Amy leaves tomorrow morning. I can't believe it. We've had the best week together though. Today at lunch we reminisced about everything we did this week from lunches to housework to funny one-liners. What a great week. I'm sure I'll give you more tomorrow when I'm sad and she's gone.

But no time for that cause tomorrow I pack for Outbound, a trip with the youth at church to Colorado... rafting rivers, climbing mountains and repelling off cliffs. Then I'm back for a day and a half and then am off to the hill country to perform my first wedding ever. I'm not the wedding singer, I'm not the bridesmaid, I'm the minister. Whoa.

And then my parents arrive and will be here for a week. So no time for tears, only time for hope for the next time.

For 35 more minutes it will be the first day of my 28th year.

And it's been a great day.

A strange year, but a great day.

I failed to email you updates about how many days until my birthday (i try to start in February or March with the countdown). I also failed (as my father still wondered at today) to send out my birthday list which i try to publish by at least March (April if i'm really behind).

But none of that happened this year. Between the job and the house and the choas of "truly adult, non-student life), I lost interest in that. (That being "myself.")

But listen to what did catch my interest.

Marcus Borg, Joan Chittister and John Dominic Crossan.

And I spent I my 28th birthday listening to them lecture and fraternizing with them at dinner. (Yep, they know my name). My friends think I'm kind of a nerd, but I think it makes for a great birthday to spend it with world-renowned scholars. Always have.

My mother I hear isn't taking my birthday quite as well.

My dad came home to find her laying on the bed.

"What are you doing?"
"I'm tired."
"What's wrong?"
"I had a baby 28 years ago."

Classic Crazy Carol.

And a classis birthday. One I'll always remember, even if mom's pre-occupied with the first.

In my job, I've met and heard the Rev. Jesse Jackson preach (no comment on his personal life, but his preaching is fabulous), I've almost met Bill Clinton, I prayed before the Texas state senate, and now I'm going to get to meet and hear speak Marcus Borg, Joan Chittister and John Dominic Crossan.

And another heart attack is in order.

I'm blogging because I'm at work, trying to write what I'm going to say at Midweek Moorings tonight, but honestly I'm unable to focus what with all the hustle, bustle and excitement around the office.

There are volunteers everywhere, stuffing packets, setting up the bookstore, picking up world renowned scholars...

I can't focus.

I was doing really well and then it hit me.

So I'm blogging to take my mind off my work...

um...

or rather to get my mind back on work.

Yeah, that's what I'm doing. I'm getting my mind back on work by blurting out all my excitement to you, my blogworld friends.

We will receive a lot of criticism for hosting this (we already have), but this is so exciting. We are a cathedral church in that we allow all the colors in and allow them to shine and fade blend and transform us.

We don't have to agree to get along. We don't have to agree to do church together. And we certainly don't have to agree if all we need to do is join hands and extend them together.

Individual thought amidst living community.

It's a paradox.

And I'm excited about it.

So I’m laying on my bed yesterday afternoon traumatized because I can’t get a straight answer from my phone company about whether or not they sent a technician out to my house on Monday who may or may not have intentionally unplugged my security system, and my computer says it can’t find the modem for my wireless internet even though everything is hooked up properly and flashing their “on” lights, and of course, I’m completely unable to do anything to fix any of these issues myself. I had a male friend stay the night at my house Tuesday night to ensure that the potentially sketchy SBC guy didn’t come back to rape and pillage me in the middle of the night (not that there’s much to pillage since I have no furniture - i digress), and on Wednesday I had another male friend come over who works with internet companies on a regular basis to figure out why my modem and wifi wouldn’t configure. And I had this sort of “Sex in the City” moment.

Remember that episode when Charlotte tells the other girls that the problem with all of them was that all they really wanted out of men was “to be rescued”?

That’s how I felt laying in bed in the middle of the afternoon.

Two days in a row I had to be rescued by men.

And that makes me cranky.

And it makes me feel incompetent.

But then I started thinking.

This past weekend I went “home” to Waco to stay with my Texas family and Holly, the mom of the family, made me dinner and put clean sheets on my bed and sat and drank with me outside, talking about men and life. And in that way, she rescued me.

And then there’s Julie, an old friend whom I met up with for dinner, who listened to me verbally assault her with all that’s been on my mind and heart because she gets me and knows me, and I can share those things that I keep bottled up inside with her. Julie rescued me.

So I’m not just being rescued by men. I’m being rescued by women too.

Young and old, male and female, rich and poor, people rescue me every day.

And I realized that perhaps, just perhaps, I rescue them too.

I can’t beat up or even scare an intruder in my home, but I can sing a song that soothes the soul.
I can’t find a number to configure my internet, but I can preach a sermon that may inspire hope.
I can’t be family to myself by myself, but I can open my home to anyone who needs to come play Nintendo to get away.
I can’t solve my own issues by talking to myself about them, but I can listen to others tell me their stories.

I can do a lot of things that other people can’t do.

And other people can do a lot of things that I can’t do. And so we do these things for each other.

But more importantly, we BE these things for each other.

Where I offer compassion, I receive grace. Where he gives affirmation, I show faithfulness. Where she bestows hope, I display honesty. And we are Christ to one another.

And the pendulum swings as we need and receive, and are called upon and give.

And that is community.

None of us is whole or self-sufficient or completely autonomous. Thank God. Or we’d be a cold world without a need for each other or God.

Rather God has made us dependant on each other and on God.

And so I guess Charlotte was right... we all do need to be rescued.

This is how I feel about being on the phone and talking to machine people who try to interpret what I say instead of letting me talk to real people who can hear my real issues. When I have a question regarding my phone service, DSL service and security system, could I please not talk to a machine - especially one disguised as a person who can hear and converse with you? And when I finally do speak to a person, could they please answer my questions? Augh! I'm sic-ing this cat on you all!

