Re-Visiting My Confirmation

A few weeks ago my mother gave away most of her collected memorabilia to her children and grandchildren. I have been going through the mementoes of her life among the pictures, cards, letters, and newspaper/newsletter clippings that she set aside especially for me. The plastic baggie filled with cards and the order of service from my confirmation stood out.

I was confirmed on Pentecost Sunday many years ago in a Missouri Synod Lutheran church. We confirmands had invested two hours each Saturday morning for the past two years. The Sunday prior to our confirmation, we sat in the front row of church and, as part of the service, had to answer surprise questions from the pastor. Having watched this for the previous 10 years give or take, having seen squirming youth stumped by the questions, embarrassed and shamed before the whole congregation (that was my take, anyhow), I was glad to have lived through The Inquisition.

I remember my white dress, my new Bible (not white, but with the words of Jesus in red), the excitement of wondering what communion would feel like (I was surprised that I didn’t feel much of anything special – I’m sure I expected something huge and wondered if my sinful nature prevented this from happening), and the anticipation of a big party afterwards (isn’t this a bit like how ministers feel at some weddings, that the ceremony will not be intensely felt because so much focus is on the reception?)

The order of service that my mother kept begins with this ‘Prayer Before Worship’:

Lord Jesus, send Thy Holy Spirit into our hearts through Thy Word and Sacrament that He may convince us of all Truth, strengthen us in every trial, and increase our strength and joy of believing, that we may live to Thy glory now, and be saved eternally by Thy grace, Who livest and reignest with the Father and the Holy Ghost, forever and ever. Amen.

Despite the two years of study prior to confirmation (I remember that much of the study focused on Luther’s Catechism), I was not really conversant about the Holy Spirit (almost exclusively called the Holy Ghost in that church). I had a hard time relating to ghosts and I was much more conversant with original sin, which I was undoubtedly committing every moment of my existence. I had my own demons and trials I was dealing with at the age of 13, but the Holy Ghost was not strengthening me, because I didn’t know that this force of love was available to me. But I digress. What I’m trying to say is, this high moment of Confirmation, of Coming of Age, did not meet any expectations I may have had. I can see now that I was truly struggling with how this faith related to my reality and the reality of those times. I can see now that I was already growing away from that faith, but that was unthinkable then.

However, something important did happen then, and I didn’t see it until now: along with the newsletter clipping and order of service from that distant day, that Ziploc bag contained a big stack of cards: several, though they had different drawings on the front, said ‘A Prayer for Your Confirmation’ – several others just said, ‘For Your Confirmation’. All featured pastel flowers and doves, many had crosses and the stained glass window effect -- a couple in glitter. And the sentiments inside all had to do with wishes for a deeper faith, the felt presence of the Holy Ghost active in my life, and messages of love. The surprise was that most of these cards came from, not members of my family or people particularly close to me, but adult members of that church – people I knew all through my childhood, people who spoke to me each Sunday, who chided me when my behavior was out of control, who took time each week to say something special to me (and this was not a small church). And now that I was coming of age, they took the time to shop for and send me a card, along with, I’m sure, wishes/prayers that I would always have this faith to sustain me. I have not read these cards since that distant day, when I probably threw them in a pile for someone else (my mother) to cherish and keep.

I do have a faith to sustain me, though it’s not that particular one and it took me many long years to hone and grow in to. But what has kept me at that task, I'm convinced, has been that distant memory of community, one that took on a shared responsibility for the nurturing of the children of that community. Somewhere inside me, unexpressed until now, was the cellular memory of those people urging me on to keep faith and to open myself to the Holy Spirit. What a lasting gift that truly speaks to what a Coming of Age can and should be for children in those confusing early adolescent years.

I got my aging body out of bed at 3:30 AM one morning last week to see off the youth who recently ‘graduated’ from the Coming of Age program at the church I am about to begin to serve. They were departing for Guatemala for a service project – and I wanted to be there to show them that they truly matter to the whole church and to nurture them in their unfolding. I don’t know these youth but I hope to build an open relationship with them. I know even more this week how important it is to stand by them and with them as they forge through their adolescence and into their adult years.

