Looking forward and back

I’ve been reading with great interest articles articulating why young adults are staying away from the Church in droves. There are so many reasons . . .

There’s this war, y’see. We went there under false pretenses. We were only supposed to be there maybe a few months, but it’s been years and we’re still fighting, and the people who live there are pretending to be our friends then killing our soldiers. Sometimes some of our guys who have been there much too long get a little crazy, and kill some civilians, even children. When they come home they’re not the same. Many suffer from nightmares and flashbacks. They can’t get the medical help they need. So many of them are out on the streets. They just can’t seem to get it together anymore to work and take care of their families. Way too many don’t come home at all. And the church says nothing!

People in this country are being oppressed, big time. Sometimes it seems like a police state. When we get together to protest, no matter how peacefully we gather, the police put on their riot gear and come against us. It feels like nobody gives a damn about the poor. Women are kept down by this thing called a glass ceiling. Many people, especially poor women, aren’t able to get necessary medical care without jumping through a bunch of hoops - and even then they may be refused the care they need. There are people who love each other but can’t get married because there are laws against it except in just a few states. That’s not right! But the church preaches against them, using Scripture to prove they shouldn’t have the same rights as everyone else.

We are so completely ignored in church. Oh, they want us there when there’s a work day. And they definitely want us to be sitting in the pews every Sunday, doing mission work, singing in the choir. They even want us to serve on the boards and committees as long as we don’t rock the boat. But they don’t want our opinions on anything. They want everything to remain the way it’s been forever. Even the music. Most of the songs in the hymnal are from the last century, or the 1600s or at best from the 1930s. And yes, some churches do have an evening service with music that’s more up to date and has a (slightly) different format from the traditional service. It seems like they think that’s all that it takes to keep us docile and obedient. Wrong! We’re bored and frustrated and the church doesn’t understand or care what’s going on with us at all.

And we hurt. Don’t they realize that when they preach about that judgmental God it hurts? Don’t they know that when they reject others just because they are different it hurts? Don’t they know that when they reject us just because we are young than they do it hurts? Don’t they know that when they use scripture to justify unjust actions it hurts? We feel like we have to be silent about who we really are and what we really believe if we want to fit in. But y’know, it’s become abundantly clear that we can never be accepted as we really are, so we need to go somewhere else. We believe. Oh, we believe so deeply. But the Jesus we know doesn’t seem to have any relation to the God they talk about.

We simply don’t trust the institutional church anymore. We’d rather meet God in nature than indoors. We’d rather use our own music and have vital conversations about our beliefs in coffee shops and living rooms, not sitting in pews in a sanctuary doing the same thing Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. We’d rather be out in the streets helping the children of God who need us! Following Christ isn’t about organs and stained glass and committee meetings. It’s about loving each other. It’s about actively making the world a better place in Jesus’ name.

And so, we left. And when we left . . .

The war was in Vietnam, not Iraq or Afghanistan. The people who couldn’t legally marry weren’t gay, they were of different races. The riot police weren’t there for Occupiers but Civil Rights and anti-war protesters. The special services for younger folks featured acoustic guitars and folk music, not electric guitars and Starbucks. But the feelings were much the same. The frustration was much the same. The results were the same. In the period from the late 1960s into the 1970s everything was changing. The churches were hemorrhaging young people and the older folks just couldn’t figure it out. Some of us, like me, came back decades later, but most didn’t.

Please understand, I’m not making light of what’s going on today. I’m just kind of saying that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

We get it. We really do. (Well, OK. Some of us get it.) And we are as frustrated as the young adults. (My thanks to Whiskey Preacher and friends who listened with great patience and compassion while I vented this frustration at GA 2011.) We’ve just learned to tame our anger a bit. We’ve gained a little patience over the years. Because the fact is, the Church needs us all way more than we need it. It needs us to breathe life back into it, to perform a sort of CPR. It needs us to help guide it into change, to help move it into the 21st century. I know that sometimes, maybe even most of the time, making changes in the Church feels like sculpting Mount Rushmore by hand - a constant chip, chip, chip with hardly anything to show for the work. But when we stand back far enough to get perspective, we can see the signs that something is happening.

Over the last 21 centuries, the Church has undergone reformation and revitalization and re-whatever the next word is over and over again. Every century or so somebody decides that we need to go back to the way it was in Acts, with informal house churches and more time working in the streets among the people who really need us than in committee meetings and rigidly scripted worship services. Over all those centuries some parts of the Church chose to remain the same, some changed a little, and some become radically different from their roots. But in all that time and through all those changes the Church universal has never died. The Church continues to go forward, to change lives, to heal wounded hearts. Because at bottom, in all its manifestations, through all its changes, the Church continues to do the work that Jesus commanded his disciples (us) to do - casting out demons, healing the sick and preaching the Good News of God’s kingdom come to the earth.