I'm in Waco. I know that I should be enjoying my new house in Austin, but via the doctor's request, I'm taking some time off and am officially on vacation for two days.

In Waco.

Not where most people would choose to go, but this is the closest I can get to family in Texas, so I'm in Waco with the Eades.

Dinner with Julie tonight at Buzzard Billy's.
Conversation with Wes who stayed up way past his bedtime.
And church tomorrow...

Well, the suggestion was 3-4 days of vacation and one of those needs to be a Sunday. But I guess if I'm not the one working...

"Will you be coming to UBC?" Jeremy asked.
"I hadn't actually thought about that," I replied after telling him I have his Christmas present in my car if he wants it. And I hadn't thought about it. I'd thought, "Dayspring with the Eades: good preaching, no pressure, close friends and family." Or I'd been thinking, "No church, sleep in, read."

I hadn't honestly thought UBC until the words came out of his mouth.

UBC means remembering Kyle. It probably means tears and trauma. The UBC community gets to mourn and grow and move on every week a little bit more (at least that's how they describe it). For those of us who live far away, we don't have that luxery. So we put our friend's death in the back of our minds and try to move on. Do they call that denial? Downplaying? Helpful? But there's others things about UBC too. It means reliving what once was, and nevermore will be, and pretending that feels okay. It means old friends and explainations and fatigue and probaby more tears. "I wish you'd preach here again!" Me too. "It's so good to see you!" You too. "We should keep in better touch!" We won't.

At Dayspring I can sit quietly in the back and just observe. I can say hi to fewer friends who I do love (but also don't keep in good contact with), and who know me well enough to know that right now I'm on vacation and I need renewal. I can think and cry and love and not be noticed. I probably wouldn't be much noticed at UBC anymore either but at least I'd cry less at Dayspring.

I have so much to be thankful for, but driving into Waco brought back such a rush of emotion as well.

I wish this post was more positive. Grandma will probably say I should count my blessings, and I do! I really love my life right now, but that doesn't mean it isn't hard to process at times too.

I saw a grown man cry tonight over his teenager daughter. He's just two years older than the last man I went out on a date with, who I never saw cry but I did see mourn. And on the drive up, I thought of another man, much younger than myself who mourns for his children in Uganda who will be displaced orphans again when he returns to America. Over dinner, I was confronted by a friend who wonders about my need to be heard and whether that stems from my upbringing. And I took the back roads when driving into town tonight to avoid seeing the church that another friend and influence in my life was killed in.

So that's what I've got on the brain and that's what I'm blogging about.

Tomorrow, when it's Sunday and beautiful and not 1:28am, I will blog again about my cute new house and the artsy doormats I bought for my side and back door. And I will tell you about installing the mailbox that is a tasteful cedar and black metal, crookedly poking out over my curb. I will tell you about the $130 I spent having the last of my theatre posters framed to hang on my walls in the living room that has no chairs or couches but by god, houses beautiful art.

Finally. I always thought I needed a man and a marriage to get me a house to hang my posters in. I was wrong. I just needed a job.

But I'll write about all those exciting things tomorrow.

Tonight, I mourn quietly in a 9 year old's bed, and I praise God for being alive and for feeling and for caring so much about people and life and beauty and evil that it hurts deep, deep down inside.

And I'll say a prayer for Kyle and Paul and Radley and Lily and remind them to laugh and dance and snuggle and run and to wait for me until I see them again...

Amen.

So, the new house.

I didn't get to work til 2:30pm today because it took the security guy over SIX hours to install my new home security system.

And guess who already set it off...

"Yes, is this Ann Pittman?"
"It is."
"This is Brinks Home Security System and your alarm is going off at your home."
"That figures."

The first day it's installed, the boogerheads trip it off.

There's a motion detector see, and well, you know how Potter behaves.

"Would you like us to send the police?"
"No thank you, I'm pretty sure it's my cats."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, besides, I have two retired neighbors on either side of my house who will go check it out. If someone's broken in, they'll call 911."

And they will. Especially Clarence. He lives to the west of me and is fabulous. Today when I saw him, I told him about the new security system and he said he'd install a motion detector in my back yard to ensure my safety.

He's great.

"Are you off to school?" he asked.
"No sir, I work. I'm a pastor."
He looked puzzled.
"An associate pastor... a college minister."
"Oooh," he said after the shock set in, and proceeded to tell me where everyone in the neighborhood attends church.

He seemed pleased about my occupation, and I asked him to mail a letter for me since I have no mailbox.

That's right. No mailbox. One more thing on the list of things to buy for the new house.

Refrigerator? Check.
Mailbox? Tomorrow.

What else is missing you ask?

Telephone jacks.

That's right. The house is great. I did a really stellar job of picking it out. But of course it would have one or two oddities to it, I mean, come on. And this house has no phone jacks.

Those I discovered will cost as much as my fridge so Michelle's dad has graciously agreed to put some in on Sunday just for the cost of gas.

All in all though, I've no complaints.

I've only been scared once at night. And I didn't call anyone, I just sucked it up and went to bed.
I've managed to not break anything yet. And neither have the cats.
I couldn't figure out how the dishwasher worked, but Sam fixed that little bit of ignorance.
Zorba cried all night the first night and then refused to come out from under the bed, but now seems pretty content.
And I've even done some weeding in my front yard.

Now the back yard? (or should I say back jungle?)

That's a story for another post...

Say hello to Radley for me Lily.

We'll miss you.

I promise to take care of your mommy.

Love,

Aunt Ann

Holy cow.

I know I haven't written in ages.

I'm sure dad's about to send out that "It's been 10 days Ann, you know we read your blog..." email.

And I've actually started several posts.

One was about global warming and how ridiculous our government is. But it didn't save for some reason.

Another one about this huge ugly bug I killed and about how grown up I was that I killed it (albeit after 10 minutes of deliberation) without Wes, Lance or Big Phil to rescue me (one of the few downfalls of living in Austin is being away from my best landlord and best friends). But the computer plug pulled out and since this computer is 6 years old, it doesn't run on battery anymore. So I lost that one too.

