My Year of Paying Attention

Well, I found out what generates lots of comments: church weirdness!

Siggy and I spent most of our hour yesterday talking about churchy stuff. As someone who was a parish priest in a former life, he is a good listener on that subject.

We also talked about how my family is driving me nuts, but that's another post.

Siggy and I have dubbed 2008 the Year of Paying Attention--not that 2007 was the Year of Blowing Stuff Off, but more in the sense that it feels as if it will be a year of discernment for me. Now, we all know that in ministry parlance "discernment" can often mean "somebody's looking for a job" but that truly is not what I'm going for here. The first three years or so felt as if I was just figuring out the day-in-day-out aspects of the job here. I realize that sounds as if I had a ridiculously steep learning curve, but bear in mind, in the living memory of the membership here, they had never been a self-standing church with a full-time pastor, so we were learning together.

But now, the steepness of the learning curve has lessened. The learning never stops, but this is the year I feel as if I need to be more attentive to what it is I was called here to do. It is obvious to me that that thing is not merely to get my feet wet or to collect fodder for humorous posts.

So I will give you my observation for January, on this last day of the month: in a church where the previous congregational-pastoral relationships have been of the "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" variety, (meaning the pastoral team has had physical, emotional, financial needs that the congregation was called upon to alleviate in exchange for the favor of the pastor's "looking the other way" in terms of polity and theology) what happens when the new gal doesn't itch?

Deep Freeze

It was 50 degrees F yesterday afternoon. Last night, when I went to bed it was -10 degrees F.

School is canceled today and I am working at home. The wind chill is -23 degrees F.

I hate winter.

That is all.

C'mon people, now, smile on your brother...and sister...

ev'rybody get together, try to love one another right now.

Is it me, or are church people getting weird(er)? I commented over at Sue's place about my recent observations that we churchy types seem to be "fiddling while Rome burns". My spouse wondered out loud if that was anything like "rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic". While those are two pretty different metaphors, I think he may be on to something. (He may be remembering the scene in the movie where the musicians play "Nearer My God to Thee" as the ship is sinking.)

We had another showdown this past Sunday, wherein somebody let me have it, right between the eyeballs. The topic: coffee cups. It seems the past two weeks there were no coffee cups of the session-approved biodegradable variety, (or any other kind) so the coffee hour hosts have had to run to the nearby store at the last minute to get cups, and they bought Styrofoam, because the store doesn't carry the kind we want to use. Person A was mad because she had to run out at the last minute, and person B was pissed because the cups were the wrong kind.

You see where this is going, right?

Apparently there is at least a small contingent who believe that I go through the church kitchen each week, doing a sweeping inventory. Or should be doing thus. Did I mention that this contingent is made up of the loudest squawkers most precious children of God?

When I should have been in the pulpit on Sunday saying, "God be with you!" (And also with you.) "Welcome to this service of worship on this glorious Lord's Day!" I was, in fact, standing in the rear of the sanctuary getting hissed at from both sides. Or, standing in the need of prayer. Whichever.

So, I pasted on a smile and told myself "Remember: Jesus died for this!"

I spent this morning making detailed, prominent, 36-point font signs that I posted in the kitchen at eye level right above the coffee hour supplies. These signs told how much of the stuff I went out and purchased yesterday, where the bulk of it was stored, when to notify either me or the Office Admin when supplies were low, and excruciatingly detailed instructions on how to notify us. It was all I could do to keep from ending every sentence with "like, DUH!" Then I did the same thing in the bathrooms. Same excruciating details.

Remind me to write my seminary faculty and thank them for preparing me for this.

So...

Note: I swore I posted this last night, but I guess not. I guess I really was Taaaaahhrd.

I didn't make it to Easter, planning-wise, but I did get to Palm/Passion Sunday, then I remembered I had to do Maundy Thursday, then my head Expwoded, and I went out to run a few church-related errands, then by that time it was time for my 3:15, then I came home for a brief time, then went out for my 6:30, then stopped at the grocery story for a few things, then came home, where the kitchen was a wreck, (unlike when I left the house earlier) so my head Expwoded some more.

As my daddy says, "I'm Taaaaahhrd."

Okay.

I got upset and lost it for a couple of hours, during which all I really did was blog about it and eat a 2-point fiber one bar. (I think it was the "bowels" comment from More Cows that made me do that.)

Then I made a pot of soup. Three points a serving! Want the recipe? Sure you do!

Minestrone For A Tough Day

2 T olive oil
3 slices bacon* chopped.
3 celery ribs chopped
1 large carrot chopped
1/2 a large onion chopped
various Italian spices: basil, oregano, thyme, rosemary, italian blend--whatever you like!
1 large box of chicken stock (or veggie. about 5 cups)
1 large can of chopped tomatoes
1 can of cannelini beans, drained (or other beans that you like)
1/2 cup of small pasta: orzo is what I happen to have handy

*(Gourmets, go ahead and drag out that pancetta. You could also use turkey bacon, canadian bacon, or leave it out altogether if you want to go vegggie. Any of those options will lower the points.)

Heat the oil in a large pot, throw in the bacon and chopped veggies. When bacon is browned and veggies are soft, add stock, beans, tomatoes and whatever spices you like. Start with small amounts and add more if you want. Add pepper if you like. When it is boiling, add pasta and turn down the heat. If you leave it set for at least an hour it will be perfect!

I have another pastoral call to make tonight on potential new members, so I'm going to have a bowl here at about 1:00, then put the rest in the slow cooker for my spouse to have later when I am working. WonderGirl will not eat it because it contains two things she does not eat: meat and vegetables. I know, I know. She's too old and too big for me to force feed.

Now, back to my worship planning. I am now up to the middle of March. I hope to be up to Easter before I leave the house this afternoon.

You have GOT to be kidding me.

I began Fat Club a year ago his week. I had very early success, as I usually do when I buckle down and work at weight loss. I went off plan after about eight months, again, as I usually do. I decided to buckle down again last week. I ate all my points, and even planned ahead for the party I went to last week. I drank all the water--enough to have me peeing an extra eight or ten times a day, as I do before my kidneys get used to the extra work.

I expected at least a first week loss of about a pound. I knew it would not be the impressive 3 or 4 that I had a year ago.

I weighed in today. I gained 2 pounds. I did my very best, but the best I could do was put 2 more pounds on. I predict that I will gain back all my weight plus about 6 pounds (if I stay on Fat Club) by the end of March. At this rate I will have no clothes to wear on the cruise. I'm serious. I gave away all my fattest clothes and am only left with moderately fat stuff. Do you know how hard it is to by warm weather clothes in March in Snow Belt?

To everyone going on the cruise: you might want to stay away from the Lido deck if you don't want to see a very large, naked, sad, RevGal up there.

This is the point at which I Give Up.

Shoving him out again...