Summer Day

A near-perfect summer day: it started out cool, in the low sixties. The morning was productive, and I shared lunch with a local colleague who I’ve known slightly before moving here. We ate on the deck of a restaurant on the river. Though it was hotter by early afternoon, lunching in the shade on the river bank was delightful.

Then a bike ride on the river bike path. I love bike riding and was consternated to find my trusty bike stolen a couple of days after I arrived here. To be honest, I did not ride it much living in that huge Southwestern metro area. The roads were dangerous and the bike paths were underneath high tension lines, for pete’s sake! Not conducive to a great ride, or even a good ride. I love taking in nature in huge chunks when I’m riding, and the high tension wires did absolutely nothing for me. I wanted to resume riding here, so I shopped for a new bike. In my days of test riding, I made the mistake of testing out one that was beyond (way beyond) what I wanted to pay. But after I rode that baby, you know what I bought. It’s only the down payment on my future house! [I’m kidding, kind of].

So the river path here is long and there are many segments that are fun and give me the communion with nature that I crave. So after my wonderful lunch, I took off with my bike and rode on a different part of the path, one that is close to the river for many miles. Other parts of this section are forested – the smell of the moss, the deep green of the woods, the liquid bird songs and the occasional bunny scurrying across the path lifted my soul. When I got to the meadow parts, the smell of grasses and that sweet meadow aroma wafted my way. I could almost taste blackberries! The sun was hot, but the wind cooled me off. The marshy river sections were salty, tangy and pungent. Geese and egrets dotted the shore. It was a great ride – twelve miles as I get used to riding again. This bike is so much faster than my old bike. Even my slowest today was as fast as I ever went on my old bike. I’m happy!

Hot and sweaty coming home, I took a cool shower and had a farmer’s market-inspired dinner. Roasted beets with a balsamic splash on fresh greens. An organic egg deviled with wasabi mustard and smoked Spanish paprika. A fresh ripe tomato and basil with fresh mozzarella. And a New York organic Riesling.

This is how summer is s’posed to be. I’ll go to bed early because I go to the airport at 4:30 AM to see the youth from the church I’ll be officially serving come next Tuesday off on their trip to Guatemala.

The Netflix Effect

I’ve found myself avoiding the news this week, something that’s unusual for me. As I was browsing the internet, I found an article in the Wall Street Journal that shed light on my avoidance of world events as they are spinning ever more out of control.

The article is entitled For Some Netflix Users, Red Envelopes Gather Dust: http://tinyurl.com/jq7ju. Evidently Netflix doesn’t get prompt returns from the ‘heavier’ movies such as Schindler’s List, Hotel Rwanda, and those other movies that we ‘should’ watch but put off doing so because we know that we will feel pain. So the red envelopes that contain these movies sit on coffee tables or entertainment centers for weeks on end, often to be returned unwatched. WSJ cited a 1999 study that confirmed this behavior. If you want to watch a movie today, you will most likely choose Groundhog Day or Harry Potter. Or an action film. But not one that brings us down with reality.

So I am wanting to avoid the pain of the news this week. I make myself read it in small spurts. And I am more fearful than I remember being, save perhaps for the first month following 9/11. I have watched so much spin out of control since then. And the spin gets faster and faster, more deadly in every spin. I don’t know what to do, but I feel like I can increasingly relate to the German citizens who have been castigated and demonized for the sixty plus years following WWII – you know, all those sheep who wore blinders and failed to rise up against their leaders.

I know I am not alone – I am in the company of so many of us who are numb, frightened, and powerless. I was just reading in today’s NY Times that our US exporting of democracy in the Middle East is supposed to have the effect of allowing common citizens to effectively choose responsible leadership. Well, they have chosen Hamas in Palestine and have given some legitimate power to Hezbollah. They have chosen a Shiite majority in Iraq, which has already had major implications for civil strife that has grown exponentially in the past few weeks and is now relegated to back pages of the news with the horrors of the Israel/Lebanon conflict. And then there’s Somalia, Darfur, and all those other places.

We are not going to resolve this by watching the heavier movies. Actually, resolution is obviously not going to be felt for a long, long time in the Middle East. I don’t have any answers (I’ve been procrastinating writing this, too, because my thoughts are so disorganized as I feel the fears rising in my body). But I do have questions.

