Advent 2: Monday

Now, concerning the times and the seasons, brothers and sisters, you do not need to have anything written to you. For you yourselves know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. ~ 1 Thessalonians 5:1-2

True confession time: I'm not exactly sure what I believe about "the day of the Lord."

I know that Paul is committed to the idea. For him, it is a given-- something that will happen in his lifetime, or certainly in the lifetime of most of his readers. It will happen fast and it may happen in stealth. A thief in the night may or may not be recognized by the sleepy occupants of the home, hence the need to stay awake and stay sober.

And I take Paul seriously. This is the earliest New Testament writing we have; it's the closest to the days when Jesus walked the earth, so it is filled with the energy of his early followers.

Still, I'm not sure what I believe about it. But I can tell you what I hope for. I can tell you what I long for.

I long for justice to roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. Note: Not self-righteousness-- which is about being arrogant and sure of yourself. Righteousness--which is about people taking seriously what God wants them to do, and doing it, whether it benefits them directly or not.

I long for a world where we care for the last, the least, and the lost.

I long for a world in which all this happens, not because God makes us do it (or Jesus kills bad people with death-breath, as some "Christian" writers would have us believe), but because we are filled with love and joy and are overwhelmed by our need to do it. I want this to happen because people catch the love that I believe Jesus is really about, that is the fundamental attribute of our God.

The other day a friend put her head in her hands and said, "I just want Jesus to come back so much." That day I was feeling pretty optimistic about humanity for one reason or another, but some days, I'm right with her. On those days I just cannot believe humanity can pull itself out of the colossal mess we are presently in without divine intervention.

But I long to be wrong.

(For a taste of the joy I long for in this era of justice and righteousness, get a load of this... "Zion's Walls" by Aaron Copland, performed by ProMusica of Washington Adventist University.)

Advent 1: Things We Already Know, AKA: The (Fig) Tree, Part 2

Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near.  So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. ~Luke 21:29-31

... But:

The people Jesus is talking to in this passage... a group that appears to include disciples, visitors to the temple, and some officials who are hostile to him... he isn't talking to them about a tree they don't know or understand. This is not something they have to do the ancient version of Googling about (which, I'm guessing, would be: find an expert or ask an old person?).

In fact, he's hardly talking to them about the tree at all. He's talking about something they all understand, completely, easily.... something they've known since childhood. When new leaves come, summer is near. Which is exactly the same where I live and where anyone who has deciduous trees around knows. Leaves change, season changes. Leaves turn and fall off, it is fall. It gets cold, and things start looking like this. >>>>>>>>>>>

This isn't about expert ability to read the signs. It's the exact opposite. It's about paying attention to what we already know.

What are the things you know?

Here are some of mine:

The world is beautiful and broken.

Our brokenness means we need one another, which is a truly beautiful state of affairs.

We keep watch... now, as the days get shorter and the Advent candles get brighter, in the past when we sought to understand our own pain and wonder, in the future when we are in a world we can't yet envision.

We keep watch, because just when we think things are ending, it turns out they've only just begun (thanks, Carpenters and #NateBorofsky!).

We keep watch because it helps us to be ready for the big stuff.

We keep watch, not as anxious guardians of missile silos; we keep watch as people who begin to learn to listen more than speak, and listen in silence for what can only be perceived with the heart.

We keep watch, and what we already know helps us to be present when everything is new again.

Advent 1: The (Fig) Tree

Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near."    ~Luke 21:29-31

I did not grow up in a gardening household. Both of my parents were from Philadelphia-- city, not suburbs-- and my mom summarized her affinity to flora by saying, "Put be between two trees, turn me around, and I am lost." My dad planted petunias in the summer in patriotic colors (though, the striped ones were really white and purple), and also called me "Sweet Petunia." But I didn't grow up with a lawn or flower beds or rows of baby lettuce that needed looking after.

And I certainly didn't grow up with trees. There were some trees in my neighborhood, but you had to go inland from the beach to really see foliage. Going to college in New England gave me an experience of trees that felt new-born. In autumn especially-- of course--I marveled at their color, thrilled at the variety one found in leaf and bark, and went on about it all at such length that the women in my bible study gave one another worried looks, and wondered aloud whether I might go off the road, I was so enthralled with the landscape.


