar, a Haitian; Sistine Chapel: Creation of Adam by Michaelangelo, Italian renaissance (commissioned by Pope Julius II); Crucifixion (Corpus Hypercubus ou Crucifixion) by Salvador Dali, a Spanish atheist turn Catholic Nuclear Mystic; Japan's Madonna Basilica of the Annunciation, Nazareth.

[14] J.I. Packer

Evita!

So after quitting my job last September, I wrote a Mondo Beyondo list on my blog. And as of tomorrow, one goal on that list will be crossed off.

I will open in Evita at the Georgetown Palace Theater, and I will be playing Eva Peron.

Dying.

Just a little bit.

Inside.

And on the stage, come to think of it.

Oops. Spoiler alert. Too late. Eva dies. In case you don't know your world history (or your musical theater history), she dies. Young. 33 years old.

One of the fellow cast members (a drunk, a dancer, a worker, a newspaper man, a mourner, an oligarch, everyone kind of plays everyone in this show) is super tech savvy. He's also looking for a job right now, so hire him! He made an iPhone app for The Palace Theater, so you can check out how many seats are left for a certain performance, and reserve your ticket. (Note, there will always show more seats available than there actually are because some seats are taken out for handicapped accessibility, etc. So in general subtract 10 and that's how many seats are left). Download the free app!

Local G-town photographer, Elaine Funk, did a photo shoot with me to get the picture for the poster, and one of the young girls in the play (I call her "mini-me" because she sings "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" with me at the start of the show), her father, Rich Simms, designed the poster! Awesome!

Over the past few months I've read several books on Eva Duarte de Peron and her husband, the President of Argentine, Juan Peron. They were an interesting couple and hotly debated among politicians and Argentines. Much myth encapsulates the couple, and it is often difficult to know what really did or did not happen, so grandiose are the stories told praising and criticizing them on both sides of the fence.

A short synopsis though? Eva was born in the lowest class system (one could argue "caste" system) in Junin, Argentina. She was the youngest of five children born illegitimately to her mother and Senor Duarte, a man, who like most men in Argentina in that time, kept a mistress in addition to his wife and children.

Eva's father was middle class, a step up from the lower, working class. This caste included educated persons and university students as well as business men. And the cream of the crop? Who sat first class? The "oligarchs." Landowners, so wealthy, they made the disparity between rich and poor Argentines one of the most divided in the whole world at that time.

Eva escaped Junin by joining a theater troupe, a very rough vocation for women and men of that time. Poorly paid, she managed to survive in Buenos Aires, and worked her way to eventual stardom in radio and film. After a devastating earthquake in San Juan, Eva and many other actors met General Juan Peron at a charity event to raise money for victims of the tragedy.

It was love at first sight. Or something like that.

After a series of coups, including one that left Peron (at that time, a minister in the President's cabinet) in prison, Eva and Peron rose to power, and he was eventually elected President of Argentina in 1946. Campaigning on behalf of the descamisados, or "shirtless ones," social justice was Eva and Peron's political platform. And indeed they brought about much reform in Argentina. Fairer elections, women's suffrage, hospitals, schools, unions, all instituted under their leadership. However, the propaganda required by the Peronistas (members of the political party) to keep the Perons in power, was overwhelming. And those who opposed Peron or Eva, or even voiced moderate criticism of their endeavors, were silenced and often disappeared. The Perons were a paranoid pair who spent as much time giving voice to those without one as they did silencing those who spoke out against them. They were lavish spenders as well, and Eva was known for her Parisian dresses, closets-full of furs and beautiful jewelry. On her "Rainbow Tour" of Europe in 1947, it is said that she had a separate airplane just for her clothing. By the time of Eva's death, Argentina, one of the wealthiest nations in first half of the century, was now suffering and even rationing food.

Eva fell ill several years later, and died from cancer at the age of 33 (though the public was told she was only 30). Check out this video clip of her 5 day funeral... (especially around minute 1 - cue flowers, and minute 2, cue long lines).

Her death, like her life, was a mysterious one. Peron had her corpse embalmed by an Italian chemist, and it was on display for the public until Peron was overthrown in a coup. Eva's body disappeared for 16 or 17 years (buried in Milan by the army under a false name), but Peron brought it back to stay with him and his third wife, Isabel (Eva and his first wife both died young) in Spain, where they kept it on their dining room table. Creepy.