I have a lot of questions about democracy: the default definition of democracy is ‘getting the right to vote’. A side rant: my teeth have often gnarled at the children’s version of our Unitarian Universalist principles and purposes that conflates our will toward democratic process to ‘all people should be able to vote’. Voting is an important facet of democracy, the 2000 and 2004 US presidential elections aside. but much must come first. And in this post-postmodern age, what the heck is democracy anyhow? And if it’s anything like the incivility that we see in US politics at all levels, what are we exporting exactly? What are the underpinnings that make democracy truly flourish? If people do not feel like they have hope, like the wave upon wave of people in the Middle East who are ready to die, what should be our response? Armies and weapons do not seem to do anything but lessen hope.

I have a lot of questions about empowerment: in the US with our Patriot Act and listening programs, how might we rise up and inform our leaders about how we see world events unfolding and effectively mobilizing action to reverse our morally bankrupt policies? I have no clue at this point.

I am going to spend some time in the next few weeks with Bonhoffer and Niebuhr. I am going to spend more time in my theological ground that is rooted in liberation theologies. I am going to fight my own avoidance and dissociation behaviors. For what is done in the name of the US is being done in my name too. I liked the sentiments behind the progressive organization called Not In My Name (NION), but hey, it is being done in my name. And what we are doing is unacceptable to me.

Living Into the Unfolding

One of the major things I have learned through ministry is to be more open to the unfolding of life. Like most people in our culture, I make many plans, plot trajectories, and make assumptions about where these plans and trajectories should take me and the churches I serve. Often enough, however, S*%T happens. Plans and trajectories get scuttled. And the Holy Spirit of Life nudges into new space, new directions.

Such as it is this summer. July was to be my vacation month, with the main agenda being to settle into my apartment and this area – along with, of course, resting up for the demands of a new church and new ministry. Now I am facing 4 memorial services. Five, actually – one of the deceased will have a smaller service this weekend and a large service in August. Of course much pastoral care goes along with the deaths of beloved members of the congregation. And I’m thrown into the logistical elements of memorial services in a church where I do not know the customs, traditions, expectations, or even where to find the right people to help with the receptions, ushering, and all the etceteras that go into well planned services.

Some have said to me, ‘What a terrible way to begin your ministry with us!’ ‘What a shame that you are not even due to begin and all this is happening!’ There would have been times when I would have complained loud and long to whoever might listen. But that doesn’t change what is, that doesn’t bring back the failed plans and assumptions, and complaining takes much more energy than it’s worth. Not to mention the spiritual costs – one is then prevented from living into the unfolding of life, from the nudgings of the spirit -- God.

I’m looking at the blessings that present themselves even though I’m short on sleep from a few days of hospital vigil for a tragic death. A blessing in this case was the magic transformation of the family and close friends as they spent 6 hours together with their beloved as the respirator was turned off. It was a healthy and heartfelt goodbye process. Many in our culture cannot relate to the special blessings of being present in death, but many health care folks and ministers in particular (chaplains especially) know what I mean.

I am blessed to know who really runs the church even before I start!! Sometimes it takes a long time and many mistakes before this awareness dawns. I found out after only making a couple of mistakes and only stepping on a few toes. And once I ‘officially’ start (which in this case now means, when I get paid for my ministry here), I will be a more familiar face who has already begun to walk with the congregation in the midst of tragedy and sadness and grief.

I am also lucky to have some great friends and relations who can hear my grumblings and not chastise me for having moments of pique. You all know who you are, and I am eternally grateful and blessed to have you in my life.

The Joy of Farmers Markets

I have always loved local farmers markets. [nb: I had to interrupt this writing to Google the term ‘farmers markets’ – is it farmer’s market, farmers’ market, or farmers market? The latter won out handily]. When I was a child in the fifties and sixties, vendors would line up along King Street in my East Coast city in old black pick up trucks or panel vans without windows. They would sell their wares from behind their trucks, much like they do today in many towns. I remember the bunches of fragrant lilacs in May, the sweet yellow peaches in July and the succulent tomatoes in August. Those were the highlights for me.