Several years ago a friend gave me a cutting from a bush I admired that was growing around her house. When I mentioned it, she had eagerly asked whether I wanted some, and I sensed that its growth was pretty fast and furious and she was glad to send some off to a good home. Its flowers looked so exotic to me, like blooms one might see in Hawaii or Fiji. When I put pictures of the flowers online the following summer, about a dozen folks told me what I had was Rose of Sharon.

I was intrigued. A plant with a biblical connection (whose botanical name, Hibiscus syriacus, misinforms: it is actually from farther east-- think, China, Tibet): score! And not only that, but the mention was from Song of Songs, which is definitely the sexiest book in the bible. The bride sings, "I am a rose of Sharon, and a lily of the valleys" (Cant. 2:1), but just a verse or two earlier, she is sighing that her lover is a bag of myrrh between her breasts. Pretty steamy stuff.

You know what's not steamy? Pruning. My Rose of Sharon went from 2-1/2 feet when I planted it to about ten feet this summer, just four years later. (I understand that's typical.) I have a great helper for gardening stuff, and when I asked anxiously about pruning, she looked up and said something like, "Yeah. It needs it," but didn't offer to do it. I Googled and was informed that late fall (after leaves drop) or early spring (before buds form) was best. But I had a day in early November when I was motivated, so that's when I got out my tree lopper and went to town on the long, curving branches.

I was nervous. I was afraid to cut too much, I was determined not to cut too little. I kept stepping back to see the shape of the thing, and deciding, "More." I cut two large garbage cans full of branches, and still, I wondered, "Enough?"

How do you know? As the fall progressed and the leaves actually fell off the bush (oops...), I looked hard at what was left, and wondered. Had I gone too far? Had I misread the signs the plant was giving me? Am I completely inept at reading those signs, to the point I have killed any likelihood of blooming?

"You can see for yourselves, and know..." Jesus tells his friends, and the matters they are hoping to be able to discern are far more weighty than the question of whether I'll once again have my lovely rose of Sharon blooms. I got out my loppers and went to town. I hope I got it right. 

I hope I get it right.

Advent 1: Apocalyptic Visions

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” ~Luke 21:25-28

As a child I learned about Advent-- I'm sure-- in school, Saint James' Parochial School, in Ventnor, NJ. (The school and the church were exactly one block from the beach and the vast, amazing Atlantic ocean, in which I was immersed every summer for approximately 8 hours each day. Saint James was where I learned all about God. The Atlantic ocean was God started to get under my skin.)

And I learned-- I'm sure-- that Advent was about preparing for the birth of Jesus, which we would celebrate at Christmas. I imagine (more than I remember) that we had an Advent wreath in church, whose candles would have been lit by an altar boy before mass began. I remember (and don't have to imagine) that the church was particularly beautiful during Advent. And even as a child--maybe a slightly older child, maybe a 10 or 11-year-old--I knew that Advent was, in some powerful way, about longing.

If I had to tell you what I (as a 10 or 11-year-old) was longing for, it probably would have sounded like: I want so-and-so to be my friend; why isn't she my friend? But I think beneath that was: a sense of belonging, a sense of security in my connections with other people.

My sense of longing would NOT have been focused on exposure to what, even when I was 10 or 11, was the reading each and every First Sunday in Advent: something apocalyptic. (Apocalypse, from a Greek word mean "uncovering," or "unveiling." Overtones of end-of-life-as-we-know-it catastrophe are a recent development.) I know I went to church every single weekend unless I was sick. So, I must have heard these readings. This one, for instance, talking about signs in the sun, moon, and stars. (I, who wished on more than one star, to know: Why didn't she want me?). Talking about distress among nations. (When I was a 10-year-old, one cousin on each side of the family was in Viet Nam.) Talking about roaring seas and waves. (I knew by that age that the ocean was fun, but it was also dangerous. You only have to get caught in a riptide once.)

I read this week that Bernard of Clairvaux wrote in the 12th century about the three comings of Christ: "in the flesh in Bethlehem; in our hearts daily; and in glory at the end of time."Advent kicks off like a war film evoking the utter chaos, fear, and dread that, supposedly, will mark that last one.

Most every Advent of my adult life I've greeted these readings with a jaded eyeroll. After all, hasn't every era, every generation, believed at some point that the world was about to end? A lovely older gentleman in my congregation tells a story of riding his bike down by the river as a boy, and coming upon a group of people in white robes at the water's edge. He said, "Watcha doin'?" And one of them responded, "Waiting for the world to end." He was intrigued. "Can I watch?" "Sure," was the reply. He lasted about fifteen minutes. Tedious stuff, waiting for the end of the world.