I spent a good portion of today helping ManChild get settled in his new home. Actually most of my part was whipping out the credit card to pay for his new stuff. The last time he moved to the east side of the Big Mean City his roommate's parents paid for mostly everything, so he didn't have very much with which to set up household.

That means a trip to Goodwill!

We got him a not-too-shabby sofa ($25) and a recliner that I wouldn't have picked, but is probably worth the $15 we paid for it.

Then I took him to our local Big Box O' Cheap Stuff and got him a few things to round out his kitchen. A used sofa is one thing, a used toaster is another. He still has a few boxes of stuff here, but mostly he is set up in his new place. It is quite nice for the price. New carpet, appliances, flooring, fixtures, lights, kitchen and bathroom counters, shower tile. Shiny and clean--so far.

Let's hope this one "takes". I don't have storage room for all the stuff he got today.

What Gets Left Behind: sermon

What Gets Left Behind
Matthew 4: 12-23
January 27, 2008

I’ve been thinking a lot about Zebedee this week. Imagine sitting in the boat, and watching your two sons— who are more to you than just your flesh and blood, but also your business partners—just up and leave when somebody comes by with a better offer. And a cryptic offer it was at that. “Fish for people.” What does that mean?

Maybe I’m thinking about Zebedee because I am now at that age when my children are moving on with their lives, making decisions of their own. My son got the keys to his new apartment this weekend—an apartment he will lease on his own and hopefully make the rent on every month for at least a year. And even though I’m proud of how far he’s come in this past year, and how much he’s grown, their is still that little part of me that feels as if I’m being left behind ever so slightly. There is this little ritual he and I have. Every time he leaves the house, I holler at him as he is walking out the door, ”Don’t do anything stupid!” “Probably won’t.” is his standard reply. I know that my chances of telling him that are going to be severely limited. I’ll miss our little joke. It’s my way of telling him that I love him, and his way of telling me that he loves me back without either of us getting a cavity from too much sugary sweetness in the moment.

So, a part of me feels just a little like Zebedee. On the other hand, I am aware that in my family of origin I am the person who left. This past week my mother had a big and potentially dangerous surgery. She came through fine, but in the process there was a lot of worry and distraction on my part. It’s hard to be the person who left so much behind. It’s hard to be the one hearing hospital updates on the phone instead of sitting with my dad in the family waiting room while the surgeon comes in and describes the size and shape of the thyroid he took from my mother’s throat— small football-ish was what he said. Hearing the relief in my dad’s voice when he saw her for the first time after surgery was not the same as getting to give him a hug and a ride back to Greensburg.

I guess this is what they mean by “sandwich generation”—caught between the need to make sure my children are thriving and the need to take care of my parents. Some times I feel pulled between two equally compelling forces, both worthy and good reasons to be somewhere or do something.

It seems as though it was much more clear-cut in Matthew’s day. Children—even adult children, and especially sons—stayed to help the parents. Especially if they had learned a family trade from their father, as James and John had. There was a strong sense of duty to family that undergirded what few choices people made. Adults did not leave family unless it was for the good of the family for them to do so. People stayed close to home, and stayed on in what ever enterprise in which the family had been established for years and years. If your father was a shepherd, you were a shepherd. If you father was a potter, you were a potter…and so on.

The phenomenon of doing something that your parents have never done before is a relatively young one. And I don’t mean that in the sense that teenagers understand music and art and language and the world in a way that their parents have never understood—I mean that truly and vocationally, not in the sense of a mere generation gap. The children in my high school class who grew up on farms had fathers and mothers and uncles and aunts and grandparent who were farmers. Most of them left the family farm. In fact, where I grew up the family farm is all but a forgotten memory. Most of them went to college, and like me, never looked back.

I wonder sometimes if the Church is experiencing it’s own sandwich generation. Having thrived in a culture and a community that once upon a time supported the status quo, the pull to keep on doing what has always worked in the past is strong. It is emotional and it echoes deep satisfaction. While we are admiring the things from the past that worked so well, it is easy to overlook the failed experiments, the things we tried that didn’t work so well but we kept them around out of fear. At the same time, the Church is being expected to thrive in a very new environment, where potential members, and leaders, and disciples have many other options available to them. And so denominations and local churches alike find themselves—ourselves—in a very perplexing place. Do we maintain our loyalty to the heritage that brought us here, or do we try to reach out and meet the spiritual needs of a world that is rapidly changing?

This is where we take a good long look at what Jesus really does in this text. He leaves his home to go where potential disciples are. He encounters them doing what they normally do, in the way that they normally do it, and he tells them to drop what they are doing and follow him—and if they do, he will help them to do the thing they normally do in a new way. He encounters them where they are. He doesn’t ask fishermen to become farmers, or shepherds to become potters. He asks them to do what they already do, only with him and for the reign of God, and in a new way, with a new purpose.

It’s not a venture without risk, and the risk is not one sided. Jesus takes the risk that the first four he encounters might just say, “Gee. No thanks.” Why leave a comfortable life, and a good living, and a loving family to go off because someone else asks you to? And let’s face it—free will being what it is, some will hear the invitation and will say “No thanks.” Some could have taken Jesus up on his invitation, discovered haw hard it can be and changed their minds.

And then there is Zebedee. In my fantasy version of this story, he sits in the boat for a few minutes, sees his sons follow Jesus, looks at the nets one last time, and decides to get out and follow along as well. But the text doesn’t tell us that. The text tells us that Zebedee gets left behind, the one left to keep fishing, without even his best co-workers. I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather be James and John in that story than Zebedee. I’ve been both the leaver and the left, and being the leaver is better. It’s riskier, but its better.

I’ve talked a lot about what things we walked away from when my family and I decided to move to California so I could attend seminary. You know by now that there was a house we had waited years to have, and a church community we loved and were supported by, and good schools for the kids, and fulfilling work for the both of us. Those are the tangibles, the things that are obvious to anyone who hears the story.

There were other things, too. I was asked to leave behind a life of easy predictability, that was at the same time, fairly self reliant, in favor of a life in which unexpected blessings and surprising challenges wait around every corner, and in which I would have to rely on others—first a seminary community, then a church community—for growth and development. I was asked to leave behind a life in which I felt I was pretty much in control (or thought I was) for a life in which I gave a great deal of the control to the One who had called me.

But perhaps the hardest thing for me to give up was the notion that what I did and said didn’t matter much in this world, that I had very little to contribute to the way God is bringing about the Reign of God. That, brothers and sisters, is what I believe each of us is called to leave behind in favor of a life of discipleship. God meets us where we are, not where God wishes us to be. God calls us to a life of discipleship based on what plans God has for us, and how we are to grow—not based on our weaknesses or where we’ve been, or the failures we’ve made of ourselves. God calls us to “risk the hostile stare” and to calm fear, reshape the world, bring abut the Reign of God…but never alone. Never alone. Thanks be to God.