On followers and following

Recently I've had a number of new followers on Twitter. I'm not sure why those people chose to follow me. I haven't been especially active lately although I have posted links to a couple of my sermons and blog entries. Maybe they read those things and wanted to read more. Maybe they simply clicked on one of the suggestions Twitter loves to list on our pages. You know the ones "this person is like you so you should follow them."

In some of the cases, I suspect some of them follow me because my Twitter name is @revmariat and I describe myself as pastor of an open and affirming multicultural Disciples of Christ church. It seems to me, however, that the only similar point in our bios is a reference to Christ. And I am quite sure that many of them miss the meaning of "open and affirming" altogether.

My newest follower has a bio that includes phrases like "giver of hope" and "conduit of God's love." I don't quite get it. Mind you, I have nothing against giving hope or sharing God's love with the world. That is what I preach every Sunday and it is what I try to do. As far as I can tell, this is what Jesus calls all of us to do. I just wonder whether such a self-description might not be hubris.

I quickly checked the Twitter bios of my other followers. It didn't take long as I only have 423 right this minute. Many of the preacher/teacher folks describe themselves with words and phrases like follower of Jesus, loves God, reaching out to the untouchable, smart aleck, curmudgeon. A large number of them name their work - pastor, teacher, advisor, blogger, author. Some speak of being a seeker or a person on a journey to know themselves and God better. Those words and phrases are in the bios of most of the preacher/teacher folks I follow as well.

This newest of my followers is not the first whose bio reads this way. Most of those, however, have unfollowed me within a few days or weeks. Again, I don't know whether that's because I don't tweet a lot or because they have read my tweets, sermons and blog entries and finally figured out what open and affirming means. I understand them unfollowing however, because I have noticed that in most cases I did not follow them back.

Don't get me wrong. I get a little thrill when I get a new follower even if it's a robo-follow because I said "massage" or "car." But I don't follow spas or car dealers or other commercial enterprises. Likewise, I don't see the point in following people with whom I disagree on the basics of Christ's message which was always one of radical inclusion, never one of rejection or exclusion. I don't see the point in following people who think their particular belief system makes them somehow superior to any other human in the world or that they have a right to try to impose that belief system on other people. I don't see the point in following anyone who thinks "loving" the other means trying to change the very fabric of that person's being.

On the other hand, I do choose to follow anyone who speaks of serving the other, loving the unlovely, unloved and unloveable, welcoming the outcaste, caring for the earth as if our lives depended on it, reminding others of God's unconditional love and forgiveness. In other words, people who speak as the gospels tell me Jesus did and try to act as Jesus directed us to act.

And, just in case you were wondering - Open and Affirming means that our congregation welcomes and affirms people of every age, race, ethnicity, gender, gender identity, sexual orientation, physical and mental ability, economic status, legal status and family structure into the full membership, leadership, ministry and sacramental life of the congregation.

It just makes me happy!

One day last week I was making a pastoral call at a local private hospital. I didn't know the patient. I only knew that her name was Elizabeth and that her family had asked the hospital social worker to call a minister to pray with her. I get quite a few of those calls. Elizabeth was comatose, as they almost always are by the time I get called. She was alone, as they have always been when I get the call. Sometimes I don't get there in time. I've learned to ask whether or not I need to come immediately.

I nearly always walk through the front door slightly dreading what I will find when I get to the patient's room. I know I'm doing a good thing and I feel blessed by the opportunity to bring comfort to a person in their last days, hours, or minutes of life. But I still experience a bit of apprehension when I walk through the front door.

But this visit would prove to be different. As I approached the reception desk I was greeted by a young lady with bright orange hair and a bright red smile. She greeted me as if I was an expected, well known and beloved guest. She seemed genuinely happy to see me. She made me feel as though nothing she had to do was nearly as important as directing me to the patient's room. When I was on my way out a little while later I had to stop by the desk simply for the joy of interacting with that young lady again.

I suspect I stood a little straighter when I left the hospital than when I arrived. I know I left humming a praise song. My day had suddenly become filled with joy. Even the prospect of driving on the freeway for 30 minutes to another hospital visit couldn't dampen my spirits.

Experiences like this come to everyone. A greeting or a smile from a stranger can lift anyone's spirits, no matter how low. The strange thing about this experience is that it hasn't stopped yet. It's been exactly a week since I walked into that hospital lobby and I still experience joy every time I think about it. When I drive past the hospital (which is on my way to St. Arbucks), when I see a store display with brightly coiffed mannequins, even just randomly throughout the day for no good reason - whenever I think about it I straighten my back and makes me smile. Sometimes I even LOL as I relive the experience.