But we're just a couple of weeks out from a congressionally mandated report on global climate change that should make the knees of every human being weak as we contemplate its implications. I'm no prophet, but I do tend to think the scientific consensus on this issue is pretty compelling. We're in trouble, friends.

So, Jesus says, "Stand up and raise your heads." I've always assumed he says that so that we will be aware of his advent, that third one, the coming of the Son of Man in glory.

I wonder, though: If the earth is prematurely nearing its demise-- if this isn't, in fact, God's Original Plan for how this should all unfold--whether God wouldn't want us to stand up and raise our heads and hands and voices in outraged protest (rather than in eager anticipation). At the risk of sounding like I'm encouraging us to be our own saviors, I do think it's a damned shame to lose a perfectly good planet a good 500 million years early. Maybe we could do something about that?

My preference for signs in the stars would be to be able to stand outside, somewhere away from light pollution, and see the ridiculous millions of them that are mostly obscured from our sight and yet wheeling across the sky all day long, and all night, too. Or, to see the first star, the evening star, shyly showing itself to my 10-year-old self, a reminder of things and people impossibly far away and yet, somehow, as close as opening my eyes. In either case, the outcome would be lovely. It would be longing. I'm sure.

Still Easter 2: Hearts on Fire

I have some favorite passages of scripture.

The theological and slightly sensuous conversation between Jesus and the Samaritan woman at Jacob's well (ask me about the song I wrote about it).

The liberation anthem sung by Mary, Jesus' mother.

Pretty much everything in Genesis, but in particular: the story of Hagar.

The friends who lower their buddy through a roof and into Jesus' presence for healing.

The midwives' shenanigans in Exodus. The burning bush in Exodus. Miriam's arc in Exodus and beyond.

That there is a tree of life.

It's ridiculous, really. So many it starts to feel silly calling them "favorites." But then there's this:

A couple of people (maybe, a couple) are walking from Jerusalem to Emmaus (a site for which there are about 7 contenders, not sure where it is, really, except, a day's walk or thereabouts). Jesus falls in with them, but they can't recognize him. They try to school him on Jesus, because he acts clueless (a little). But then he begins to talk to them about scripture, and suddenly, they are in the presence of a rabbi.

(Hey, this feels kind of familiar.)

They invite him to stay with them when they get to their house. (A couple, I'm pretty sure.)

So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us[f] while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” ~ Luke 24:29b-31

I don't know why, but I feel this passage viscerally. Because it's a story about a stranger getting under your skin, maybe? A story about the elusive nature of knowing, or not knowing. A story about something you can't quite identify, which reveals itself as something at the very core of you that you'd forgotten, or tried to bury, or abandon.

But then, there it is. And it's real, and it's undeniable, and it brings with it both grief and joy, an ending and a beginning.

In my own life I have so many stories of gathering around a table with friends, and finding more there than I could have hoped or imagined. And it's never long enough, even though that time is more kairos than chronos, and timeless in its own way.

But the question that's asked--"Weren't our hearts on fire...?" suggests that we know before we know.

We know, even before we know. And then we spend our lives marveling at it.

Still Easter 1: The Resurrection Body

There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; indeed, star differs from star in glory. So it is with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body.   ~ 1 Corinthians 15:41-44a

... and [Mary Magdalene] saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”   ~ John 20:12-17

A few years ago, I started hearing about Zombie Jesus. I wondered what on earth that could mean, as the Zombie appeared to be everywhere already-- TV, movies, video games. But this idea and image started popping up on social media, and I have to admit, I just kind of snorted and looked the other way. 

But eventually, I had to have a closer look, and in order to understand what Zombie Jesus is about, all you have to do is do a Google image search with those words. 

(If you've never done this before, go ahead, I'll wait.)

See what I'm talking about? I think the Zombie Jesus phenomenon is nicely captured in this image and text.

Yeah, that sounds nuts.

And if this were my understanding of resurrection-- that Jesus was basically resuscitated and then the once-dead corpse taken bodily into heaven-- I am pretty sure I wouldn't be doing what I do for a living. This is the fundamental misunderstanding that lays the groundwork for this understanding of faith. People think resurrection = resuscitation.