Quickie Update

• I got snow tires put on my car today. I have lived in Snow Belt for 17 of the last 23 winters, but this is the first winter I've had snow tires. They are awesome! What took me so long?
• Spouse's fancypants "holiday" company party is tomorrow night. I'm feeling especially ugly. Not good.
• I talked to my mom on the phone today for the first time since her surgery. She sounded like the old mom I remember. It's amazing what having a grotesquely overgrown and misshapen gland in your throat does to your voice. I still can't believe she could eat, breathe or talk with a "football" lodged there. She was tired and groggy tonight, but I could understand her speech for the first time in a couple of years.
• ManChild is getting keys to his new apartment tomorrow. His name will be on the lease--no co-signers. Just like a real grown-up. Wow. I thought this day would never come. And by that I mean, where did the time fly?
  

26 points

Inspired by my dear sister Songbird, I'll tell you what I ate today.

Yes, I get a few more points than her. I weigh more. She will also point out that I'm almost a foot taller, but to me tall and fat is still fat. Any-hoo...

I left the house early and without breakfast. That is a cardinal Fat Club sin, but it worked out alright because late morning found me at the house of a new mom, her tiny preemie son, and her toddler. She offered me lemon-poppyseed bread. The woman gave birth to a three pound baby, and spent a month schlepping her 2 year old to the NICU every day to see him. She baked for me! No way was I going to refuse her hospitality. I cut myself a thin slice then looked it up later: 3 points.

As soon as I got to church I drank down a couple of quick water bottles, for 32 ounces. Then I worked up an appetite running across the hall to pee eighty-leven times. Lunch was a cup of chicken dumpling soup and a small French roll from the village bakery. And more water. Up to 46 ounces now! Lunch: 6 points.

By the time I was on my way home in the late afternoon, visions of the candy stash I saw in one of my nursing home lady's room were dancing in my head, so I made myself one of my baked apples (2.5 points) when I got home and had that with some decaf tea (counts as water)

An hour later I was still kind of hungry, so I ate a cup of 1% cottage cheese, to get some dairy in. 3 points.

Dinner was 1.5 cups of whole wheat penne regate with 1 cup of marinara with italian sausage (from a jar) with 2 tablespoons of grated asiago cheese. It was delicious, and worth the 9 points.

While watching "Ugly Betty" I enjoyed a carefully counted serving of Lay's Baked chips. 2.5 points.

There you have it. Not the best day nutritionally-speaking. Veggies were really half-assed. No exercise except literally a dozen trips to the potty. I got my water, though, so I don't feel like a failure. Plus I stayed within my points. I'm putting today in the win column.

They put the fun in dysfunctional.

There is family drama galore everywhere isn't there? No family is immune.

My spouse was digging through some old files in our storage room the other day, and found a narrative history of his maternal grandfather's life. Grandpa G was a wonderful , generous , complicated man. He was the rebellious only son of a Methodist minister, who dropped out of school and became a professional clarinet player until the night he broke his jaw in a bar fight. He was eighteen. That was the end of his musical career. He then worked with the CCC for a few years, then took a job sweeping the floor in a hardware store, which was the moment his illustrious retail career was born.

Fast forward many years, and he was a buyer for ladies' apparel working the "rag trade" in Manhattan while his wife and 2 children (one of them my MIL) camped out in Scarsdale, NY. They moved around a lot, and he ended up in Iowa and Nebraska where he founded an insurance/investment firm.

I miss him and Grandma G. They were, so far, the only members of my husband's family to think I was ever, could ever be, good enough to be in the family.

Contrast that story with this:

Yesterday we got a Christmas card from my spouse's sister and her husband. We've never gotten one from them before. Even more unusual was a letter inside! We learned that my husband's BIL was diagnosed with cancer 10 months ago. We spent part of a week vacationing with them last summer in Florida,and spent a weekend with them at my FIL's house over Thanksgiving, but the cancer was never mentioned. He will be undergoing surgery and treatment next month. He had refused treatment before, in favor of prayer, but his test results came back bad, so he has decided it is God's will that he have the cancer removed.

We also learned that the same BIL, age 53 is taking some math and science courses to prepare for the MCAT exam, as in medical school. He expects to take the exam by the time he is 57, which would mean he might graduate from medical school , internship, and residency at age 65-ish, and that is if he goes to school full time, which he does not plan to do since he is the sole support of he and his wife. (In their church's tradition married women do not work unless the husband is totally disabled.) More realistically, he will be near age 70 when he finishes.

I found the letter so over-the-top bizarre that I don't even know what to think of it.

Families sure are fun. I haven't even begun to tell you about my mother's saga yet.

Wednesday Flotsam

Some tidbits of miscellany that have been taking up space in the old cranium...

• My mother had her thyroid removed yesterday. I was told it was the size and shape of a small football. (think Nerf) I am relieved the surgery is done. Up until Sunday night she was telling me that she was convinced that the surgery would kill her, so she didn't want to do it. I can't imagine walking around with a football in my throat for years. The thing is, you could not tell by looking at her that it was that big.
  
• I made the Southwest Chicken recipe again yesterday with breasts. It is better with thighs. The meat is tastier. Just FYI.
• WonderGirl and BoyWonder have taken to playing video games against each other online. That would not be my preferred way of being in relationship, but I think she is trying to do some things he really likes,so there you have it.
  
• She baked him some designer cookies last night--they were very fancy by the time she finished decorating them.
• ManChild is working towards moving out. He made application for an apartment in nearby RiverTown last night. I think we are all ready for this move. I know I am.
• I had the most interesting phone conversation yesterday with someone who called the church out of the blue with some Methodist versus Presbyterian theological questions. It was fun. Much more fun than the "Why are we out of toilet paper?"-type questions that plague me at St Stoic in a normal week.
  
• Speaking of bizarre questions, we had our annual congregational meeting last Sunday.
• Nine months later, Former Admin still has a bit of a chip on her shoulder.
• Currently Awesome Admin was the definition of grace under pressure when FA was going off in the meeting.
• We had a twenty minute discussion of a clock that hangs in the sanctuary. Yes, I was moderating. That was with me moving things along! In the end I had to explain about five times that where the clock hangs is not a matter to be decided in the congregational meeting. Other wise, trust me, we'd still be there. I actually had to show people the Book of Order to prove it.
• Rank and file, 30 years-plus members of the congregation had never heard of the Book of Order. Much less seen one.
• My work at St Stoic is not done, eh?
  

For the Other Women

There was a joke we used to tell at the expense of a certain "potatoe" eating Vice-President from my home state. "Roe v.Wade: Will somebody please tell the Vice President that it is more than just the answer to the question "How do I cross the Potomac today?"

I worked for a certain famous family planning agency for just a little over ten years. No, we did not perform abortions in our clinic. I felt good about being able to tell my parents--my very 'pro-life' parents (that would be their word, not mine) that I did not have to be involved in any way with abortions.