The joy I received from a young woman behaving exactly like herself has been so much a part of the past seven days that a few minutes ago I called the hospital to thank her. I asked the receptionist if a young lady with bright orange hair was working today. She wasn't in yet, so I told the receptionist who I was and when I was there. I told her that I was calling to thank the young lady with the bright orange hair for making me happy that day and every day since then. The receptionist said that it would give her great pleasure to pass on the message to her co-worker, Joanna.

Wow. I couldn't make up "coincidences" like this even if I wanted to. Joanna means God is gracious.

In my encounter with Joanna God's grace entered my life, lifted my spirits, and allowed me to be fully present at Elizabeth's bedside. Because of my encounter with Joanna, I have felt God's graciousness in my life every day since last Tuesday. For the past seven days I have felt the joy and awesomeness of God's unceasing, unconditional, steadfast love so strongly that it keeps moving me to shed tears of joy, randomly and for no apparent reason.

I hope that this feeling of joy-filled-ness lasts. I hope my memory of meeting Joanna maintains the power to fill my heart with love. But even if the feeling and the memory fade with time,as feelings and memories tend to do, in the meantime . . . it just makes me happy.


Cross-posted by Tuesday's Child on disciplesinstersection.org

Poetry - really?

As a straight ally and the pastor of an Open and Affirming congregation I was invited to participate in the 13th Annual Transgender Day of Remembrance in Riverside, California. Of course I said yes, and foolishly told the organizer, "I'll do whatever you want me to in the program." Today I got an email which said, "Attached are three poems for you to read in the program."

Poetry - Really? When I read that email to my husband he started chuckling. He knows the struggles I have had with Poetry.

I didn't always have trouble with poetry. Apparently I liked poems, even wrote some when I was very young. My mother was fond of showing family members a love poem I wrote about a classmate in 2nd grade. That was embarrassing, but it's not the reason I had trouble with poetry. That started in 4th grade.

The 4th grade teacher, Mrs. McClintock, was known for the wonderful poetry recitations her class presented every year at the annual spring program. Every month all through the school year she would assign long, boring poems by dead white guys to be memorized and recited in front of the class. I hated it. I could memorize alright but the standing up in front of the class to recite was horrible. I was always terrified. I developed a real dislike for poetry. As much as I loved reading, if I saw anything even shaped like a poem in whatever I was reading, I would skip over it. It might be song lyrics that gave the clue that would solve the mystery or help the hero save the day, but I wouldn't care. I wouldn't read poetry. I wouldn't even read the psalms because they are obviously poetry.

This state of affairs lasted about 35 years. When I finally got to college in my 40s I had an English professor who insisted that we read poetry. She didn't care how much I hated it, I was going to read it. Then she assigned poets like Maya Angelou and a Vietnam vet and some Native American writers. I had no idea there were people like these writing poetry. Not a dead white guy in the bunch! No poems about chestnut trees or owls and pussycats or the village smithy. No iambic pentameter. And I liked it. I started reading poetry voluntarily.

Mind you, I still don't read much poetry. But I do read it when I run across it in a book or magazine. I've even purchased a couple of books of poetry. I now enjoy the psalms and proverbs and Song of Solomon. Life opened up whole new vistas of understanding when I lost my hatred of poetry.

So on Sunday I will be reading three powerful, pain-filled poems written from the perspective of a transgendered woman. While reading I will be giving thanks for Dixie Durham at Chapman University and her insistence that I would find good things about poetry if I would just open my mind and give it a chance. And I will be praying for open-mindedness to come to all people, everywhere.

Radioactive blessings

At the beginning of my first appointment in the radiation oncology department I was surprised to be introduced to two physicists who would be working on my case. Somehow it had never occurred to me that there would be anyone besides medical personnel involved in my treatment but on reflection I thought, "Radiation. . . physicists ... duh. "

They explained to me that the bulk of the time I spent in the treatment room would be taken up by them checking and rechecking and sometimes triple-checking the math in order to make sure I got exactly the right dosage for exactly the right amount of time. I assured them that I greatly appreciated their attention to detail and they could check their math as many times as they liked.

I went home that day thinking how exciting it was that math people would choose to study and work with ways radiation in order to help heal specific individuals. I think of physicists as professors and rocket scientist, folks working in laboratories and universities. On my second visit I felt compelled to ask one of them what drew a physicist toward medical uses of radiation.