So you had some really great posts coming at you, but they didn't take.

Here's was has...

I'll be a homeowner officially as of probably 1:30pm Central time tomorrow, Thursday, April 27th. We're doing a final walk-thru at 12:15 and the closing at 1pm.

I told a friend I feel like I'm giving birth. I've never been this excited in this way before (and since I'll never probably give birth it's good I have this feeling).

I'm sorry I'm describing it so inarticulately, but how do you describe something that feels like roots for the first time since you left your parents house 10 years ago? How do you describe your feet sinking down, snuggling into the sand while your heart flies up and up way into the air like a kite and its so strong you might not be able to pull it back in.

Tomorrow, after I sign what I hear will be the most papers I'll ever sign in my whole life, Michelle and I will christen the house with a bottle of wine and then I will roll around all over the new carpet.

Because it's mine and I'm marking my territory.

Also because it's clean and new, and again, mine.

And so I can do whatever I want.

And don't think I haven't planned it all. Most of my place on Northridge is packed up, the boxes not only labelled for content but for destination. Each box has a room name one it: bedroom 2, reading room, kitchen, so that it's carrier may know which room to put it in when he arrives with a carload at the new house. And as if that weren't anal enough, I've made signs to post on the room doors: Bedroom one, Living Room, etc. And the things that should be delivered into that room, just in case the label already on the box isn't clear. Come on now. I see those eye rolls. A little organization never hurt anybody.

Actually I think it will make for a very smooth adjustion and unpacking process.

We'll start on Friday since I work well into the evenings on Thursday night. I have five friends (plus myself) and two trucks and I've made a list of all the large items that need to be moved over via the trucks first. Then as people start getting off work, I have about 10 more friends joining me in grabbing boxes from Northridge, stuffing them in their cars, and heading approximately 3.5 miles southeast to the new house.

Then together we will eat pizza and drink beer and revel in my new home. We will marvel at my ability to commit to something. And we will toast to my future in my new house with my sort-of-new-job with my new and old friends in Austin. FBC and Mosaic collide. Waco and Austin collide. And all are toasted.

And we might toast to God too if by that time anyone remembers Her. Oops...

I mean Him.

But you know I don't. I called this a birthing process and it has been. God has opened Her womb and released me into a world I didn't ask to experience. But here I am and after a little nurturing and nudging by no one I can describe as but God, I am here.

And I AM is with me. She has birthed me, breathed in me and pushed me out of the nest.

And now it's time to make my own and open it up to others.

Here I go...

Days off are beautiful.

Not rad. Not cool. Not relaxing.

Beautiful.

Because you might actually get the house. And you pack up your earthy treasures. More than just materialistic stuff, things that bring you meaning, memories and a fuller self.

The clothes, the bed, whatever.

The scrapbooks, the literary novels, the pictures. That's where the beauty lies. Even the dishes. The dishes you inherited from your dead grandparents who always seemed a little strange to you on earth but in dreams reminded you of their presence for a whole year after their death.

And now you've got their dishes.

And pictures of your sisters when they get together in Missouri without you.

And leftover greenbean casserole in the fridge from your Sunday School party Monday night.

That's beautiful too.

Cause the memories you take with you are being made anew here too.

And that makes days off very very beautiful.

No, seriously... happy easter.

Thank you god for the resurrection. Thank you for not leaving us with an empty cross and a full tomb. Thank you god, cause there's no way in hell (or on earth for that matter) that we could make it without your embodiment and example of purest love in the incarnate christ. Thank you for loving us and not letting go, not passing by but staying present. Thank you for Jesus Christ the messiah, misunderstood just like you. We'll try to be better followers this year. We'll try hard to love you and love each other. Thank you for your example. We'll work for peace, we'll bring your kingdom. We'll not only do your will but be your people.

Thank you, Ann.

Maundy Thursday Noonday Sermon...

One year ago this very day of this very season, I spoke for the first time to this congregation. I had met Roger a few weeks before at the advice of a mutual friend and after that first meeting, he asked me to preach here for you. And so I met Roger for the second time that Maundy Thursday morning and preached, very nervously, my first sermon here in this Sanctuary at this service. At the time I was a permanent substitute teacher at Johnston High School. In two months though (at the end of the school year), I would become unemployed. In four months I would move to Waco with $7 in my bank account to room with an 8 year old girl in my former landlord’s house. I would pay rent by cleaning house.

Having been unsuccessful in a job search across the country from Austin, TX, and being unable to afford living here any longer, I moved back to Waco, one year after leaving, and returned to my old job of waiting tables for $2.13 an hour plus tips at Buzzard Billy’s Armadillo Bar and Grill-o. I felt displaced to say the very least. I didn’t even return to the church I had attended and worked at the four years I’d lived in Waco. I went with my landlord to church out of convenience and confusion. I had a BA in English and Religion, an MDiv in theology and I was stuck cleaning house and asking “fries or hush puppies?” I was in need of deliverance.

Three days later, I received a call that changed my life.

Have you been there before?

You’re stuck in slavery to an abusive empire and some man shows up claiming that some God cares enough about you to get you out of slavery, and the next thing you know you’re watching locusts fall and frogs jump and cows die and hail rain down and boils spring up so when that man said slaughter a lamb and wipe it’s blood on your doorpost, there was no way you weren’t gonna do it.

What other choice did they have? Remain in slavery? And so with a fragment of hope that maybe they really would be delivered, they wiped that blood across their doorways and huddled inside praying God would pass them by.

For that man Moses had said that an angel of death was coming to take the eldest child, and honestly, that would have been the last straw in their life. Already they’d hid their children, giving birth in caves and with mouths stuffed to muffle the screams to keep the Pharaoh from finding out. He’d already ordered the slaughtering of their children. They’d worked hard to keep them alive and now only blood would save them.