That was a lie.

I referred hundreds of women. I gave them their results, handed them tissues while they cried, held their hands while they told Mom or Boyfriend, or once, Grandpa. I told them how to apply for an emergency loan if they had no way to pay for the procedure. I told them how to avoid protesters, and where the private parking lots were that the protesters were not allowed to set foot on, and how to get a legal or clergy bypass from the courts if they were under 18. I gave them maps, and brochures and a copy of the consent form to read ahead of time, along with my card so they could call me if they had questions.

I was too chicken-shit to tell my parents that. Or maybe I was just protecting them. My brother took to wearing a lapel pin around me that was supposed to represent the feet of a 12-week fetus--maybe you've seen a pin like that. Never once did he open a dialogue about the pin, and when I asked him about it he just told me that his priest gave it to him. Apparently chicken-shittedness runs in our family.

A woman's right to choose is a complicated issue. Shame on politicians, religious leaders, and others who paint it as black and white, and leave out all the other shades of grey.

I look back at the women I helped, especially back in the years before the law got so restrictive in Snow Belt, and I hope they did good things with the life that the choice helped them to have. To me the true "pro-life" stance is the one in which we fight for the lives of women to be self-actualized.

For some women, the choice to continue a pregnancy that is unplanned, inconvenient, troubled, embarrassing, or risky was the right choice. Sometimes I didn't know that that was the choice they'd made until they came in with their baby many months later.

To the other women--those who made the choice to terminate--thank you for teaching me compassion and tenderness. Thank you for teaching me about all the different shades of grey. These things were not your job to teach me, of course, but I still learned them from you.

Time in the cave paid off

I got seven worship services done today in my liturgi-cave. That's a really good day's work for me. Now the only things left to do (worship-wise) for the next six weeks (Ash Wednesday was one of those services) are the sermons and the prayers of the people, which I save for early Sunday morning.

Plus I managed to clean the kitchen, do four loads of laundry, sort through a drawer, and make dinner. I wish I was this productive all the time.

It was a good day. But I am "tie-tie" as Sue would say.

My Liturgi-cave

If you need me, this is where I'll be today. I will be worship planning, hoping to get the rest of January and all of February done. Luckily, I brought some very large loads of books home from the church office over the past couple of days. It is snowing, so it is a good day to stay home and do this.

Ah Jeez.

It was a good game. But we lost. In overtime, no less. By a field goal by a so-so kicker.

Perhaps if the Packer defense had not given Manning enough time to read War and Peace and then write his dissertation, (while negotiating world peace) and then throw a flippin' rocket on every stinkin' possession, the outcome would have been different.

I hate it when the good guys are outplayed.

But now I hope Eli gets his Super Bowl ring, so his mama can be proud of two sons with back to back bling.

There's always next year!

GO PACK!

Sermon Snippet

Today was our annual congregational meeting. Some of what I talked about from the pulpit was very church-specific, so I have edited that out. Some was presbytery specific, so ditto. This is the "meat" of what I had to say:

1 Listen to me, O coastlands, pay attention, you peoples from far away! The LORD called me before I was born, while I was in my mother's womb he named me.

49:2 He made my mouth like a sharp sword, in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow, in his quiver he hid me away.

49:3 And he said to me, "You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified."

49:4 But I said, "I have labored in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity; yet surely my cause is with the LORD, and my reward with my God."

49:5 And now the LORD says, who formed me in the womb to be his servant, to bring Jacob back to him, and that Israel might be gathered to him, for I am honored in the sight of the LORD, and my God has become my strength

49:6 he says, "It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth."

49:7 Thus says the LORD, the Redeemer of Israel and his Holy One, to one deeply despised, abhorred by the nations, the slave of rulers, "Kings shall see and stand up, princes, and they shall prostrate themselves, because of the LORD, who is faithful, the Holy One of Israel, who has chosen you."

I have a confession to make: sometimes I watch television preachers. They fascinate me. That a single preacher can fill huge auditoriums week after week, and have themselves looking absolutely camera-ready when it is time to lead worship, (instead of running around with a crooked stole, tending to details like I usually am) and preach for 30 minutes straight and hit all the marks for the camera crew perfectly…well, those preacher seem larger than life to me. To preach a word and have it go out over the airwaves to millions of households…sometimes I am guilty of a little pulpit envy. That’s the real confession, right there, isn’t it?

Recently a Senator asked some of the higher profile ministries for an accounting of the financial gains they have received from what the senator described as “taxpayers.” It seems that this one lawmaker is concerned that some of these high profile television preachers, with congregations literally all over the world, may be breaking some tax laws, by accepting “love offerings” from their followers and not paying taxes on them.

These six preachers are definitely living large in the secular sense of that phrase. One thing they have in common is that the six preachers espouse what is commonly known as the “prosperity gospel”—the idea that God wants us to live a life of financial wealth-or at least comfort. And they definitely practice what they preach. They are some of the best-dressed, blingiest preachers you will ever find. To the best of my understanding, the main point of the message of the prosperity gospel seems to be “How Christians can enjoy life every day.” A quick scan of the lessons on various websites reveal that an awful lot of them involve using Scriptural understanding to banish negative thinking.

So, what’s so bad about feeling good? Obviously it is a message that thousands are hungry for. What’s wrong with giving the people what they desperately want? And if in the process, the preacher reaps some earthly rewards for it, isn’t that ordained by God? Isn’t that what living large is all about? The prosperity gospel would sound less credible coming from a preacher who drives a Hyundai, wouldn’t it?

The lesson in Isaiah for today is another of the servant songs, wherein we (and the intended audience) get to listen in to a dialogue between the prophet and God. Jerusalem has been destroyed, Israel is in exile, and the prophet is feeling the tremendous weight of having to minister under the most adverse of circumstances. How can one person possibly do all that needs to be done when the people of God have been taken from their homes and scattered like confetti? The task seems impossible.

Even so, the prophet relies on the knowledge that God has called him to this work, has named him in his mother’s womb, and has equipped him for ministry. Well, what can possibly go wrong if God has called a person to ministry and equipped them with everything they need to complete the task?

Ever real life, stage left. I’ve been in the whiny place that the servant finds himself, haven’t you? Aren’t there just days when we wish you had stayed in bed, days when we find ourselves wishing we could just give it up and go work at Starbucks, where we can solve the world’s problems one non-fat, soy, no foam mochalatte at a time? Into this context of this suffering servant, this one who says to God and to the people “It’s an impossible job, but I will do it anyway…” that God turns the tables. God says to the servant: “You think this is rough? Gathering the ones you know and reuniting them to the church is only part of the job. It is not a big enough job for you to do only this. I will make you a light to the nations. You need to think bigger.”