Nope.

Resurrection sure looks like resuscitation in some of the appearances of Jesus. (I'm looking at you, this Sunday's gospel lesson (John 20:19-31), in which Jesus shows his disciples his hands and side as proof that it is he, truly, who stands before them...)

... But wait: How did he get into the room again? Oh yeah. He appeared, despite the locked doors and all. Hmm.

Earlier in that same chapter, we have Mary Magdalene's encounter with Jesus, and notice, she doesn't recognize him at first. (Not recognizing Jesus happens a couple of times, actually.) And then, apparently, Mary tries to embrace Jesus, to which he replies...

Nope.

The gospels seem to be telling us something about the resurrection body: It is not the same as the physical body. In his letter to the Corinthians, Paul states this pretty emphatically. There are different kinds of glory, be begins, and notes: what is sown, the seed, is perishable... but not what is raised. Or, who is raised.

Jesus is appearing to people, and maybe also doing things that seem very body-based, such as eating with them. But he is also appearing out of thin air, leaving the same way, and establishing boundaries around his body that seem like new rules to his friends. His body seems continuous with the body he had as he walked the hills of Galilee and the streets of Jerusalem-- eating, wounds-- but also, discontinous with it. Changed. More, Paul suggests, glorious.

If I had to summarize my faith (in contrast to what you can find on the Zombie poster above), I might say something like:

I trust in Jesus as a window through which I can see some of what God is. He was a Palestinian Jew who taught, healed, and offered an unconditional welcome to all kinds of people; he also was tortured and killed by the state because he was seen as a threat to Roman sovereignty. And afterwards, his followers experienced him as alive again-- raised from the dead-- for a limited time (between 40-50 days, or thereabouts). After that, they found themselves empowered to take on his ministry, and did so, and that's why I know about him. I have been invited into his community through baptism, I confirmed those promises for myself in young adulthood, and I believe that Jesus' way is the best way: a way of love, healing, welcome, and table fellowship that includes feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick, welcoming the immigrant, remembering and affirming the humanity of all, including those society casts away, such as prisoners and the poor. I think this way of living is at least partly what he meant by "eternal" life-- that's not something for later, it's something for now.

It's not about resuscitation. It's about glorious life.

Lent 26: Holy Saturday

It is the bright morning of the day before Easter, and the sun is blazing so directly into the window of my study that it makes it difficult to see the screen of my laptop.

Easter, so often imaged as the risen Sun. Son.

Today would seem to be a swell day for Easter. The optics are absolutely on point.

But, alas, Easter does not come according to our timetable. My Easter sermon has the working title, "Who Will Roll Away the Stone?" It makes me acutely aware that we may have two-ton boulders sitting on our hearts, but that does not mean we can dictate the moment when they will be removed.

So today is a day for waiting. (And writing.) And understanding that there are things we cannot see yet, life-things, that are going on, but they are going on in the dark.

Lent 25: Thursday in Holy Week, Mercy House Meditation

This meditation was shared at Mercy House during a Holy/ Maundy Thursday service.

First Reading Mark 14:13-16; 22-26

           [Jesus] sent two of his disciples, saying to them, “Go into the city, and a man carrying a jar of water will meet you; follow him, and wherever he enters, say to the owner of the house, ‘The Teacher asks, Where is my guest room where I may eat the Passover with my disciples?’ He will show you a large room upstairs, furnished and ready. Make preparations for us there.” So the disciples set out and went to the city, and found everything as he had told them; and they prepared the Passover meal. 
           While they were eating, Jesus took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to them, and said, “Take; this is my body.” Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, and all of them drank from it. He said to them, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many. Truly I tell you, I will never again drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.”

Second Reading John 13:2b-7, 33-35

           And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God,  got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”
“Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come.’  I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.  By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Mercy House

On Thursday of Holy Week, Christians enter into the most sacred days of our year. On this day we remember a meal, a gathering at night of Jesus and everyone who was closest to him. And having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. 

The first reading Ann shared with us gives us some of the logistics of that meal. Where would they eat? How would they know? Jesus sends two of his companions to work out the details. Then we find them at supper, with Jesus sharing, not only bread and cup, but also his startling, enigmatic words. Holding broken bread in his hands, he says, “This is my body.” Holding the cup, he says, “This is my blood.” 