But though the Angel of Death passed by those Hebrew houses that night, God didn’t.

“Pass me not oh gentle Savior, hear my humble cry, While on others you are calling, do not pass me by…”

Have you been there before?

Have you felt so desperate at the loss of a job, the lack of luster in a marriage, the disappointment in a child, the bad news from the doctor that in your bed at night, awake when you should be sleeping, you call out, “please God, do not pass me by!”? Drop, drop slow tears.

Maybe there’s nothing even that dramatic going on. You have a job, an income, friends, but you still feel empty. Or you volunteer and help others and tithe to the church, but you still feel alone. You’re the life of the party, but feel lifeless inside. Life looks good but you feel awful.

“Heal my wounded broken spirit…”

The Passover meal for the Jews reminds them of their deliverance from the Egyptians so many years ago. The evil passed them by, but God didn’t, God stayed present, the great I AM. “My God,” they recite, “You have delivered me…”

But who is in bondage now? Who now needs the blood of protection wiped across their doors? Who now needs a Moses, a miracle, a messiah?

Me. Me. Me.

And them. Them. Them.

Them. The children of Uganda, who are kidnapped from their beds at night, brainwashed through torture and death, and given guns to shoot and kill so that death is now all they really know.

Them. The children of America who get a second rate education because they live on the wrong side of town.

Them. The teenagers on the right side of town who contemplate suicide cause they’re neglected, bored or completely alone in a material world that may fill their bodies but starves their spirits.

Them. The women who can’t get jobs in churches because of their gender. The homosexuals who can’t get jobs in schools because of their orientation. The immigrants who can’t get jobs anywhere because of their accents.

Them. Them. Them.

Me. Me. Me.

We. We need the lamb slaughtered, we need the blood on the cross, we need the deliverance and we need to stop waiting to be that for others.

But not until we realize that God has not done that to us. God has not passed us by. God has not left us neglected. God has not left us un-chosen. We are God’s children, heirs of Christ not only to a someday kingdom, but to God’s kingdom now, called to be his hands, his eyes, his ears, his heart. Help us to believe we can be delivered, oh God, and empower us to deliver others.

The miracles of Moses didn’t permanently restore the Israelites’ faith. They were afraid when they met with the Red Sea, and even after they crossed it miraculously, they grumbled on the other side.

The fish was sure better in Egypt. I’d rather die in Egypt a slave than in the desert from hunger.

Would you really?

I mean really?

How easily we forget from whence we have come. And how sad that we forget that we are moving toward a promised land.

“Pass me not oh gentle Savior” even when I forget what you have already given me. Even when I forget that I am loved by God. Even when I fail to trust and huddle frightened of faith in a God too mysterious for my feeble mind. Do not give up on me when I fail to feed the poor, educate the children, provide for the marginalized. Even when I forget to vote, forget to volunteer, forget to stand up for what is right, to push for the deliverance: physical, material and spiritual of all people, whether they look like me, stand like me, talk like me, or worship like me.

And whether confident or curious, faithful or frightened, I look at the blood on the wooden beams and whisper,

“Pass me not”
“Pass me not”
“Pass me not”

And I hear: I have not. For I AM and ever will be with you.

Amen.

Burt Burleson preached for the first day of our holy week noonday services at FBC. (I preach Thursday).

His sermon was beautiful of course, but even more vivid were the memories I found when I encountered him, hugged him and listened to him preach.

There are Holly and Wes and my three surrogate siblings. How old is Olivia now? Does she have to grow while I am gone? Can she please, please keep her witty childhood young? And Ben who used to sit on my lap and cling to me in the swimming pool when it got too deep, he probaby has girlfriends now and long cute hair. And I wish he'd stay innocent too, and behave nicely toward his little sister. And Abby, the closest in age and the most troubled in spirit. So beautiful, yet so confused. I pray for clarity and love. I loved that house. Loved that family. Loved their spirit, honesty and accepting nature. I loved sitting on the porch, drinking white wine (yep, sometimes out of the box) and loving life.

There are the Carrons, Paul and Jen. Paul I knew before Jen, when he, Jessy and I used to go to Common Grounds five years ago and study, them Hebrew, me Schleirmacher or something. And Jessy. So many memories of music, long discussions, climbing, tears and guffaws. Of midnight runs to see weird Spider movies (what was that film called you guys?) and trips to Austin when cars broke down. That was the old crew. Remember Big Phil, Robert, Rocky, Eric, Rebecca, Lance and that guy, that sweet, smart pre-med guy who totaled two cars in two days. What was his name?

And Julie. My beloved Julie who came towards the end and helped me survive Hebrew through giggles and dirty play on words. Julie who calmed my spirit and let me join her on cuddle-island transformed. Julie who understood the drugs and the memory loss and the sadness and joy. Julie who knew both worlds, Jewell and Texas, and forgave me for changing.

And Jeremy and Phil and Lance who are all gone now. They feel gone at least. They're in Minnesota or Beaumont or in married-land and sometimes I'm afraid I'll never get them back. Jeremy once said, there is (was) no community like ours whether on Phil's porch by Baylor, Phil's porch by the hospital or the Eades porch late at night hiding cigarette butts in the chiminay and promising to give it up soon.

Oh God, I miss these people. And there are more... Billy and Renee, Robert and Hun, Rebecca, Cat, Kyle, Kris, Wags, Josie,Lynette...

But Kyle is gone now and will not be communicated with again except in dreams. So let's communicate while we have the chance. This is my shout out. I love you Wes, Holly, Abby, Ben and Olivia Eades. I love you Jessy, Phil, Lance, Jeremy, Julie, Josie. I love you Paul and Jen.