God, the original engineer of “making something out of nothing” is the God of big plans, the God of living large. I wonder what God’s response is to us when God sees how little we think we can do with the gospel. God’s message to the servant in Isaiah seems to be about relying on our call to live as God’s children and the big plans God has for us than relying on our feelings about the task at hand.

This is hard for me to remember when I’m lost in my own inadequacy schtick. When every impulse I have is that I’m not this-enough or that-enough to live as God’s beloved child, a light to the nations. I can see how the “see it and be it”, “feel better about your life in order to attract wealth” theology of the prosperity gospel appeals to the masses. I really can.

Christianity has lost most (if not all) of the cultural and societal supports that kept it afloat during most of the 2000 years since Jesus was born. The church of Jesus Christ is on her own to sink or swim. The same old, same old is no longer enough to ensure the Church’s survival. We are living in exile, brothers and sisters, and our efforts to merely gather back the faithful into what we looked like during our heyday is not enough. Not for the servant in Isaiah, as God points out, and not for us. It is too light a thing. It is not what the God of living large intends for us.

(redacted for reasons of security)

So my colleagues and I have been thinking and praying for a few months about how to best use this sizable chunk of money—one hundred thousand dollars—to best serve Christ’s church. The stipulations we were given from Uber Committee was that it be used for smaller churches, for spiritual and numerical growth.

Something astonishing happened to me the other evening at our Whoop-de-doo Committee meeting. We were given a list of every church in the presbytery, along with the numbers of members as of the end of 2007. I’m happy to report that St Stoic is not eligible to receive any of the "Small Church Grant” money. Why? We’re not a small enough church. In fact, in this presbytery, we are a medium sized church. A medium sized church! It has gotten me to thinking—what things can we do here that other medium sized churches do?

Today is our annual meeting, a time when we gather as a congregation to look back at how we have ministered in the past, and dream of ways we can minister in the future together. This text this week has challenged me to think beyond the small church thinking that we can’t do much. It has prodded me to think of how big a gospel we can rely on in our prayerful discernment of how we are called to serve God in our community. It has guided me to try to see beyond the present day reality—with its normal challenges and struggles—to the future God has envisioned for our congregation. As today you hear the reports from the various committees of the church, and look over the budget that the session has approved, I ask that you keep God’s vision of our ministry uppermost in your heart and mind. We do not live under a prosperity gospel, wherein we need to feel good about ourselves in order to be effective, but under the gospel of Jesus Christ in which we are called and named and equipped, even when we don’t feel like it.

I don’t often repeat myself from an old sermon, but I want to quote for you again something from Marianne Williamson. It’s worth hearing at least twice, I think.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

It is too light a thing, as Isaiah says, for us to live small, inside boundaries of our own making, when we serve a God makes stars and oceans and moons and canyons.

Thanks be to God!

It's like a sickness.

I had never heard of the Green Bay Packers before I moved to Snow Belt some umpteen-25 years ago. I grew up in a land where the only NFL teams that were even remotely close to us were the Bengals or the Bears, so pretty much nobody followed football. This was, of course, years before the Colts left Baltimore by sneaking out of town under cover of darkness. Ahem...

When we moved here the Pack was in pretty bad shape. Lombardi was a cherished memory, and Starr was long gone, and the big names were...um...nobody. Then an upstart coach from the west coast named Mike came to Snow Belt, bringing his offense with him. They recruited a feisty pup of a redheaded quarterback from the back water with an "unpronounceable" last name. "French, I think it is. Say the letters in the wrong order and you'll get it right." was the explanation. (Which is kind of funny coming from people perfectly used to pronouncing the Polish suffix "wics" as "vitz" every day of their lives.)

The team was suddenly on fire. In our house we had four goldfish named: Favre, Reggie, Chewy, and Brett. All of those are Packers. Favre and Brett are, of course, the same Packer. Every time I flushed a fish, we went to the store and got another one and gave it the same name. We had four Reggies in one season.

It was fun to be a Packer fan, to wear the green and gold. I have cool and green G earrings I used to wear to church on game day Sundays. (This was before I went to seminary) I have sweatshirt commemorating the last two years the Pack went to the Big Show, back-to-back. Heck, everybody does. The thing about this team, though, is that they have very few fair-weather fans. The people who love them love with a ferocity else known perhaps only to Cubbies fans.

This kind of devotion and the way it is demonstrated has its shadow side.

Last week when I was getting my hair...um...conditioned I had a chance to overhear people talking about what their plans were for this Monday. Not tomorrow, game day. Everyone knows what most people will be doing tomorrow evening, including me. I'll be parked on my keister enjoying what I hope will be a riveting game. What people wanted to know was how everyone was getting out of work, because it is understood among many that many, many people will be too hungover to function on Monday. I know someone who desperately needs a tooth extraction who was offered an appointment on Monday but did not take it because he assumes the surgeon will be too wrecked to do a good job. It is an honest hope that we don't get snow Sunday or Monday because it is assumed there will be no sober plow drivers. I have to say that I share that hope.

If the Pack beat the Giants, fans will not dance in the streets. They will tap another keg. They will drive home when it is empty. If the Pack loses, fans will not riot in the streets of Green Bay or tear down the goal posts at Lambeau. They will crack another fifth of Jack or do six more Jaeger shooters. Then drive home.

It's a real problem. I will be enjoying the game here at home, and I will not be driving afterwards, even though I will be stone cold sober. A bunch of idiots will not be. And some of them drive in my neighborhood.

Meta blogging

Last night I had my first dream that involved blogging. In my dream I lived in or near Our Nation's Capitol, and had some kind of job in which I was rubbing elbows with Big Powerful People, and blogging about how strange that was for a girl who grew up in the middle of a cornfield.

My dream self had much better post titles. I wish I could remember them.

In real life, last night I watched a movie rental (a fluffy comedy that someone had recommended to me. it was "meh".) that he had no interest in so he shut himself up in the office for 90 minutes. When he emerged, he told me that he had been "reading blogs and watching YouTube".

"Well, look at you, all 2005!" I teased.

"2005? What would make me "all 2008"?" he asked.

"If you actually had a blog, and knew how to embed YouTube clips of your own." I answered.

I told someone about my blog yesterday. Then totally chickened out when it came time to give the pseudonym under which I write. I guess that's pretty much just like telling someone you have a fierce nasty scar on your elbow, but refusing to let them see it when they ask to. I'm sure he'll get over it.

in the nick of time

Sometimes God sends us just what we need in the nick of time. A parishioner who was on the PNC that called me stopped in a few minutes ago to ask for a copy of a blessing I gave at a funeral over 2 years ago.

I have never quite known how this woman thinks of me. She is one of the people who put the Stoic in St Stoic. She said to me today... well, she just said something that really helped me understand her a lot better and made me feel good about my work here.

God: still relentlessly good.