This is my life, Jesus tells the people who know and love him best. Watch, as I pour out my life for you. This is love.

In the second reading, shared by Sister Joanna, Jesus startles his friends in a different way. He rises from the table and ties a towel around his waist, and proceeds to wash the feet of his friends.

In the ancient world, in the Middle East, it was a strong tradition of hospitality that you would wash the feet of your friends when they came to your home to dine. And hospitality in a climate that could be harsh and hostile was a life or death matter. Everyone was expected to offer it, even to their enemies, because everyone needed to be able to depend on it when they had the need. 

Jesus washes the feet of those gathered at table together, and it causes dismay among them. Peter speaks up, and we can tell he feels that Jesus has somehow reversed the order of things, that they ought to be washing his feet, not vice versa. “You don’t understand now,” Jesus says, “but you will.” And then he makes himself clear: Watch, as I show you how. This too is love.

In the ancient world as Christianity began to spread, devout followers of Jesus explored different ways to follow him, and some, you may have heard or read, chose lives of solitude, living alone, even in caves, so as to be able to focus themselves entirely on the scriptures and penance and prayer. And a wise man named Basil was skeptical about following Jesus in that way. He wondered, “But whose feet will they wash?”

On Thursday of Holy Week, Jesus shows us love. He gives us the gift of himself during that meal around a table. And he reminds us that, if we count ourselves among those who are gathered at his table, and receiving his hospitality, service to one another is at the heart of our calling. 

I feel as if, here at Mercy House, among residents and those who love them and those who care for them, this is probably the very definition of preaching to the choir. “Service to one another is at the heart of our calling.” But maybe I can also suggest this: it is a holy thing to serve, and it is also a holy thing to let someone serve you. Peter had to learn that. Those who would serve Jesus, must first let ourselves be served by him.

So perhaps I can offer this: On this Holy Thursday, as Jesus shows us love, as he pours himself out for us again: How can we let Jesus serve us? How can we let down our defenses, and let him love us, just as we are? 

That is what Jesus wants to do. That is what he tries to do, every day, in every way, by every sign, if we can manage to pause, or to lift our heads, to take notice. Jesus, who breaks the bread and pours out the cup for us… Jesus, who ties a towel around his waist and shows the ultimate hospitality to us… Jesus longs to love us. Just as we are. Let our prayer be: Jesus, help me to let down my defenses. Help me to let you love me. Today. Right now. Just as I am. 

Thanks be to God. Amen.

I owe thanks to the producers/ writers/ folk of Pray-As-You-Go for the inspiration for this meditation.

Lent 24: Wednesday in Holy Week: Unnamed Women

There was a certain moment when it was pointed out to me that many--most--of the women in scripture are unnamed.

I don't know why I'd never noticed that before. I suppose I had been stuck for a while on all the Marys... gosh, there are a lot. Of. Marys.

Mary Magdalene, of course. (Not a prostitute. For the record. Premier witness to the resurrection, and a woman to boot.)

Mary the mother of Jesus. (Probably should have mentioned her first?)

Mary of Bethany, also sister of Martha. (Not the same as Mary Magdalene. Also not a prostitute.)

"The other Mary" (from Matthew's resurrection account). We know she's not Magdalene, and she's most not likely an "other" if Jesus' mother. She might be....

Mary the mother of James. (From Mark's and Luke's resurrection accounts.)

Mary (actually, the Aramaic version of Maryam/ Miriam) was the most popular name for women during the New Testament period.

So, lotsa Marys.

But back to my original point: there are many, many women in (both testaments of) scripture whose names we never know. And for a long time, I assumed that it was because they were not considered important enough to remember.

On Wednesday of Holy Week, one anointed Jesus.

While he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he sat at the table, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment of nard, and she broke open the jar and poured the ointment on his head. But some were there who said to one another in anger, “Why was the ointment wasted in this way? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.” And they scolded her. But Jesus said, “Let her alone; why do you trouble her? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial. Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.” ~Mark 14:3-8

There are four accounts of Jesus being anointed in scripture, three of them in Bethany, where Jesus often stayed. And yes, there is an account of Jesus being anointed by Mary of Bethany, but: the woman in this story is not identified as Mary; and the woman in this story anoints Jesus' head, whereas Mary anoints his feet.