Whenever I’ve moved, I’ve always made it a high priority to find the great sources of local produce. I remember learning of the local farmers market in the southern town of my first ministry: I was told that it was held on Saturday morning in Jackson Square. The person who told me about this market waxed eloquent about how wonderful it was. My first Saturday in that town, I got up, had a leisurely breakfast, and set out for the market. It took me a while to find Jackson Square, so I got there around 9:30 or 10, and I couldn’t understand what was so wonderful about this market. Few vendors, paltry displays of produce. When I commented on that, I was urged to give it another try – at 7 AM when it opened, or even a bit earlier, as they didn’t always wait for the opening bell.

Sure enough, it was a different experience early in the morning. Half the town would be there, and the produce was indeed plentiful and wonderful. I could have given my sermon there and served most of the congregation. I made lots of other friends at the market over the years, and folks like the Herb Lady would always set aside what they knew I liked. Later, when a coffee shop (The Daily Grind) opened across the street, the ritual would be to get to the farmers market early and then find a table with friends at the packed coffee house. Ah, those memories! Saturday mornings in the ‘off season’ (Thanksgiving through Memorial Day) paled in comparison to those wonderful summer and fall Saturday mornings.

There were other markets and other rituals in other cities. Sadly, there were no farmers markets that you could rely upon to sell local produce in my last city – I think all of the produce would wilt in the tremendous heat of the southern plains by Memorial Day anyhow. So I was happy to find many farmers markets in my new locale. However, I have found that they are spotty – the one in my city is on a Thursday and has maybe 5 or 6 vendors, some of whom sell candles or jams. Not a large variety of produce. But I found the mother lode in a neighboring town. Lots of vendors selling all kinds of freshly grown stuff, in addition to the natural meat and egg folks, artisanal organic cheeses, freshly made peanut butter and homemade challah. Woo hoo!!

This market operates on Wednesday afternoons in addition to Saturday mornings. Yesterday I decided to see what it was like mid-week. It was almost as spectacular as Saturday. I picked up fresh broccoli, kale, and salad greens. Sunflower sprouts. Herbs. Black raspberries that are the food of gods! Baby yellow squash, zucchini, and snow peas for my Quorn stir fry. Some of that homemade challah. Oh, and the most beautiful flower bouquet that graces my antique pink vase.

Overheard at one of the crowded booths (this neighboring town is a prime tourist spot): So when are we going to move up here? I felt so lucky at that moment. Here it was, a perfect day – not too hot, not too humid, sunny and just right. Here I was, in my glory at a wonderfully abundant farmers market, stuffing those wonderful veggies and fruit in my string bag. Life is good in the summertime when the grace of harvest is shared at the market; where the bounty is imported at most from the next county; where the freshness overcomes all of the senses; and the nourishment of our bodies rises to new levels.

For sustainable living, the only thing that beats this is growing your own. But then you don’t have the community aspect, unless you grow your own in a community garden or invite lots of people to share in your bounty.

I will savor this market for months to come. I will nourish my body well and know that I am adding to the local economy as well as not relying upon vitamin-depleted produce that’s trucked/shipped/flown in from the far corners of the earth. I will count these market experiences as spiritual practice. What a blessing!

Holidays

I don’t like holidays. I get restless and lonely. I am out of my element. Many holidays like July Fourth, I am alone. My family is small and in diaspora. None of us lives where I grew up – we really don’t have a common home. We do get together for many of the ‘big’ holidays such as Thanksgiving and Christmas. I guess that’s all we’re together for most years. My friends, many of whom have always lived in one place, have their holiday traditions and routines. Brunch here, dinner there. Gathering with the same friends year after year. I’m the one who is moving around.

Since seminary days many years ago, July often finds me in a new locale as I take up a new ministry somewhere. I house-sat for my ministerial intern supervisor the month before I began that internship – I think I arrived a few days before July 4. I was invited to a picnic with many church members. I remember being so hot and sweaty from the stifling heat and overwhelmed with the newness of it all. I think I spent a lot of time that day in the pond cooling off and swimming. I remember being on call during my CPE unit on July 4th – the hospital seemed eerily quiet as it too was outside of its regular day-to-day routine. And there have been other years like this one, where I am a stranger in a new town, anticipating the beginning of a new ministry.