Peron, Isabel and Eva returned to Argentina when in 1973, Peron was re-elected President, and Isabel, Vice-President. When Peron died the next year leaving the unexperienced and unprepared Isabel (first female President in the Western Hemisphere -sigh) in charge, she quickly brought Eva's body back to Argentina where it now rests in a tomb in Buenos Aires said to be able to withstand even a nuclear attack.

And that, my friends, is a brief synopsis of Eva Peron.

And that is who I will be for the next five weeks.

Fridays and Saturdays at 7:30pm and Sundays at 2pm. Buy your tickets here or check out the Palace's website for more information. Or call 512-869-SHOW (7469) to reserve your seat. Warning, I have an understudy - and she's great! - but if you want to see me, make sure you come to one of the following performances: Feb 18, 19, 20, 25, 26, 27, March 4, 5, 12, 18, 29, 20. Tickets are regrettably expensive for community theater, but I think it's worth it! $24 for regular peeps, $22 for seniors, $14 for students and military with I.D., and $10 for kids.

happy valentine's day 2011

So on my facebook author page, I've been running the 14 days of Valentine... fourteen posts in fourteen days with articles and stories I've written about men and relationships over the past five years or so. Some are more recent while others, I really had to dig deep to find. To recap...

February 2... "The Windy City, Harry Potter, and the Importance of a Glerb"

February 3... "Reinventing Dating"

February 4... "More About Men"

February 5... "33 Days and Counting"

February 6... "I Walked Through the Door"

February 7... "Reflections On Relationships"

February 8... "85 Days and the Loneliest Job In the World"

February 9... "Well, That Was Different"

February 10... "What It Says About You In the Papers"

February 11... "I Smelled of Smoke and Men"

February 12... "I Went To My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding: A Sermon"

February 13... "Cats and Cookies"

And today's the day. But it's a little anti-climatic. I feel obligated to post something about the dreaded day even though it doesn't feel differently from any other. People have sent me beautiful graphics...

And wonderful videos (with compromising language, so I'm refraining from posting them here). And another lonely soul from Georgetown invited me to lunch at La Madeline. And KiKi and Pitty sent me a cute card about how I'm a princess (cleverly stuffed with money!). And my grandmother who collects, well, everything, posted this picture of a card my Great-Grandfather gave to my Great-Grandmother in 1907, one hundred and four years ago!

Kind of amazing.

But this was my day today, awake at 6:55pm after a 9.5 hour tech rehearsal (with one dinner break) yesterday (11 hours if you count driving time). Fed my neglected dog. Minimally got ready for the day (threw on clothes, brushed my teeth, did not brush my hair but put it in a pony tail), ate some of my roomie's cereal (because I haven't been to the grocery store in over two weeks ) and drove to Cedar Park.

I arrived to find everyone already awake. Bethany and the baby were eating breakfast out of the same bowl, cream of wheat with peanut butter in it. Gabe was loading the dishwasher and taking out the trash.

Why were they awake this early? Well, Tessla had awoken at 7:30, who knows why. Gabe had a morning meeting at work. And Bethany? Well, she has her second round of chemo today at the hospital in Round Rock. (If you missed her story, click here.)

"Here's the errands I need run. Stuff that needs to be dropped off places. It's all labeled," she said. "And I packed Tessla's overnight bag, everything except food. You can take care of that."

Yep. I'll be nannying tonight on Valentine's Day. Tessla will have her first slumber party at Auntie Ann's. And Auntie Ann doesn't have time to think about men or being lonely or wishing someone had bought her a "day at the spa" package or maybe a "pre-paid trip to the dentist" package. No time. No time for nice dinners at our favorite restaurant, no time for wine and chocolate and a little snuggle time in the TV room where the candles are dripping onto the furniture. No time for anything but the essentials: changing diapers, running errands, visiting the hospital, and practicing sign language for words like "please," "thank you," "mommy," and "story."

That's my life right now. And a fourteen and a half month old baby will be my Valentine this year while her daddy stays with her mommy who wants to get well.

If my perspective on this day weren't so acute, I might have posted about one of my favorite songs by Patty Griffin...

or perhaps written, not of how Jesus is my Valentine, but about the intent of Love, reflecting in part on the lyrics of Mumford and Sons song, Sigh No More:

Love it will not betray you

Dismay or enslave you, it will set you free

Be more like the man you were made to be

There is a design, an alignment, a cry

Of my heart to see,

The beauty of love as it was made to be.