Recipe round-up

With a few fits and starts, I am trying Fat Club again. What I found out last night is that I should just by pass the kitchen altogether after marathon meetings--even if some of the things that happened at the meeting were good things. I was having a really good day, food-wise. The it became Totally Fireplaced Up at 10:30 last night. I messed up. Big.

I have a couple of new recipes to share today. One is suspiciously close to Songbirds' Salsa Chicken.

*Southwest Chicken--crock-pot style serves 3, 6 points a serving*

1 package of six boneless, skinless chicken thighs (because I didn't have chicken breasts handy) These are the really little ones, about 2 ounces each.
1 can of black beans, drained and rinsed
1 cup of frozen corn kernels
1 cup of your favorite salsa

Lay the chicken in the bottom of the crock pot, pour beans and corn on top, then cover with the salsa. Cook on low until all the paperwork and stuff is done at the office. Come home and assess the juiciness. Be glad you didn't add any liquid. Take off the lid and turn it on high (if you have the schmancy kind of crock pot like mine with two settings) Before you go out to get your nails done, (one hour later) turn it back to low and put lid back on. Serves three, at about 6 point a pop! If you can afford the points, add a little low-fat or no-fat cheese
and a whole wheat tortilla!


*Cheesehead's "If I Don't Eat Something Sweet I'm Gonna Hurt Somebody" baked apple*

1 apple, cored and thinly sliced (I leave the peel on)
1 teaspoon Splenda brown sugar blend
1 Tablespoon honey
1/4 cup Kashi "Go Lean Crunch"

Put the apple slices in a microwavable dish. Sprinkle the splenda, and drizzle the honey on. Microwave for 2 minutes. Put Kashi on top and microwave for another 30 seconds. Enjoy, while feeling smug about how good it is for just 2.5 points! I gnore that little voice that tells you how good it would be with ice cream. Unless you have been mountain climbing lately, then by all means enjoy some cold creamy goodness

The vault, she is full

I have several blog posts cooking upstairs, but I feel like there is little time to actually write them. (For those who find my blog a big old yawner when I cannot shut up about my kids, know that none of them are about my kids.)

For now, let me unload this: Last night at a marathon, three-hour, four-blog-post meeting I moderated, our Executive Presbyter told us that immediately after the recent weather unpleasantness (tornadoes and flooding in January!) Presbyterian Disaster Relief called, like, the next day to see what our little no-name, unsexy presbytery needed.

The next day. Let that soak in.

Now. Go here.

Do you see why I had to write this one first?

Hey, hey! You, you! I don't like your girlfriend...

I read Ladyburg's post about her first date this morning, and it was very timely reading.

Last night I was talking to WonderGirl and Boy Wonder (They were upstairs in her room watching You Tube videos and I figured "Hey, what better way to bring the hormone level down than to plop right here on the bed and have a little chat?")

The conversation turned to some really bad boyfriend troubles that some girls both kids know are having right now. Not "Trouble", just "trouble". I know a thing or two about bad boyfriends, having had way more than my share before meeting Spouse. I told them about The One Who Really Broke My Heart. He was a really, really bad boyfriend.

But I also shared with them that I was a really bad girlfriend a few times myself. It seems that I didn't "click" with the whole high school dating thing, chose really obnoxious boys, expected far too much from them than their maturity (or lack thereof) could provide, and gave away too much of myself, emotionally speaking (not the other way). It may have looked like it was fun, but I was miserable much of the time. My first semester of college was even worse! Take away the strict rules my parents put in place, accountability, and the structure of a small community, and well...I didn't tell those stories last night.

I think it is important to speak as honestly as we can with our kids about relationships. It's not always easy. Some of the hard lessons I had to learn and some of the people I had to learn them from or teach them to are sometimes painful memories. And there are some stories I'm not ready to tell that don't paint me in a very positive light.

I did tell the kids how I was wearing another young man's fraternity pin the night I met The Father of My Future Children, and the story of how he came to campus to get his pin back and found me lounging in the dorm sitting room with said cutie (now Spouse, 26 years later) in a way that definitely indicated that we were not just Study Buddies. Oops. I'm not proud of that moment.

He sent me an official "Drop Dead, Girlfriend" letter, postage-due, a few days later. I went to the dorm mail office, after getting a postcard telling me that I had a package waiting, thinking that my grandmother had sent me a care package (I was the only one of her 16 grandchildren to go to college. She spoiled me.). It was his letter, in the biggest extra-postage envelope he could find. It cost me fifty cents (in 1982) to retrieve, then I found out what was inside.

Okay. I guess I deserved that.

I had exactly two dates (with other people) after I met Spouse. One was New Year's Eve, which occurred just 2 weeks after we met, and was already planned by the time we had fallen for each other. The other was a play I went to with a guy who had asked me out several times. I finally consented to go with him, then told him about Blue Eyed Future Husband as he was walking me home. It seemed only fair. We had gone dutch-treat.

That's the last heart I "broke". I swear.

WonderGirl is a good girlfriend. And she has a good boyfriend in BoyWonder. He went with us to her cheer competition today. He had to ride with us (just Spouse and me) both ways, since we needed to take him to work before she was finished competing.

What mad skillz at being a girlfriend I lacked at age 17, I've made up for as Girlfriend's Mom. It's worth it.

Best sermon procrastination ever

Just sayin'...

A full week

I accomplished a lot this week. A lot.

Why, just today, on my day off, I:

• Did nine loads of laundry, which are all completely put away
• Organized the kitchen junk drawer
• Ditto the hall closet
• And the linen closet
  
• Not to mention my part of our bedroom closet
• Filed about seven month's worth of miscellaneous paperwork at home

But...lest I feel too good about myself, and all my accomplishments, all I need to do is remember that I have absolutely no idea whatsoever what I am preaching in 35 hours. None.

There. My inadequacy shtick is back. That's more like it.

Thursday thankfulness

Last night was the monthly session meeting I had been dreading. Plus it was the meeting before the Congregational meeting that I was also dreading.

Fortunately, I have a secret weapon. On Tuesday I called my Executive Presbyter, and within 20 minutes he had talked me through everything I needed to remember in order to provide good (and as faithful as I can) leadership during both meetings.

I found myself today wondering what people do who don't have such a secret weapon. Believe me, if I had to rely on only my own wits, I would be in sad shape indeed. And the people I serve would suffer.

I think perhaps we Christians are designed to to this work together. Fancy that.

Today I am thankful for caring, competent, colleagues.

A series of increasingly unlikely events...

That's what Siggy helped me break my anxieties down to this morning.

Did you know that you can turn a catastrophe into an algorithm?

Me neither.

Thanks, Sig. Crisis averted.

Busy--UPDATED

It seems as though, after last weeks gaffes I have hit the ground running this week. Big stuff going on. I had some difficult conversations today--one in which I actually told a man old enough to be my father that he needed to take responsibility for his role in the congregation and find his own sub for the meeting tomorrow night--that I would not do it for him. I told him gently and respectfully, but still. (He has a role which I cannot by definition fulfill during the meeting because I am the moderator. His function is also one which has to happen for the meeting to take place.)