It is Holy Week. Of course, she doesn't know that in the same way modern readers of the New Testament know it-- the context from start to finish. But she may well know that Jesus made somewhat of a splash riding into Jerusalem-town on a donkey a couple of days ago. She may well know that, since then, he has both raised a ruckus in the temple by throwing out the money-changers and dove-sellers, AND by preaching/ parable-ing provocatively there. Jesus is certainly aware of the the perilous position he finds himself in.

Is it possible that this unnamed woman is, too? Does she know she may have just this one opportunity to give him a precious gift, to express her appreciation for him, to show him love?

Is it possible she is, indeed, anointing him for his burial?

I have been thinking about those times when we say our last goodbyes. Five years ago this month I flew to Wyoming on Easter Monday to see my dad for the last time. I didn't know that for certain. But I did know the likelihood of another such trip, even within the same year, was unlikely. And he was failing... anyone could see that. The difference in his condition since I'd last seen him (five months earlier) was significant. My brother and sister-in-law and niece and nephew were caring for him perfectly, beautifully, loving him with everything they had, but death was coming anyway, as it does.

Death comes. Sometimes we are well aware of that fact, and other times we are caught by surprise-- shocked, even.

I have been thinking about this nameless woman who anoints Jesus, much as the celebrated anointing in Psalm 133:

How very good and pleasant it is
    when kindred live together in unity!
It is like the precious oil on the head,
running down upon the beard,
on the beard of Aaron,
    running down over the collar of his robes.
It is like the dew of Hermon,
    which falls on the mountains of Zion.
For there the Lord ordained his blessing,
    life forevermore.

Jesus is among friends. He is experiencing, possibly, that unity of kin... that feeling of oneness we have in perfect company, when the food and the wine and the conversation and the smiles are all real and unforced and joyfully shared. It is blessing forevermore. Even unto death.

The unnamed woman is celebrating the moment, a moment which may or may not precede a death. (It does.) And maybe her lack of a name isn't, as I once suspected, about her being considered unimportant, or not worth recalling. Maybe her lack of name allows us to name her as we need to-- to see ourselves in her, to see in her the ones we love.

Today I'll call her Patricia. Today I'll pray that I have the nerve and the wisdom to show love extravagantly the next time I have the opportunity, at a moment which may or may not precede a death. But a moment which will, nevertheless, be blessed forevermore.

Lent 23: Monday in Holy Week, 2018

The air takes on a different character for me during Holy Week. I saw it on Friday. It was my day off, but I made my way to church anyway, in search of a particular book I decided I needed for my sermon (The Last Week: A Day-by-Day Account of Jesus' Final Week in Jerusalem by Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan).

I'm sure it's partly to do with the light; brighter mornings, longer dusk. But it also has to do with the light and air at church. The sight of the Fellowship Hall set up for our Palm Sunday Breakfast. The sight of that cleared away, and the same space set up for Maundy Thursday.

Something is stirring. I feel the character of this week in my bones, and day by day I am reminded of what is coming.

On the day after Palm Sunday, according to the gospel of Mark, the first thing Jesus does is to have a little fit over a fig tree that is not giving figs.

On the following day, when they came from Bethany, he was hungry. Seeing in the distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to see whether perhaps he would find anything on it. When he came to it, he found nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs. He said to it, “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.” And his disciples heard it. ~Mark 11:12-14

I can understand Jesus' disappointment. Like many people my age, my initial introduction to figs-- the wonderful objects known as Newtons-- was my only experience for a long while. It took college and a course on D. H. Lawrence for me to decide to eat a fresh one. It was a very rewarding experience: sweet, delicate, a tiny bit exotic, and, like an early-blooming flower, fleeting.

Jesus is angry that something God created is not living up to its purpose. And he curses the tree, in the presence of his disciples.

And if that were all there were to Monday in Holy Week, we could chalk it up to very human jitters at a very momentous time. But that's not the only thing.

Jesus then goes to the Temple, and what he does there, arguably, is the straw that breaks the back of both religious and civil tolerance of who Jesus is and what Jesus says. This is most likely the reason he is hanging on a cross within days.

Then they came to Jerusalem. And he entered the temple and began to drive out those who were selling and those who were buying in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves; and he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple. He was teaching and saying, “Is it not written,

‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’?
    But you have made it a den of robbers.”