But I won't. Not this Valentine's Day. Nope. No sad bastard music or morbid Glenn Close movies. No long hours of journaling into the night. Just some green pea Gerber baby food and a little Goodnight Moon for me.

And maybe that's all it takes.

For me and my valentine.

Valentine's Day 2011

Sometimes when i take Tessla on a walk, we don't get very far. Only two houses down and across the street lives a lonely old man whose wife died of cancer two years ago. I learned this at the end of last year, when he stopped me to talk to him, I explained I didn't live in the house across from him, but only nannied there, and he proceeded to tell me his life story: how he and his wife had come to buy this house, their journey to Texas from Michigan, their children and their kids kids and how his wife died and cancer and life couldn't be more unbearable.

Shortly after the New Year, Tessla and I were out walking (well, I was walking and Tessla was being strolled in her stroller) and I saw Bob at the end of his driveway, I slowed down as we approached (having only just revved up out of Tessla's driveway), and said hello. "How was your Christmas," I asked, knowing the answer. But the tears still burned my eyes when I heard his reply: "Oh it was wonderful," he said with a smile of a memory, "except my wife missed it."

"She died, you know, two years ago."

"Yes, I remember."

"Sixty-two years with someone and then they're gone. I was going through a box the other day and found letters we had written one another. In one she had written to me many years ago she wrote, 'I only pray that I will go first because I couldn't bear to live without you.' But what about me?" He asked, his eyes welling up with tears. "What if I can't live without her? They say women are more attached, that men can take loss better, but she didn't think about how I would feel."

"Yes, well, sir, I'm sorry for your loss. I'll talk to you again soon." Having only broken up with my latest boyfriend a week or so previous to this conversation, I was thankful the sunglasses keeping out Texas' blaring January sun were hiding my brimming eyes.

I choked out a sob when we were out of earshot, and scolded myself for being so sensitive.

Last week I saw him waiting at the end of his driveway again. "You've got something on your nose," I almost blurted out but then realized it was sunblock. January in Texas. "I've got a cancerous spot on my nose, see" he explained. "But I like to sit out in the sun. So I lather it up to protect myself." I saw his lawn chair sitting at the top of his raked driveway. "Since I've started doing that it's gotten better."

"That's good," I said encouragingly. "Tessla's mom's cancer is back. She starts her first round of chemo on Monday," I informed him.

"Oh it's back?" he said, discouraged. "I took her over one of my wife's wigs last year when she was first diagnosed. My wife died of cancer, you know."

"Yes, I know."

And then he told me the whole story of her diagnosis, the treatment, telling the doctor the treatment would wait because she had a new grandbaby in Michigan to go see first, the story of getting free hotel rooms at casinos along the way to Michigan and back because "I've got cancer," she'd say.

Tessla began to whine and we left him to continue our walk. "Thank you for talking to me, young lady. I always look forward to it. You're very beautiful."

"Thank you, sir."

"Come up to the house anytime."

"Yes, sir."

Jim Harrison writes in his poem, Angry Women,

"The women we've mistreated never forgive us
nor should they, thus their ghostly energies
thrive at dawn and twilight in this vast country
where any of the mind's movies can be played
against this rumpled wide-screened landscape."

I wonder if I haunt the minds or dreams of any of my ex-boyfriends: the ones who were good, or the ones who were unkind, uncommunicative, or uncommitted. I wonder if anyone will remember me fondly after sixty-two years of marriage. I wonder if anyone will ever marry me. Or rather, if I'll marry them.

How is it that some people find true love, and seem so inseparable, so wonderfully entangled in their significant other while the rest of the world seems to find love and marriage so difficult, such hard work, that it perhaps is "not even worth it if it weren't for the kids." Yes, someone said that to me the other day.

Why risk getting married if those are my options?

"He always looks like he's keeping score. Who's winning Robert?" one of the married couples surrounding their one single friend in Sondheim's classic musical Company asks.

"Who's winning?"

I got an email this week from an old friend. "My wife and I (of over 20 years) are separating."

The last time I saw them, they hadn't slept apart from one another in seven years and counting. They'd slept next to one another for over seven years. Even if that meant driving most of the night home from whatever city one of them had been working in just to snuggle up next to the one they loved for a few hours of quiet sleep.

Shocking.

Score one for the "don't do it."