I miss Lance cooking me mac and cheese.
I miss Jessy eating all the contents of my fridge.
I miss Paul playing the guitar.
I miss the theology discussions on Phil's old porch across from Rebecca's place where Phil would introduce everyone as "my wicked smart friend."
I miss Lynette's eye rolls and making subversive tee-shirts.
I miss eating a whole pizza with Julie and doing CM.
I miss Bridget Jones' Diary and wine coolers with Cat.

I miss it all. I miss you all. And I love you. Let's stay in better touch...

Love,
ann

FEAR: Part 1

Fear.

Google the word fear and you’ll find the 2005 winner of the Best Action Video Game. You find phobialist.com which lists everything people fear from a fear confined spaces to a fear of the color yellow. You’ll find the heavy metal band Fear Factory’s website. You’ll find Fear Factor the infamous TV. show which forces people to face their fears by locking them in a box full of tarantulas, or dropping them from a plane, or making them eat cockroaches. Sick. You’ll find Fear Dot Com a horror film made by Warner Brothers. You’ll get linked to Freedom From Fear, a nonprofit agency dedicated to helping people heal from their fears. You’ll find F.E.A.R the Forfeiture Endangers American Rights web page.

So what is fear?

Dictionary.com describes it as a noun. 1a. A feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger. 1b. A state or condition marked by this feeling i.e. living in fear. 2. A feeling of disquiet or apprehension for example, a fear of looking foolish. 3. Extreme reverence or awe, as toward a supreme power. 4. And finally, A reason for dread or apprehension: Being alone is my greatest fear.

So what are people afraid of? Well, phobia.com gave us some easy answers (and some peculiar ones). We’re afraid of the dark, we’re afraid of people with bad intentions, we’re afraid of rapists, murderers, robbers. I can remember as a child praying at night that God wouldn’t let any robbers get into my house. I used to try and lay as flat in bed as I could in case any did get inside, maybe they wouldn’t see me in my bed. I used to lay on the inside of the bed against the wall, so that if they got in and if they saw someone in bed, it’d be my sister, on the outer side of the bed who they would take and hopefully overlook me.

Twisted but true.

We’re afraid of spiders, cockroaches, bees, snakes, mice, rats, cats, dogs.

We’re afraid of losing our checkbooks, forgetting to pay our bill, missing a deadline, not making the grades.

We’re afraid of thunderstorms, tornados, hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis.

We’re afraid of getting a cold, breaking a bone, hearing the word cancer, contracting AIDS, catching the bird flu when it makes it to America.

And we’re afraid for others too are we not? We’re afraid for our sisters that they’ll date sketchy men. We’re afraid for our children that they’re making poor decisions. We afraid for our best friends who may not get out of the slump they’re in. We’re afraid for our parents’ health and age.

And somewhere in there surfaces our own deep-seeded fears. Fear that we will never be truly loved. Fear that we will never ever please our parents. Fear of losing loved ones. Fear that we aren’t good enough. Fear that we’ll never achieve our dreams. Fear that we’ll never make a difference. Fear that the world is too big and we are too small. Fear that we’ll never amount to more than our mistakes. Fear that God will reject us just like people have. Fear that we can’t control anything in our lives. Fear that we can’t trust anyone, not even God. Fear of facing our past. Fear of facing our future.

And suddenly spiders don’t seem like such a big deal.

I’d rather find a monster in my closest than a past I haven’t dealt with yet.
I’d rather find a cockroach in my bathroom than watch my self-esteem go down the toilet.

I’m get afraid sometimes. And lent reminds me of that.

Lent falls at the most peculiar of times. It is a time in the church calendar that forces us to look inward when all we want to do is play outside. It asks us to examine what makes us un-whole when around us everything is blossoming into fullness.

But perhaps when we turn into ourselves and face our fears, fullness is what we will receive in return.


FEAR: Part 2

The disciples were afraid.

All was fine and dandy at the Passover supper. Good food, good wine, good friends, good times. Now granted, Jesus had been saying some strange things about death lately, but he was always saying crazy stuff like that. Lose your life and find it. Riiight. Be born again. Now how was that supposed to happen? And what about that story about the fig tree? What was that all about? And then there’s that one with the son who went and ate in the pig sty. That was weird.

So the dinner went great, it was Passover, they were in the big city, and then all hell broke loose. Judas got mad and left early. There were guards waiting outside after dinner. Peter thought it was the start of the revolution. Jesus didn’t put up a fight at all, not that he’s ever lifted a finger against anyone, but he usually sweet talks his way out of every tricky move the Pharisees and Sadducees made. God he’s smart. But he didn’t do anything, they just carted him off. And Everyone else just freaked out and ran. Some followed at a distance, but far enough away not to get caught. It was crazy. Everything we were expecting for that weekend went out the window.

And then he was convicted. Not even convicted, but the mob went nuts, you know? They demanded he be crucified and Pilate just kind of gave in and the next thing you know, the women are sobbing, the soldiers are staring and Rome’s got Jesus nailed to a damn cross in the middle of the street.

And then he died.

And then what?

What were the disciples to do then?

They were afraid and hid in upper rooms. They fled the scene. The women, beside themselves, but knowing their duty, wrapped his body and visited the tomb daily to pour the oils on his dead body.

But on the third day when they arrived, there was no body.

And then they were really afraid.

Tomb robbers? Jewish officials? Who stole his body? Why? Will they find us too?

A resurrection? An angel in white? Or was that Jesus himself? A new body? Dead becoming alive? What does that mean? Can a man so powerful care enough to return for us?

For two days the disciples, men and women sat in fear. But on day three, fear took on reverence as they realized the impossible had come to pass. Rome had not won. The Sanhedrin had not won. Death had not won.

And their eyes were opened. The old became new, the dirty became clean, and the desperation became hope.

And Peter proclaimed the message to the Jews.
Paul preached the message to the Gentiles.
The women started churches in their homes.
They all understood that they were called to something higher than a fear of authorities, or fear of a lisp, or fear of being the wrong gender, or fear of being misunderstood. They took their gifts and come hell or high-water, crucifixion or stoning, they pushed fear aside and let God breathe on them.