And when the chief priests and the scribes heard it, they kept looking for a way to kill him; for they were afraid of him, because the whole crowd was spellbound by his teaching. And when evening came, Jesus and his disciples went out of the city. ~ Mark 11:15-19

Jesus is angry at what he witnesses in the Temple: a system of religious practice which excludes the very poorest from access to the rituals of their faith. The clue is his focus on those who sold doves.

Fig Tree, by Alex Proimos, Syndey, Australia.
Made available by Wikimedia Commons

In Leviticus, those who want to make an offering for the blotting out of their sin bring a sheep-- unless they are poor. The poor can bring an offering of two doves (Lev. 5:7). And if you can't afford doves, you can bring a small amount of flour (Lev. 5:11).

In either case, the poor are being asked for something they cannot afford. And if they cannot afford to bring items to be sacrificed, that more or less guarantees that they will have no ability to access divine mercy.

Jesus is angry that something God created is not living up to its purpose... to be a house of prayer for all people, not just those who can afford the cost of the ritual.

... All of which puts the fig tree in a very different context. The fig tree and the temple seem to be commenting on one another (a fact made clear on Tuesday morning when Jesus and the disciples walk by the tree again, and see that it has withered).

Jesus has not come to town to make nice. He has come to speak the truth.

All around me... both in my community here in the Southern Tier of New York, and in the virtual (and very real) online community of preachers... we are making preparations for sharing this story this week. I don't know of anyone who is tipping over tables in any particular sanctuary. But I do know that the call to justice doesn't end when we walk in the doors of our sanctuaries. If anything, it should be given birth there. Justice is more truly "God-given" than many of the items usually asserted to have divine origin.

Praying with and for all who lead and participate in worship this week, that words of truth may be spoken and heard, in Jesus' name.

Lent 22: Be Yourself. Everyone Else Is Taken. 2009, Part 3

Dinner was a real celebration (insofar as a person who is melting from relief and nervous exhaustion can celebrate). It wasn't a late night, and nobody broke out the champagne, because in the morning I would see how people who weren't a part of the church leadership (then, a session of 12 people plus a clerk) would respond.

I had an early staff meeting, 8:30, because I wanted folks to know what was going on before the phone started ringing. (For some reason, I imagined the phone ringing off the hook.) I did the same as I'd done with the session, handing out copies of the letter the rest of the congregation would be receiving in the mail that day. While they read, my emotions caught up with me, and I started to cry. Which made our sweet administrative assistant cry, too. And then I tried to explain that I was only crying because I was tired and stressed, and that things had actually gone well with the session the night before, and then the staff began saying kind and supportive things as well.

One gentleman was quieter than the others, and after the meeting was over, he disappeared for a time to his woodshop downstairs. He was our maintenance person, our handyman, and he was particularly gifted at woodwork and creating beautiful items of all kinds (I have a bread basket complete with napkins and a breadwarmer made by his wife, a doohickey that helps me not burn myself when pulling the rack out of the hot oven, an herb planter, and countless other useful and lovely items made by him in both my home and office). I was a little worried at his quietness, and I thought I'd give him some space. I realized that I was likely entering a season of a lot of potentially delicate or even difficult conversations, which might be painful for me or for the congregants or both. I thought this might be the first one.

About an hour later he popped into my office with a tear-shaped cross made of wood, which, upon closer examination, actually contained flames-- the Holy Spirit's fire. He had just made it, he'd begun carving it as soon as he'd left the meeting. "This is for you," he said, "for strength."

That's when the tears really came. I walked over to him and gave him a hug. That cross still hangs in my office. I have never forgotten that loving, moving gesture, which so reassured me at a moment when I truly did not know what lay ahead.

The rest of the day I fielded a couple of phone calls... not a ton, the office was reasonably quiet. A few folks dropped by, including a woman who told me that she and her family had known even before I arrived that I had a partner and she was a woman. They even knew who she was. And they'd never told a soul. This shocked me a bit, though I'm not sure why. Of course, it's a small enough community that someone would know someone, etc. I said, "So... what did you think? Why didn't you say anything?" She shrugged and smiled and said, "We decided we'd see how we liked you. And it turned out, we loved you."