Edited to Add: He did man up and find the subs he needed to find!!! I wrote him a very nice thank you note for that. God=still good!

I also, in the same conversation, had to refuse to be triangulated in another matter between the gentleman I was speaking with and my predecessor. " Rev. So-and-So can take care of himself." I reminded him. "He is a big boy, capable of taking responsibility for his own behavior." I refuse to dole out (as though they were penny candy) the shocked reactions these two so crave. Rev. So-and-So is pushing 80 years old. Trust me. He knows the score.

I'm also going to need a jumbo-sized case of Goat-Getters-Be-Gone for the big meeting tomorrow night. You can bank on that.

I'm tired. Can I please go on the cruise now?

Weird

Last week I was writing to a friend in California about the six-feet-plus of plow-drift outside my office window. Today it is all but melted, and we had tornadoes in Snow Belt last night.

Anybody out there still think that global warming is a myth invented by the Liberal Media?

2008: A week in review

Well, one down, 51 more to go, eh?

I had a harder re-entry back into preaching yesterday than I anticipated. I tried really hard to guess all the little things that could go wrong--I even spent time doing a "sound check" before worship because I've been having complaints that my lapel mic isn't working. Diagnosis: it is working, I just need to pull it up higher on my stole and not wag my head so much when I preach. (Stevie Wonder-style, I guess.)

It was strange having my husband's brother, SIL, and three kids in worship, plus WonderGirl came. Stranger still, no comments or questions from them after worship. None. I expected at least a "That was different from how we do it in Big Suburban UMC church." Nothing. Maybe it is awkward having the person who was killing the night before at MadLibs preach at you. And serve you communion, rip-n-dip style. Maybe they were tired from back-to-back skiing adventures, or nervous about the 7-hour drive in pea-soup fog that awaited them after lunch. They get a pass for that. I'm just observing that it was strange for me, that's all.

It seemed that I let a couple of things fall through the cracks between Jan 2 and yesterday. No less than five people complained to me about the lack of offering envelopes and sign up sheet for the boxes of envelopes. The person whose responsibility that is left for Florida for the winter and didn't make any arrangements for anyone else to do it. One person complained as I was walking down the aisle to begin the worship service. I don't formally Process, but still. Dude, I'm getting ready to welcome you to God's house. Can it wait? Another pointed it out during the passing of the peace. Um, and also with you?

Then the Clerk wanted to sit down with me in my office during coffee hour and talk about cleaning the church rolls. Now, this is something that clearly needs to be done, and session gave us the authority to meet and do it, but I had family in worship and in my house, for crying out loud! This has only happened about twice before that family has visited us and come to church. I really needed to go home and show some hospitality to these people before they started out for their long trek home. I explained this to him, and he looked at me like I had grown a third eyeball. We made an appointment to do it later in the week, but I think he was honestly shocked that I didn't drop what I was doing and accommodate him. Shame on me for leading him to believe I would, I guess.

On the plus side, I would have to say that my preaching has really "loosened up" lately. I'm taking more risks, being more vulnerable in the pulpit, (in a good way, I hope) and people are starting to notice, which I hope means that the Holy Spirit is working on them a little. As my cruise roomie St Casserole would say, it ain't about me.

In other news, Boy Wonder gave WonderGirl a pretty little ring for Christmas, the meaning of which I'm not entirely sure I understand. Um, or want to. Continued schmoopiness ensues. It's actually very sweet. ManChild and FairlyWorthlessGirl have broken up for the 847th time. (Note: all persons have worth. Of course. I'm just saying that as a significant other, she is not good for him nor he for her. They make each other miserable. I wish her happiness with someone she does not torture with game-playing. Who is not related to me.) That concludes the Cheesekids' love life report.

I'm back at Fat Club with a vengeance. I gained back about 4 of the pounds I had worked so hard to lose. Hate that. After all, I've got a cruise to go on this Spring!

Here's to the next 51...

Another Road Home--sermon for Epiphany

My company has gone. The in-laws have begun their journey back to the City With A Big Metal Arch. Perhaps I'll blog about the visit later. For now I offer this:

Another Road Home

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, ²asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” ³When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; ⁴and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. ⁵They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet: ⁶‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.’” ⁷Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. ⁸Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.”

⁹When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. ¹⁰When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. ¹¹On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. ¹²And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.

They were about as unlikely a posse as you could expect to look for the Savior. Astrologers—not astronomers, not something respectable in the present day—but people who tried to explain the world and everything that happened in it by the movement of the stars. Do you ever read your horoscope? That kind of astrologer.

We call them kings, magi, wise men, decided somewhere along that way that there must be three of them, even gave them 8th century names: Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar. They are depicted artistically as three men, at least one of them African. They are the original multicultural, multiracial group of friends. But the truth is, like an awful lot of Biblical characters, we know almost nothing about them. We know, however, everything we need to know.

We know that they were people who asked questions, who looked for answers, and who were forever changed by what they found out.

I remember as a child being one of those kids who ask lots of questions. I think my social filter was more like a sieve when I was growing up. I lacked that still, small voice inside that said to me, “Mmmm…better not ask that!” So I remember asking my mother why we give gifts at Christmas. (I believe that would be called looking the figurative gift horse in the mouth!) I remember her answer: “Because the three kings gave gifts to Jesus at the manger.” Now, I feel sorry for my mother is some respects. I was the kid whose wheels were always turning; in that regard I was not an easy kid to parent. Toss in my defective filters, and you can understand why she might have fudged a few answers here and there, out of sheer exasperation or mental exhaustion. But to me that explanation always seemed a bit…lame.

By the time I was literate, I had another resource for unraveling unsolved mysteries and questions whose answers did not offer me the satisfaction I craved: the Funk and Wagnalls Standard Encyclopedia we got with our S&H Green Stamps. It took up a whole bookshelf in our den, its green leatherette spines and gold lettering promising the wisdom of the ages to my curious seven-year-old mind. I spent a lot of hours sitting curled up in the den, reading about all kinds of subjects. But I never really found out much about the meaning of gift giving. I guess the main purpose for the Funk and Wagnalls in my intellectual development was to teach me that answers were out there, for the seeking.

We use what you have, what is known to us, don’t we? The three astrologers knew stars, so that is what they used. Word had gotten to them in their far-flung provinces of the east. Some sort of cosmic shift had taken place, and as people who keep track of such things, they wanted to find out more about it. And in doing so they become part of Herod’s plot to rid the world of anyone more powerful than old Herod himself. But--we know that they were people who asked questions, who looked for answers, and who were forever changed by what they found out.