And then they took that life to the world around them.

I’m afraid of cockroaches.
I’m afraid of tornados.
I’m afraid of the bird flu.
I’m afraid of a lot of things that I only tell my therapist and my diary.

But we cannot be afraid to be who we are: children of God. Breathed on by God and gifted by God to go, be ourselves full in Christ to the world around us.

Amen.

my culinary genius is back.

i can hear you groaning and i'm not even going to hollar at you.

so what i did now... i was just trying to defrost some banana bread that i found in the freezer at work...

i put it on a plastic platter, put it in the microwave and hit the defrost button. i returned to my office to listen for the ding.

then i heard something that made me think i was back in my bedroom at my house in high school. in this re-occuring scenario my dad yells from his easy chair "something's burning" and i hear my mom go running downstairs saying "shit. shit. shit." except this time, it was the music minister giving the alert and it was me who began flying spirited in step and speech to the kitchen.

now the "kitchen" consists of a fridge and two microwaves which sit in our paper supply and copy office. it was full of smoke.

i stopped the microwave and started coughing. i've never smelt anything like that before.

it still stinks today. after five hours of high tech fans sucking air out of the copy room, hallways and offices, after five or six rounds of spraying freshener to distill the smell, after leaving the doors to our office complex open the whole rest of the day, it still stinks. and needless to say, i haven't heard the end of it.

the worst part: the banana bread was unsalvagable and i was still starving.

i also burnt a hole through the plate i used.

as janet says "that plate ain't worth 2 cents now... and it used to be worth a nickel!"

at least no one's mad.

actually they laughed (and coughed) all afternoon.

and we all stunk. all 10 staff members will be taking the clothes they wore yesterday to the cleaners. gross.

also, i've been banned from the kitchen. roger's secretary said anything i need from now on, i can ask her for.

geez.

i thought i was getting better.

i can make mac n cheese now without burning myself. i can load a diswasher with the proper soap now and not cause it to ooze bubbles for two hours. i've really cleaned up my act with regard to cooking. i even throw an ocasional dinner party.

but this was a set-back. i admit it.

my head hung a little lower yesterday.

but that might of been cuase i was ducking the smoke...

For Midweek Moorings at my church, based on the book we're reading: The Moral Teachings of Jesus by Mary Foskett...

Anger and Reconciliation: Part I

I was given the choice of when I would like to speak during this Lenten series and chose to speak tonight because I thought it would be a convenient week for me. Not to mention that all the easy topics like marriage, integrity and wealth were already taken. My choices were Loving One’s Enemies or Anger and Reconciliation.

So I chose Anger and Reconciliation because the timing seemed better for my schedule. And besides I’m usually angry at my enemies anyway, so it seemed like either direction I went I was bound and destined to address anger.

Had I had free reign over any topic in the world to speak on tonight, suffice it to say, anger and reconciliation would not have been in my top five.

That may be why when I mentioned to a friend that I was speaking on anger and reconciliation, she burst out laughing before hiding her amusement and wishing me good luck.

You see, I get angry.

Anger is something I’m good at.

I’m good at singing and preaching and teaching and writing and scrapbooking and throwing parties but I’m also very good at getting angry.

Poverty makes me angry. Pollution makes me angry. War makes me angry. 50 year old textbooks still being used in schools makes me angry.

But somehow these issues of anger are not what I feel the text tonight is hinting at. They rather fall into a category of righteous anger mostly attributed to God but a just anger that we as participants in God’s kingdom may have as well. This is anger that speaks out against injustice. Anger that is validated by Moses against Egypt, Amos against Israel, and Jesus against the moneychangers in the Temple.

But I’m good at other types of anger too. I move from being angry about issues of poverty and race to being angry about “people who”…

People who bully others make me angry.
People who beat their spouses and children make me angry.
People who tell racist and sexist jokes make me angry.
People who don’t tithe make me angry.
People who don’t recycle make me angry.
People who litter make me angry.
People who don’t use their turn signals make me angry.

And you can see how my anger has now taken a turn away from issues to people.

But it gets even more personal when the offense offends me personally.

In seminary preaching classes students get told a variety of things. And I don’t know what Roger teaches at the Episcopal Seminary, but these are some of the things I heard: put a little bit of yourself in your sermons…but not so much that you incriminate yourself! Allow the way you wrestle with a text to be seen by your audience…but don’t be too vulnerable! Share about your struggles in life, but don’t drag your family into the pulpit!

What?

That’s not incredibly helpful. And there are personal stories that I would like to share with you about why I am angry, but I don’t really think you need to know all that and I sure don’t need to rehash all that. But I will tell you this, I am angry about some things that I have yet to let go of.

I have experienced the grief of adultery on a personal level.
I have experienced the pain of sexual abuse on a personal level.
I have been hurt by Christians and churches whom I trusted on a personal level.

And these are all situations in which my pain took a turn from me being hurt to me being angry.

Anger.

It is a complex topic.

And Jesus addresses this issue in Matthew 5:21-26 and following. “You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder’; and ‘whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.’ But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment.”

As a friend of mine would say, “Oh snap!”

Because although not all of us have gone the “Lizzie Bordon took an axe gave her mother forty whacks” route in life, we may think as Jesus begins “do not murder…”, “Yeah, yeah, I’m not a murderer. Get to the good stuff about peace, love and happiness. I totally dig that stuff.” And lest we get all high and mighty, ready to put on our crown and add the jewels, Jesus catches us in our pride and says, “even if you are angry…you are liable to judgment.”

And the crown comes off, the stones are dropped, the smiles recede and our fingers fold before our faces.

Father forgive us, for we don’t know what in the world we are doing.

And as if calling us out on our anger weren’t enough, he reminds us specifically of the way it manifests itself. “If you insult a brother or sister…if you say, ‘you fool!’…”

Oh great. I love that. I love being told I’ve made bad choices and then receive the list of every specific time I have.