His story wasn't exactly what I was expecting. I thought I was going to hear why a physicist would leave the lab or university for the field of medical radiation. What I heard instead was a story of vocation discovered.

The physicist's story began shortly after graduating from college when he discovered that his degree in Spanish Literature was not going to help him earn a living. After trying a few other things he began working as an Xray Technician. During the course of his duties he was exposed to the physicists working in radiation oncology. [pun intended] What these men and women were doing really excited him! Here were people who were not doctors and yet who spent every day working to heal people from what is possibly the most frightening diagnosis anyone can be given. He wanted to be part of that. He went back to school (where he discovered he actually does like math) and became one of them, a physicist working in radiation oncology. He said, "It took me a while to get here but now I am doing exactly what I am meant to be doing."

He thanked me for asking and I thanked him back for telling me about his journey. When I showed up for my appointment I absolutely did not expect to hear a story of calling and vocation. What a blessing I received along with the radiation.

I've been Lurking

Yesterday one of the ladies at church said, "I've been worried about you. You haven't been on Facebook all week!" I replied, "I've been there, but I've been lurking." Then I had to explain what lurking is. I've signed on to Facebook, Twitter and Google+ every day. I've read other people's posts and even added some folks to my lists and circles of friends and followers. But I haven't said very much at all.

It could be that I'm suffering from social network overload. Even when I have had something I really wanted to share I have to decide how I wanted to share it. Did I want to limit myself to 140 characters, posting to Twitter and Facebook simultaneously? Or did I want to write something longer as a blog post or a note and then post a TinyURL on Twitter so it would appear on both Twitter and Facebook? Or should I just post it on Facebook?

And what about Google+? I'd have to write something separate for Google+ because Twitter and Facebook don't talk to Google+. Then I'd have to decide which of my circles to share it with. Do I want everyone in my circles to see it, or just other church folk, or just recovery folk, or just women, or do I want to share with the whole entire world of Google+?

Maybe I should just write a blog post. That would work. Then I could post it everywhere and not worry about how many characters it has or who gets to read it. Of course, that means I have to decide whether to post it to Jubilee or Everyday Thinking, or Tuesday's Child on the Disciples of Christ site, the Intersection: Where Faith Meets Life. I don't really like to cross-post so I kind of have to pick just one. Then I get to decide where to post the link so people can read it. . .

You see the problem I've been having? When I was only involved with one social networking site and only wrote one blog it was simple. ;-)

However . . . today I've ended my lurking break. I imagine I will take other breaks in the future when it starts seeming like way too much again. I've returned to all those places with comments and posts and likes and RTs and +s. See you there.

At the foot of the cross

For an hour today I watched from the foot of the cross, from the bottom of the hill, with the other women.

Every year from forever ago our congregation has held a prayer vigil on Good Friday. Once upon a time they would all come to the church at the time they had committed to pray and sit in the sanctuary for 30 or 60 minutes, depending. We would set out candles and meditation books on the communion table for those who liked to use those things in their prayer practice. Over time, as some members of the congregation got older and other members got busier, more and more people signed up to pray at home instead of in the sanctuary. This year only one person besides me signed up to spend her prayer time in the sanctuary. *sigh*

My hour was from noon to 1 pm. I read the lectionary readings for the day while sitting in the first pew. In front of me was the wooden communion table with the words "In Remembrance of Me" carved on the front. Above me in the center of the wall is the stained glass cross. As I sat there, awash in the silence, the phrase "at the foot of the cross" from John's gospel reading kept coming back to me. The cross stretched so high above me, as it must have stretched high above the women at the foot of the hill, at the foot of the cross. I wondered what it must have been like to be in that place, to watch your nephew, your teacher, your son, die such an agonizing death. I've sat with my own family and with members of my congregation watching loved ones die, wondering which would be the last breath, holding our own breath as we waited for that last agonizing wheeze to be expelled, for that last moment when you can see the life seep out of the body. But our experiences are in hospital and hospice and home. We could touch the hand of the one we loved. We could lay our cheek on theirs, and whisper our last loving words. From the foot of the cross, from the bottom of that hill, the women watched a man die tortured and tormented, bleeding, unreachable and alone. And today I was there with them.

I wondered why that had never really come to my mind on all those other Good Fridays. I have walked and prayed the Stations of the Cross I don't know how many times. I've prayed in front of life sized Stations outdoors and 5x7 reproductions on the wall of a Catholic school cafeteria and everything in between. I've walked the Stations because my parents required it when I was a child and because I desired to as an adult. But somehow it never occurred to me before that my place on Good Friday was with the women at the foot of the cross. But today . . .

. . . today for an hour I stood with the other women. With the other women I watched from the bottom of hill, at the foot of the cross.