Herod was scared silly. Word of the savior had traveled to those who were not even Jews. That the messiah could have arrived was big news—life changing news. And to Herod it was bad news. So Herod used what he knew—trickery and deceit and cunning, and he convinced the astrologers from the east to give him the information he would need to get rid of the messiah and stay in power for once and for all. They were a lot less interested in Herod than they were in finding out what had happened. So they agreed. They set out-following what they knew. A star.

Around the time that I figured out that not everything I would want to know about the world was contained in that Funk and Wagnalls, our family began attending church for the first time in several years. In addition to being perhaps a little too curious and verbal for my own family’s good I was also rather sickly as a child, and that had kept us from having a real church home. The reasons are complicated, but I’m happy to say that eventually it became okay—more than okay, really— for us to become part of a church family.
We ended up, through a series of twists and turns in our spiritual journey, attending a church not far from our home led by a rather dynamic and charismatic young preacher named Rocky, who also happened to be my brother’s school bus driver. He was a strange chemistry of fire and brimstone mixed with a propensity to tell bad jokes. He played the accordion and spoke in tongues— though not usually at the same time. I found him mesmerizing. For the first time the stories my mother and grandmother had told me about Jesus were being brought to life—by this bright and shining, accordion playing, spirit dancing, arm waving, lover of terrible puns. I had on him what I have come to realize was just the first of a series of “spiritual crushes” I would have on preachers the rest of my life. (There is a short list of preachers, who if they wrote the recipe for Jell-O on a fast-food napkin, I would stand in line at Barnes and Noble to buy it. Rocky was just the first.) And on a pedestal? You’d better believe it! I put him there, three times a week.

Rocky was a star, sent to guide me to the manger. And guide he did, with a brilliant smile and a larger-than-life personality that made everyone in the church feel that they were God’s very favorite. As long as I live, I will always be grateful to him and to that church community for that.

Eventually, just as the old green leatherette encyclopedias became obsolete, I came to realize in my bones that the Jesus I had come to know after being led there by that preacher was not the end of the journey for me. I came to know that for me, the God of fire-and-brimstone sermons was not the road to a lasting relationship with the God who loved me best of all. I had been there, had knelt at the manger, and the same-old, same-old just would not do anymore. I had questions, and I needed answers. And the person I had put on a pedestal—flawed, human, and as vulnerable as all of us, was not the one to lead me to the answers. Sometimes the star that shines the brightest burns out the quickest.

The star got the seekers to the manger, to the real epiphany, the “inspired understanding arising from connecting with profound insight, awareness, or enlightened truth” that one dictionary defines. But once they got there, there was really no going back. Same-old, same-old just would not do anymore. They were on a whole new trajectory--a different road home than the one they had taken there.

Very early in my ministry here I did something kind of silly. I took an afternoon drive into the heart of River Town for the sole purpose of getting lost and finding my way home again with different roads. Those of you who have lived here longer than I know that it is very easy to get lost in River Town, and that there is usually more than one route home. As I drove I found myself having to rely on what I was able to perceive around me: which side of the river was I on? How many times had I crossed the railroad tracks? Are there any signs pointing me to the Major Freeway? (Which, technically I guess would be cheating!)

It was scary and exhilarating at the same time. It caused me to think: what if the Church were to do this same thing? What if we went somewhere we had been before, but changed course and found ourselves back home by another way? What if the stars that lead us to a place burn out and we must rely on what we know to be True and remember who we are and Whose we are? What if by continuing to do the same things, over and over, and living our lives as if the act of kneeling at the manger changes nothing is our way of being complicit with the powers that be?

We know that they were people who asked questions, who looked for answers, and who were forever changed by what they found out. Perhaps that is their real gift to us.

Thanks be to God.

Gimme a P!

I did something last night that I had not done for many, many years. I attended a high school basketball game--2 in fact.

High School Basketball was a very meaningful part of my childhood. Growing up in Indiana, where every person over the age of seven has an opinion about the "zone vs man-to-man defense", and the three biggest buildings in the county where I grew up were the three high school gymnasiums, it simply could not be avoided in a family where the oldest child was a 6'3" athletic son by the time he was 13. My alma mater is the school against which Bobby Knight threw that famous chair to protest a call he didn't like (a cartoon of which showed up on T-shirts in Follette's bookstore within the week.) Remember that, Jane Ellen+?

But basketball played another role as well. It was a basketball game of my brother's that took my parents out into the icy December cold the night I grew up. Except for the last game of my brother's senior year, I have not been to a game since. That was in1975.

Thirty-three years have brought some changes. Did you know that the three point shot exists in high school? High School! My brother and his peers had to work for those shots just as hard but only got two points for them. The game seems much more physical now. Or maybe my daughter is standing so close to the sidelines that I'm afraid she will be knocked over by zealous players. Even so, in my day, to foul was considered a bad thing. A JV player took an elbow to the eye that sent his contact lens flying last night and nobody got excited. The team medic just got him a new lens. Apparently they anticipate that sort of thing now.

And the half-time dancers...don't get me started on the dancers.

My daughter cheers for JV games. The attendance for JV games is pathetic. Parents of players and cheerleaders. I'm telling you--if you have a chance, go to the JV games and cheer as loudly as if it was "the real game". I stayed for the varsity game because WonderGirl was having "stunt practice" for the first 45 minutes or so, BoyWonder was in the pep band, and I was curious to see if the players are that much better on the Varsity team. They are, for the record.

It was a very exciting game! We seemed doomed for the first half. But the Pretentious High School players came out of the locker room as if they had been lighted on fire for the second half! They ended up wining by about 15 points. I was a little distracted for a while as I watched WonderGirl go up and join the band after her practice was over, sitting next to Boy Wonder and clearly distracting him from his playing. The trumpet section was definitely lacking for the third quarter.

The squeaking of basketball shoes on hardwood? Exactly the same. Thirty-three years later.

And parents still tell the referees how to do their job. Thirty-three years later.

I'll have one, straight up

The Recipe For Cheesehead

3 parts Inspiration 2 parts Slyness 1 part Fearlessness Splash of Elegance Finish off with a squeeze of lime juice

What's the Recipe for Your Personality?

Back in the saddle again...

I took a few days of blog break. Just to kind of steady myself for the "second trimester" of the church year. (rally day to Christmas is tri 1, epiphany to easter is tri 2, spring break to last day of sunday school is tri 3.)

I'm doing something here at St Stoic that I think will be a real leap for some people--a good and positive leap in the long run, but a difficult one in the short term. It is something that was very obvious to me from day one that needed to happen, but I needed to build some trust first. And as someone who is following a 37-year precedent, trust-building around here is very, very slow.

As you can imagine, I am having some backlash from some people who are in leadership. I told a friend about it yesterday in an e-mail, and I was gut-honest about what I think is behind the reactivity. In short, I think there are a couple of people who are trying to gaslight me.

Telling my friend was very helpful. His verdict: I'm not crazy.

Sometimes I just need to be reminded. Thanks, Big C.