You idiot! How could you be so dumb?
You pig! I hate you!
I should have known you’d do that.
Why can’t you be more like your brother?
I wish I’d never married you!

Then there’s the more subtle insults that arrive in prettier, wittier packages like sarcasm. As if it weren’t enough that we have to insult others, but then we have to do it with an air of superiority.

We’ve all felt the skin-splitting lash of a tongue and we’ve all dished it back out. Sometimes not even out of hatred… our motives are not all impure, but perhaps just out of pain. From our hurt comes our easiest defense as we attempt to build a wall around our already scarring selves. We get angry.

And according to Mary Foskett, when we do this to others, we become less human. Page 48 “humans are called not only to reflect God’s way and God’s being, but to become more human by doing so.” And then on page 63, “To allow anger to reduce a person to caricature and degradation is dehumanizing. Murder, anger and hateful speech all hold in common a way of seeing another person as something less than a human being.” Murder, anger and hateful speech impede our own journey toward full humanness found only in following Christ.

See murder and adultery and false witness and all these other things are easy to identify and point a finger at. They are public problems. But just as Jesus gets the Pharisees with their supposed righteousness, he gets us just as well.

As Foskett says, “the playing field is leveled” for all have fallen short of the glory of god. There may be millions of us who haven’t committed murder but none of us who haven’t been angry. King and peasant, priest and parishioner are all put back in their rightful place of unrighteousness when Jesus makes these revolutionary statements. Because Jesus came to fulfill the law, he calls us back to the ancient code of loving God and loving each other. The law is not about our obedience. It’s about our hearts. Jesus takes these hot topics and turns the tables, moving beyond the law to our hearts.

If you really believe that we are all children of God, don’t tell racist jokes to your poker buddies. If you really believe that we all deserve the grace of God, don’t cut down your co-workers.
If you really believe that we are all made in God’s image, don’t focus on your children’s faults, but on their beauty.

Don’t.
Don’t.
Don’t.

And I’m already back to laws and away from the issues of the heart.

Love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you, and let go of your anger. Could there be a harder or higher calling?

How? How? How? I ask. How do I not harbor anger toward a brother who left my sister for another woman? How do we let go of the anger of feeling abandoned by a parent, spouse, friend or church? How do we rid ourselves of the anger that fuels our dinner table discussions and keeps us seething in bed at night? How do we find freedom from the anger that may not drive us to murder our enemy, but at least give him a good punch in the gut?

I don’t know.

There are people who have been released from their anger towards another. Sometimes it took years. Most of the time it took God. It took a God kind enough to change our hearts and grant us forgiveness should we be willing to take it.

And so I listen to their stories of healing. And I pray. I re-read scripture. I try to repent. I try to remember what I ever loved about that person and if I can summon that forth again. I try to keep my mouth shut so if the anger isn’t gone yet, it’s at least not spewing forth poison on everyone around me.

But mostly, I wait. I wait on God. I listen for God even when I hear God is silent. I cling to God because I know that I do not have the capacity within myself to make my anger go away. I do not. We do not. And so we wait for God to make us more human, more like Christ. And when we do this, God is faithful. And the sticks we see in others are flushed out of our own eyes as well. And eventually we learn to see with the eyes of God and though justice may not reign on earth, neither will our anger.

So we pray.

Amen.

On your table is a question for you to discuss. You’ll have a few minutes to wrestle with that and then we will address part 2 of tonight’s text.

Questions: What is the relationship between getting hurt and getting angry? What has helped you overcome anger in your own life? Does “time heal all wounds” or is there more to absolving anger than just time?

Anger and Reconciliation: Part II

Okay, so Jesus has addressed our anger and the way we use it not necessarily to murder but at least to hurt others. But the second part of this passage deals more with anger that others have against us. So let’s take a look at that.

Verse 23 and following “When you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go: first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift. Come to terms quickly with your accuser while you are on the way to court with him, or your accuser may hand you over to the judge, and the judge to the guard, and you will be thrown into prison. Truly I tell you, you will never get out until you have paid the last penny.”

Foskett says Jesus’ twist on the scenario “puts responsibility for initiating reconciliation at the feet on the one who has been wronged.” Certainly this would pair well with Jesus’ later remarks on turning the other cheek, going the extra mile, subversively putting our offenders on the defense by our change of character.

Now, its been my experience that rarely are others angry with me that I am completely without fault. But sometimes because situations get so tangled and miscommunicated people become angry with us and truth be told, we don’t know how or what provoked them to such resentment in the first place. Foskett shares with us a story like that. Maybe they are angry with us because they feel we are guilty because of who we associate with. That happened to Jesus often enough. It happens a lot with cliques in high schools as I’m sure our teenagers could atest. Sometimes, we represent something, an idea or cause that angers others and causes them to direct their anger towards us.

And other times we are completely guilty for the anger we have incited in others and we need to make that right.

And it’s at these times, all these times, whether we feel guilty or not, we need to stop our routine of going to church, attending Midweek Moorings, participating in Sunday School, volunteering at Oak Springs, and go to the person we know is angry with us and start the reconciliation process.

Now that’s never very easy either. If I feel I’m not guilty of the other person’s anger, I feel compelled to defend myself to them which usually results in more anger on their part. If I know I have wronged them, then I have to suck it up and ask for forgiveness. Either case is difficult and we risk making matters worse if we don’t watch our motives. But presenting yourself to someone who harbors anger against you is nevertheless step one of the reconciliation process.

Okay fine. Go to them. Now, what’s step two?

Jesus doesn’t tell us.

He doesn’t tell us what to say or do, how to make things better, what actions to take to humble ourselves or convince the other person we’re sorry. We don’t get much more than “stop what you’re doing and take the first step.”