Three weeks ago a neighbor sat himself down in my house and confided in me that "these computers now-a-days, well anything will pop up on them, and a man's just gotta take a look once or twice." Two weeks ago, I listened to a man who confessed two divorces, two kids, and a myriad of mistakes and miscalculations. Last week I met with an ex-boyfriend who admitted he wasn't willing to do the hard work of addressing some of the problems that drove us apart, that drives him away from all his significant relationships. "Too expensive, and who wants to find a new therapist?..." he trailed off.

Two. Three. Four.

"Do you know anyone who's healthy?" a girlfriend asked me the other day.

"Yes," I said, disgusted at her insinuations. Either I have bad taste in friends, or we're all so screwed up we ought to settle for "not quite right" in our lives.

Yehoshua Nobember writes in his poem, After Our Wedding,

"When you forgot the address of our hotel
in your suitcase,
the driver had to pull over
in front of the restaurant.

Men and women dining beneath the August sun
looked up from their salads
to clap for you,
a young, slender woman
in a wedding dress and tiara,
retrieving a slip of paper
from the trunk of a cab
in the middle of the street.

And since that day,
many of the guests at our wedding have divorced
or are gone,
and the restaurant has closed
to become a tattoo parlor.
And we have misplaced and found
many more papers,
but no one was clapping.

And the motion of the lives around us
has been like a great bus
slowly turning onto a crowded street.
And some of the passengers
have fallen asleep in their seats,

while others anxiously search
their jacket pockets
for the notes that might wed
their ordinary lives
to something lofty and astonishing."

And I guess that's where I am as Valentine's Day Twenty-Eleven approaches. I hate the day. "Why do you decorate for Valentine's Day if you hate it so much?" my new-to-the-home roomie asked.

"I'm trying to convince myself otherwise."

A holiday designed just to remind us of how alone we really are - of how we won't get flowers or a card or gift from someone special.

A holiday to remind us how no one will crawl into bed with us that night and whisper I love you in our left ear, our bad ear, before settling back into their own pillow and snoring softly while the cat circles over their knees and settles for sleep himself.

A holiday promoting PDA.

I just threw up a little. In my mouth. It burned my nose.

But seriously, I want it. Don't you? Don't you want the very ordinary act of falling in love and know that even if just to the two of you, even if just for a little while, it is lofty, astonishing... sacred?

Yeah, so do I.

A Protest Sign

Dear "Christians" against Obama, get your facts straight.

Tabitha House

We entered Guatemala and checked into a hotel with wi-fi. Thank God. Finally, a chance to reconnect with civilization. I hadn't been on Facebook in three days; I only checked my email for a few minutes on a friend's computer I borrowed. My phone had no service.

I snuggled under the down comforter on one of two queen sized beds in my room. Fourteen pillows for one person seemed excessive, but as I was the only woman on the trip, I didn't have to share!

The next day we would wake up, go visit a ministry of a woman who helped organize the trip and then off to Antigua to sight-see.

Truth be told, I wasn't too hip on going to visit the Tabitha House. We'd been conferencing with pastors in Guatemala for two days straight. Hours upon hours of church talk. I was exhausted, the other pastor's seemed to be wearing down too and quite frankly too much God-talk can make one resent God. Or at least the one talking.

But Carol was nice and I wanted to seem supportive of her (she was the only other actively ministering woman on the trip - i.e. she ran her own ministry instead of being the wife of someone in the ministry).

Edwin, our driver, picked us up at the hotel (30 minutes late, of course), and we began the drive to the Tabitha House. "There's the aqua duct that the Mayans built. Of course, we don't use it now."

"Of course, right." The boys had let me have the front seat either out of chivalry or because I get carsick. Their motives could have been mixed.

"And there's the zoo."

"Aw man! I could have gone to the zoo today?!" I lamented not having received this information earlier so I could have taxied to the zoo and return by the half-an-hour later leave time we had scheduled.

And then the traffic died down and the streets got smaller and we turned onto roads more like alleys than anything. Lined with vendors selling fruits and deodorant and scarves. All things colorful and Guatemalan. And then we approached the dump. It had a huge fence around it. And there were areas of the fence that were black where they'd been burning things. Then outside lining the walls of the dump or across the street were vendors who had recovered things from the dump and were reselling them. There were trucks, like good Texans drive, except twenty years older and white with rust on them piled high with bags of trash or recycling. Like in America, where we save our coke cans to give to the janitor of the church where we're employed, if you can dig through the trash and pick out the right things, you can make a little extra money.


Except for these people it's their only income.

They live across from the dump and you could see the shanties were just scraps of metal leaned up against each other like card house only not as precise or angular.