What I am faced with during holidays like this is my workaholic nature and need for my regular routine. If I would give thought to holidays ahead of time, I probably should plan a time of rest and renewal. Having just returned to a new abode after having just traveled, I didn’t plan this long holiday weekend at all. I am still unpacking from my move and finding places for my stuff. I am engaged in the pastoral care demands and hospital visits that I must attend to, and I am sitting with my loneliness and feeling of complete discombobulation. Tears are at the heart of things as I meander from activity to activity, feeling like I’m accomplishing little. But on a holiday, perhaps I shouldn’t expect to accomplish. Perhaps the spiritual task is to take in the enormity of this change and be very kind to myself through this transition time. Perhaps I should just let those tears flow in the grief of too much moving, too much change, too much resistance to the whole process of change. Perhaps I need to recognize the diaspora of my body and soul during these times, and find ways to bring them into closer proximity. This is a process, it won’t happen overnight.

So long holiday weekends like this one can serve that higher purpose of integration that I may well overlook in the day to day workaholism that can be my life if I’m not aware and awake. The loneliness of this holiday can empower me to celebrate that I did the hard work of determining what kind of ministry is right for me and pursuing it, resulting in this new settlement. It can lead me to resolve to find ways to be a part of this new community outside of the work of ministry – to find the activities and make the friends that will fill my reservoir and life with meaning outside of work.

These are hard for me to do – it took me way too long to make friends in my first settlement. I got wiser in my next one. I hope to be wiser still in this one. So I thank this holiday time to teach me what I most need to learn.

Muder's Law

Muder’s Law: Any day sufficiently far in the future seems to contain infinite time.
Infinite time… how old does one have to be to grow out of Muder’s Law, which he (Doug Muder) mentioned at the beginning of his GA blog found here:
http://www.uua.org/ga/ga06/gajournal.html

I am meditating on that now. Actually, I’m cringing. This seems to be an Achilles heel of sorts for me. I always think that I will have infinite time to do so many, many things ‘sometime’ in the future. And that could be tomorrow – so much for ‘sufficiently far in the future’.

I came home from my trip shaken up somewhat. My return from the south ended up taking an extra day and an extra 350 miles due to the flooding in central Pennsylvania and New York. It was one of those ‘you can’t get there from here’ type of experiences. I was stranded for a time in Sidney, NY, a town along I-88 which will be closed indefinitely as it collapsed in both directions. The town of Sidney bridges collapse from one side of town to the other – it spans the Susquehanna River. I tried to go east and over the mountains to get to through roads. No dice. One often thinks of floods in the valleys that rivers run through. I’m here to tell you that water running off of mountains can just as easily take out mountain roads before the water gets to the valleys.

After driving for about an hour and a half, all roads led back to that flooded town. I got out of the car for a cold drink and talked to several townspeople who had congregated at the convenience store. They had lost communication with people on the other side of the river – family, friends, schoolmates of their children. They were frightened and panicky. I realized how this flood was much more than an inconvenience to my travels. It's going to disrupt their lives for a long time, as the major factory and town employer right behind us was under water up to the rooftop. There was only one way in and out of town – and with major flooding all along those roads, they were also worried that food and other necessities would not be able to come in for a few days. I felt guilty about the snacks I purchased.

Finally returning, there was a death in my new congregation and another member near death. So I am planning one memorial service now and tending to the other situation. As July begins, I’m aware that I had many plans for this month – lots of travel, getting completely settled in, getting all those pesky things done like car registration etc., and knowing my way around before I officially begin this new ministry. Well, I have already begun this ministry. And I have miles to go before I’m completely settled in.

Heck, I haven’t even had time since my return to look at the videos of GA! I wanted to do that while I was away, but the church’s laptop had some quirky issues and there was no wireless connection at my Mom’s retirement facility. Video over dialup doesn’t work too well, I found. I do want to see at least the big parts of what I missed.

So the infinite time I was counting on in July will quickly sift through the metaphorical hourglass, I’m afraid. This always happens, and I’m not quick to learn the finitude of time vs. all I want to do and see and experience.

Since I have experienced a lot of death lately, this realization is ratcheting up the fear level – the primal fear that I’ll never be able to do all that I’d like to do and experience all that I’ve always assumed that I will experience in this lifetime. It’s a chilling fear, the kind that will take a long time to meditate on and come to some peace with. May I begin that meditation today and not kid myself that infinite time will take care of these fears.