But as Foskett reminds us, this step “is necessary to overcome the brokenness that intrudes upon proper communion with God.” Abundant righteousness she describes the direction the sermon on the mount’s overarching theme: abundant righteousness. And so, in Foskett’s words on page 55, “If we are the ones who harbor anger, we are to address our own feeling of animosity directly.” Write in a journal, seek professional counseling, pray, read scripture, wait on God. “If we are on the receiving end of someone else’s enmity, we are to have enough generosity and wisdom to disarm the other’s ill will by taking the first step to reconciliation. The way of the Kingdom allows no room for self-righteousness. The playing field remains level, no matter what side of an offense we find ourselves on.”

None can claim to be righteous.
None can claim to be good.
For none are good but God.
And none are good but through God.

Amen.

On your table is another set of questions for you to discuss. You’ll have a few minutes to wrestle with those and then I'll close us out in prayer.

Questions: What have you found to be a helpful strategy in approaching others you know are angry with you? What doesn’t work well? If you have taken steps toward reconciliation and they seemingly have failed, how do you keep from getting “angry right back”?

My bible and journal are missing.

I might be having a heart attack.

I had them both Sunday at church. Retrace steps...I went to lunch. Went home to nap. Went back to church for choir. Went home. Met Shanna. Went to DCB concert. Came home. Tried to pack for conference Monday, realized bible and journal were gone. Lamented my mistake of leaving it at church. Went to bed.

Drove to Conference. More on that later.

Returned home. Read commentaries. Went to church to get bible and journal. Not in office. With eyes wide, went to Bible study and taught on Judges 1:1-3:6. Drove home. Searched car, bedroom, rest of house.

Enter heart attack.

Or at least panic attack.

I think I took them to my car with the intention to bring them home to pack for the conference after choir. But somehow they are nowhere to be found.

Must write lecture for tomorrow night. No bible. Must write about life. No journal. These are panic inducing inconveniences.

My journal falling into the wrong hands though? That's heart attack.

Oh geez.

Don't panic.

Don't have heart attack.

Start sermon.

Finish it tomorrow at work where there are plenty of bibles.

Pray to God, beseech the Holy Spirit, plead with Mary, appeal to the baby Jesus, take your medicine.

They'll be found...right? And no one who finds a journal on top of the holy scriptures would actually read the journal, right? Let alone toss the bible and keep the journal, right? Right?

I'm in trouble.

And she's gone.

Sigh. It's quiet. I'm not nervous. I'm not working and worrying about entertaining. I'm just being me. Quietly, by myself.

Actually that's not true. I went to a bird sanctuary with a rich friend who wants to buy a $1300 bird. I'd pay off my credit card with that money personally, but whatever. The bird can speak up to 2000 words and has the intelligence of a 5 year old. Why you'd want to spend 75 years living with a five year old is beyond me, but then again, I live with a cat who bites like a pitbull, so who am I to judge?

Tonight I work. Children's worship retreat and I'm in the music rotation. Tomorrow I work: rehearsal for next week's college worship. And Sunday I'm up in worship. Lots of worship going on here folks. You'd think I'd be more holy.

But I'm not. Mother can atest to that. I get cranky and snappy and short-tempered like the best of them. And I worry and get sad and can't let things go. And I date people that shock my family and believe things that shock my friends. What of that is sinful and what of that is just different, I don't know.

I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.

But she's gone. Having left here, she's arriving somewhere else.

Just like I should be, I guess.

Crazy Carol's back.

After arriving and leaving with my father in February for the play, Carol's back in March.

Let me explain why.

Initially, when I thought I was buying a house back in January, we figured I'd move in in February, and she could drive down in March over her spring break with some furniture. However, as you well know, the last house was a no-go, so she bought a cheap ticket instead and flew down just for vacation.

Of course, one week to the day before she arrived, I found a house (and it looks like I might actually get it!), and that made Crazy cranky, "I should have waited!" But it's all good in the hood. I mean, who needs furniture anyway?

But I do need clothes! Well, need is a relative term. But Crazy and I went shopping anyway. New "work" clothes for Ann Catherine. Remember buying school clothes? Annoying dresses, uncomfortable shoes? Same principle except now I wear skirts and heels. But I admit, I did get the cutest pair of navy pinstripe long shorts that will look fabulous with a white shirt, hot pink vest and heels. I digress.

And as we always do manage to go shopping when Crazy's in town, we also managed to break the car. That's right. We're three for four folks, and it's debatable whether you can even count the last time she was here cause dad was with her. It may have thrown off her game.

As usually, the car broke down. Last time it was on the highway, and my students had to drive my mom from Waco to Austin to catch her plane while I waited in Waco for the car to be fixed. This time it just wouldn't start. Nothing. No turn over. No sad vroom, vroom, splatter, hush. Just plain silence. Well, except for the raidio which turned on just fine.

So we jumped the car. Nothing. Cleaned the battery. Nothing. Finally, we called Todd, the community mechanic. And after about three seconds with a hammer underneith the car, it started.

He hit my car with a hammer and it started.

I suppose all you car junkies know where this is going, but 500 dollars later, I have a new starter and windows that will roll up and down and up and down as much as you like (those have been broken for 9 months or so).

Needless to say, I'm pleased. Poor, but pleased. And mom is, well, crazy. And a good support system. We celebrated by going to the Alamo Drafthouse to watch Brokeback Mountain.

This morning we arose to journey with Michelle to the Natural Gardner with the intention to find a plant and statue to put over Radley's grave. That started off okay, but turned too sad for me. I cried. Michelle hugged me. Mom cried and picked out a nice plant with orange blooms. In my personal opinion, denial is always a less teary option. This afternoon, Michelle is taking mom to Wimberly to sightsee while I'm at work. This is me at work. I'm working. Not really, I'm not there yet. I just had lunch. But in principle, I'm at work.

So Crazy's well taken care of, and I'm well taken care of and Emily just had knee surgery and is well taken care of by grandma. But that's another saga and I've not the energy to tell it.

Peace.