The dump is situated on top of a marsh. Unstable ground. It's fine for an adult. But for the women and men who go out there with their infants or kids, it can be a dangerous place. Trash piles shift, grounds are sludge, and children, well, they sink.

And that's just one reason why Tabitha House exists.

We walked up to the conspicuous un-labeled door and Edwin knocked. The silent woman slid back the peep box and upon seeing us, opened the door. About twenty kids were seated around small kid tables. "Bienvenidos!" They said in unison. We must have been a sight to behold. I affectionately called our group, "Three Giants and a Ginger." The three men I travelled with were all over six feet tall and this in a county where I at five foot one towered over the people. As we further ventured into the room, the teacher (was she the teacher?) didn't say anything, but sat in a chair next to a bookshelf of papers and crayons. One child got up and came to me, throwing his arms around my legs. At that, several of the kids lept to their feet and began hugging and jumping on the men I was with. They were live living jungle gyms to these kids who I discovered didn't leave this 10x40 foot room. One child next to me had already unzipped my purse and pulled out my camera. Wow. Okay sweetheart, give it back! We left Esteban, our translator, with the children on that floor and ventured upstairs. I felt cramped on the cement staircase. And while I didn't have to turn my shoulders to get up it, I could have. It was very narrow. At the top of the stairs we found another room, much smaller, with two tables and about 10 two and three year olds sitting silently at it. One child ran into the bathroom behind it upon seeing us (children here are taught to fear photographers as they often kidnap children). We doted over them briefly while they stared at us and then went up another staircase to the four and five year old room. These little darlings demanded to be held and studied my bracelets and earrings (I had overdressed for this part of the day) as their snotty noses dripped tangled in my hair.


The Tabitha House houses only sixty children (used to hold 80, but they were low on funding and had to cut back) whose mothers are prostitutes, drug-addicts or just plain poor. While the mothers go out to look for work, or dig in the dump (remember the children can be lost in the dump), Four or five women oversee sixty children who often haven't eaten since the last time they were at Tabitha house.

Most of the children are sexually abused by strung out parents or guardians. Carol describes changing diapers and finding blood everywhere. The abuser often holds glue to the child's nose so they don't know what's happening and, high themselves, neither do they realize what they are doing. One little boy (oddly enough, named Jesus) attached three of the four men with us, boxing them in the groin before climbing onto their backs. "It's his only defense against men," Carol explained. "He expects men to hurt him so he keeps them away pre-emptively. And he's actually much better now. When we first got him, he was uncontrollable." Jesus now lives with a couple who care for eleven children... six of their own and five foster. When Jesus arrived at Tabitha house, they found a hole in his skull where he'd been beaten. They got him medical treatment, but his relatives (guardians) were selling the medicine for money. Jesus never got better and after figuring out why, Tabitha House got him in with the amazing couple that now cares for him and ten other children they call their own.


When "Maria" (I don't know her real name) arrived at Tabitha House, Carol discovered her toes had been eaten off by rats. In the shanties, the rats are huge and children and adults often have to fight the rats for food. When they took her to the doctor, they said she'd never walk. She now runs.

Tabitha House has limited resources, but it uses them well. One or two of the women who watch the children in the house are mothers who originally dropped their kids off at Tabitha House, but have now broken the cycle of poverty, drugs and abuse and are on their way out, or at least up. You see, Tabitha House works with the mothers too - getting them proper documentation for themselves and their children, so they can apply for jobs, have rights. They teach the women life skills - how to cook and sew. And now, the garments the women make are sold for a profit that goes into Tabitha House funds.

And many of the women are changed. They get out of prostitution, off drugs. "But we don't save them," Carol is careful to note. "Only God can change them."

As we pried our legs and arms free from the children (we had returned to the first floor to find Esteban covered in kids), we returned to the car and I longed to wash my hands. Leave it to me to see all that poverty and abuse and wants to wash my hands of it. But the disease the children are exposed to... it is awful. Where they live there are no bathrooms, no showers.



We spent three hours that night after returning from an afternoon of shopping, eating and cathedral-ruin-visiting in Antigua speaking with Carol about Tabitha House. Her fiance and son were with her. And with wide eyes her husband, a neurologist, confessed, "She's a powerful woman. I just watch."

And she is. Imagine what she is up against. Not only the poverty and violence of the streets, but even "missionaries" who have come to help have used her. She spoke of three "missionaries" who raised funds among parishioners in American churches for "the work they were doing at the Tabitha House," but when someone came to visit them and see their ministry Carol had to reply, "I don't know who you're talking about. They don't work here!" And within her denomination (Baptist) they've already had to make cut-backs. They used to feed and help over 80 kids. So many children need help, but to the ones she is given, Carol applies the most gentle care. She uses the resources she has to provide for the children, help the mothers, and allows God to do the rest. "Only God can change people, I cannot," she shakes her head and raises her eyebrows at the misery of the world and the mystery of God.

I raise my eyebrows at her.

Amazing.

I've found a new place to give my tithe during my time off from the local church right now. And if you want to give to Tabitha House as well (and ensure that the funds arrive there!), I can make that happen. You have my word. And so do Jesus and Maria. Two of the pastors I travelled with will be returning next money. Money can be donated through their organizations (tax-deductible) and will go straight to the hands of Carol at Tabitha House. Last time, they brought shoes for the children as well, which was a huge help. But money can go straight to the budget which Carol can use for snacks, supplies, sewing materials, whatever.

Thanks be to God for Carol and for Tabitha House. And may I never take for granted a hotel room or a shower or food in a fridge again.

Up to the Mountain (the MLK song)

Happy MLK Day?

I remember when I heard my first discriminatory joke. Or rather, I remember the first time I was old enough to hear a racist joke and be able to discern it as such. I can remember whose house I was at, in whose kitchen, who told the joke and the knot in my stomach when I knew it was time to decide, do I laugh or not laugh?

I must have been an early adolescent. I remember it was a boy who told the joke and I desperately wanted him to approve of me. I also remember later being in another group of friends who were telling jokes and wondering whether or not it would be appropriate for me to share the one I'd heard from the boy. Get the laugh instead of being laughed at? The reverse in prospects were inviting.

I don't actually remember how I responded in either situation. I mostly just remember the feeling. Usually with boys, I would laugh and reprimand them, thrilled they even noticed me. At some point in college though, I quit laughing, and would explain to the men around me that racist jokes, sexist jokes, weren't funny. And that laughing only contributed to the problem. "How can things get better if we continue to condone underlying assumptions about race and gender by laughing them off?" I was the femi-nazi of William Jewell College and I moved straight from there to Truett Seminary.

"When you are right you cannot be too radical; when you are wrong, you cannot be too conservative."

At some point over the last few years I quit trying so hard. My spirit of equality for all got tired I suppose (as spirits tend to do), and battles had to be picked instead of fought. I quit telling people to stop making sexist jokes because they weren't funny. Whereas in college, I demanded utmost respect for women of the men I was with, and in seminary, I would offer the most feminist perspective I could muster just so people would hear me and maybe concede a little towards a happy medium, over the past few years I returned to my more adolescent coping mechanisms. Flirtatious affirmation, I explain it to my therapist. "Cut it out," I now tease back. "You don't believe that." It's the same reason I have trouble turning men down if they ask me out on a date even if I know it won't work. "I don't want them to feel bad about themselves," I tell my therapist.

"Their self-esteem isn't your problem," she responds.

True.

Sometimes.

As an adult, I felt again the feeling of anxiety in the pit of my stomach when I heard one of my black neighbors speaking poorly of Hispanics in our city. "Um, can you say that, cause... you know you're black right?" I wanted to remind him. In other words, you of all people should know that discrimination doesn't get us anywhere. I didn't say that. And unlike the racist joke told in childhood, I do remember how I responded: in silence, with a head nod, as his verbal putdown was quickly passed on by the next topic, the next discussion to come rattling out of his mouth. Truthfully, I spend most of my time just nodding my head at him, as the conversations fly by so fast I sometimes wonder if I was even a part of them.

"In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."
My friend Julie, author of One Hand Clapping, wrote a post today wondering if she should bring an awareness to her child's life of the difference between race. Her kindergarten daughter doesn't yet see difference between skin color yet because she has been raised in a very diverse environment. So trying to explain MLK and what he did doesn't make a lot of sense to her because racism isn't yet a part of her worldview.

I responded to her blog with some of my thoughts about sexism. While I did manage to grab that racism existed even in middle America by the time I hit middle school, I didn't understand that sexism was just as prevalent until College. College.

I didn't actually realize that "women jokes" weren't on par with "blond jokes," i.e. that people really believed women were inferior or couldn't do the same things as men or (fill in the blank). College. My mother says she "may have pushed the women thing a little too far" with me, but I say, who cares? For 18 years I thought I had the same rights and opportunities as men. I thought that women jokes were dumb, like joke about the blond who threw all the W's out of the M&M factory. A stupid way to make a silly joke at some other group's expense. I was always being made fun of growing up. If a boy says something mean about you, then he likes you (omg, wait for the post I'm now writing in my head about how that condolence screwed me up). Seriously though, teasing someone during High School, they called that flirting. Blond jokes were told to blonds to get them to laugh and be defensive and maybe slap the boy on the arm who told the joke. Same thing with women jokes. Fill in the blank. Substitute brunette for blond or ginger for brunette. I didn't know those jokes were rooted in a deeper anxiety, a deeper hatred, a deeper ism (I'm now speaking of women jokes, not blond jokes) in people's lives.

More power to your daughter, I wrote Julie. Let her reality be spoiled when she's old enough to afford the therapy it'll take to recover her innocence, but not too old that she won't have a job or health insurance to be able to afford the therapy. It's a fine line.

So happy MLK day, I guess. Happy MLK day to those whose children don't yet understand that black "means" different or brown "means" inferior. Congrats. You've got some bubbles to burst, but your kids are lucky.

Happy MLK day to those who are stuck where I once was: hearing the "harmless" racism that the world shares with one another in polite circles at parties and has to decide: to laugh or not to laugh.

Happy MLK day to those who are black, who have achieved some level of equality and power in America, and now get to choose whether or not to oppress the new minority... Hispanics.

Happy MLK day to all those who are oppressed for whatever reason: the color of their skin, the accent on their tongue, the anatomy of their genitalia, the money in their wallets, the gender of the person with whom they fell in love.

Happy MLK day to all of us who live in a really imperfect would and who would love to live life, even for just a day, seeing the world through Julie's daughter's eyes. Who would love to take a stand all the time against injustice in this world, but my god, who has the time. Happy MLK day to those who have time only to pick their battles (may they pick good ones), and may they continue to believe that "unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality."

MLK writes, "Like an unchecked cancer, hate corrodes the personality and eats away its vital unity. Hate destroys a man's sense of values and his objectivity. It causes him to describe the beautiful as ugly and the ugly as beautiful, and to confuse the true with the false and the false with the true."

And cancer always starts small.

So be aware. Burst your kids bubbles or break your kids of their hate. Be militant. Or just choose your battles. I don't know. But "nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity." So let's let love "release... harmonize... and illuminate life."

Happy MLK day.

1-1-11

Today starts a new decade. This affords us an opportunity to reflect not only on the end of the year of twenty-ten, but on the whole first decade ushered in ten years ago by Y2K and all the chaos of a new millennium.

Here's some of what I remember...

In 2000, I graduated from College, turned down a marriage proposal, moved home to hang out with my youngest sister who was in high school, substitute taught, and drove a van-full of stuff to Waco, Texas, where my mother left me with a kiss and a cry.

2001 began my seminary career. I flew to Hawaii for Spring Break (priceline had just been invented) and met up with my aunt and grandparents. With my new friends Lynnette ad Cat, I began attending UBC Waco where I preached my first Sunday morning sermon. I worked at Applebee's for three months and then took a job at Buzzard Billy's. I joined my family in St. Jo again for the summer and joined the chorus of Camelot, the show my dad was directing. Cat and I moved in together on Bagby. 9-11 started off my second semester in seminary, and flying was never the same again.

2002, both my grandparents died within a week of each other. I played Mary Magdalene in Waco Civic Theater's Jesus Christ Superstar. My seminary got a new dean, and i almost quit. Instead I travelled the world with a Missions class and visited England, Morocco, Turkey, Thailand, India and China. I moved in with the Eades that summer. I began dating a drummer that fall and my sister got married in October. I had my first wreck: in Oklahoma, driving back to Texas from a friend's wedding in Missouri. I starred as Anna in The King and I and adopted my first cat, Radley.

2003 I attended my first Emergent Convention and the Dove Awards. I turned 25 and moved home again for the summer to play The Witch in Robidoux Resident Theater's production of Into the Woods. I adopted (or rather, inherited - thanks Jen!) my second cat, Zorba. One of my best friends, Big Phil, moved to Austin and began working at Mosaic which introduced me to both that city and church. The drummer and I broke up, and I bought a new (to me) car.

2004 I graduated from seminary, moved to Austin for a couple months where I volunteered at Mosaic and substitute taught, then moved to St. Joseph, Missouri to be an English/Drama teacher at Savannah High School.

2005 I moved back to Austin, was a permanent substitute at Johnston High School, volunteered again at Mosaic, dated a tattoo-covered republican, moved back to Waco (and back to my old job at the Buzz), dated a bartender, and then moved back again to Austin where I took a job as Pastoral Resident/University Minister at FBC Austin through a CBF Lily Grant. My sister got divorced, my friend and pastor, Kyle Lake, died, and my cat Radley died.

2006 I dated a 19 year old and a 48 year old one right after the other this Spring (neither lasted long). I bought my first house in East Austin. I played Job's Wife in J.B. at church. I dated a lawyer who lived in DC and made my first visit to our nation's capitol. I was ordained by FBC, and officiated my first wedding.

2007 I got a dog. I took a vacation with two friends in West Texas, I produced Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at FBC. My residency ended. The church voted to keep me on as their new Minister to Young Adults and of Creative Discipleship. My car died on the way home for Christmas with my boyfriend that year and I bought a new one to get back to Austin before New Year's.

2008 I oversaw the creation of a Black Box Theater on the 4th floor of FBC and directed my first play (a one-act), Aria Da Capo under the new troupe: Trinity Street Players. Things at church were challenging this year and I went back to therapy. I dated a guy in the Peace Corps and recorded a CD of hymns. My father had a heart attack a few weeks before The Diaries of Adam & Eve opened in which I played Eve. I turned 30.

2009 I led worship at the CBF's Current Retreat and visited Walt Disney World with Julie Merritt and some other pastoral friends. I attended my first JoPa convention and got to speak with Jurgen Moltmann on a panel in Chicago (where I also visited my sister, Amy). I organized a Mission trip to Chile for my college students at church. I played Shelby in Steel Magnolias that summer. I dated a guy who lived in LA and flew out there for vacation that year. I watched two babies being born (both "natural" births) that year, and on Fridays, I babysat Chris & Michelle's daughter, Laurel.

2010 I directed my second show, You Can't Take It With You. My neighbor and adopted "mom" died. I played Luisa in The Fantasticks during the summer. I also attended the Baptist World Alliance in Hawaii, and stayed an extra week to vacation there with my parents, aunt and great-aunt. I quit my job, ran a half-marathon relay at Disney World, and began nannying part time for my friend Bethany who got cancer. I dated one of the other actors who had been in The Fantasticks. I began auditioning for shows all over Austin and was cast as Eva Peron in Evita at the Georgetown Palace.

Most of my life's recap consists of men I dated, pets I mothered, places I vacationed, roles I played, and conferences I attended. I don't know, I guess that's what my life is.

If you want to know how many funerals I attended in the last decade, I can promise you it's more than the average 32 year old could claim. Kyle Lake (my friend), Chip Conyers (my professor), Ruth Ann Foster (my professor), Mike Rudd (my ex-boyfriend), Tommie & Nicey Bedford (my neighbors), Jonathan Norman (my student), and the list goes on and on... Same for weddings. Singing, officiating or being a bridesmaid in an average of probably 5 weddings a year... And the babies that showed up starting in 2009? Well, quite frankly, I lost track. But those are all things that go on other people's lists. Not mine. Not my death, not my wedding, not my baby.

I've not written down how many sermons I've preached, or shelters I've volunteered at, or worship services I led, or people I counseled. This isn't my resume, it's a list of experiences... of seasons in my life. You won't find the movies I watched, or the books I read, the shows I saw, or the wine I drank because there isn't enough time or space, and really who cares? Reflecting is a time for highlighting. Singling out. Seeing patterns. And breaking molds.

The cast of Rent asks "the question" of us and offers some of the nineties' (remember that decade leading up to Y2K?) suggestions on how we measure life...

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights
In cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In truths that she learned,
Or in times that he cried.
In bridges he burned,
Or the way that she died.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?

How about love? Measure in love
Seasons of love. Seasons of love

And while I don't measure life in cups of coffee (I don't even drink coffee), neither do I measure it in beer bottles, slimfast or cartons of fat free milk. I do think it's measured in love. Love of people and love of what you do, coupled with love of God and loving yourself, whom God created. There's no time (and you've no interest) to hear the in depth version of my last decade, so listen instead to this beautiful song and reflect on the seasons in your life... and of course Happy New Year. Happy 2011 and good luck with your next decade...