This is where the motto of Harvey Milk-- "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"-- must be given its due. Milk said, "Every gay person must come out. As difficult as it is, you must tell your immediate family. You must tell your relatives. You must tell your friends if indeed they are your friends. You must tell the people you work with. You must tell the people in the stores you shop in. Once they realize that we are indeed their children, that we are indeed everywhere, every myth, every lie, every innuendo will be destroyed once and for all." His logic was: If all the LGBTQ people would come out, millions of people would discover that they already knew us, and they already loved us.

Near the end of the day, there was one more person I had to visit. A formidable woman, elderly, she was in the fight of her life against cancer. But she was also known for her fighting spirit in the context of life at church. She was a force to be reckoned with. And I just loved her.

I dropped by her house, because I hadn't heard from her, and that worried me. When I got there, she invited me in, and began to talk to me about how she'd been feeling, medication changes, etc. Finally, I said, "Have you gotten your mail yet, by any chance?" "No," she said, "It usually gets here by five though." "Oh," I said. "Well, there's a letter from me in it." And I told her.

Before I was finished but after the big reveal, she interrupted me. "People think this is a brand new thing. This is nothing new. This has been around forever. Michelangelo! The Emperor Hadrian! When I was a child, two of my teachers at Loder Avenue School lived together in the same house. They were both women. Maybe they were in a committed relationship! Who knows! It's no one's business, and it doesn't matter to me."

As I drove home that day the conversations I'd been having swirled around in my head. I couldn't quite believe how well it was going. I know this isn't everybody's experience, and a couple of tough conversations were still to come. But at the end of the first twenty-four hours, the expressions of support, the kind words, the warm emails and phone calls, and the hugs were winning. Overwhelmingly. I had come out... it was still early days.... but already, it was grace upon grace.

Lent 21: Be Yourself. Everyone Else is Taken. 2009, Part 2

I had a long conversation with the session about our denomination's polity. We were in a kind of gray zone in 2009, following the release of the "Peace, Unity, and Purity" task force report. From their final report (accepted by the General Assembly in 2006 and available here), a description of that commission's mandate:

The plan that the Theological Task Force on Peace, Unity, and Purity of the Church adopted for its work was in keeping with its broad mandate to help the church discern its identity for the 21st century, as well as the specific charge to address four issues that have been the focus of controversy and conflict: biblical authority and interpretation, Christology, ordination standards, and power. 

'Vine and Fig Tree' window.
Union Presbyterian Church, Endicott, NY

In 2009, the PCUSA was living in the light and/or shadow (depending on how you saw it) of the report. This meant, among other things, the strong recommendation that governing bodies (church sessions, presbyteries, synods, and the General Assembly) spend time in discernment together, placing a primary value on unity (not uniformity), and to try to use all available methods of communication/ listening  prior to judicial processes, which were seen as a very last resort, to be avoided if at all possible.

That's a long-winded way of saying: it was a time of trying to live with our diversity. Even (maybe) a lesbian pastor.

By the time the session meeting was over, we had a tentative plan on how to proceed. We would try to get help with the polity issues from someone outside the congregation. (* Thank you Covenant Network and TDK. You were awesome. *)  We would seek to have opportunities for the congregation to talk, with and without me present. We would try to offer some small group options as well as larger "town hall" type gatherings. I would visit people who wanted a visit, and I would reach out to anyone who had gone quiet.

As I drove to meet my partner and my daughter for a late dinner, I remember the feeling of fatigue that washed over me. I was emotionally drained, but I was also filled with a very quiet joy: I had the session's support. Unanimously. That's not to say that they were of one mind entirely-- on every LGBTQ issue, let's say. But there was strong agreement that we would try to go forward together. I was their pastor.

With each step along this path I had returned to the Ash Wednesday daily lectionary reading that had made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

As we work together, we urge you also not to accept the grace of God in vain. For he says,

“At an acceptable time I have listened to you,

    and on a day of salvation I have helped you.”

See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation! ~ 2 Corinthians 6:1-2

As I drove home, those verses kept echoing in my head. And tomorrow I would begin to learn how the staff and the rest of the congregation would respond.

Lent 20: Be Yourself. Everyone Else is Taken. 2009. Part 1

This status came up in my Facebook memories this week:

This was my status roughly two weeks after Ash Wednesday that year, which means it was about two weeks after I'd decided to come out to my congregation.

I've already written elsewhere about that time in my life, but something yesterday reminded me of other scenes from that time that have been burned into my memory.

I'd planned to come out on the 13th of May. My contract as the congregation's designated pastor would be over at the end of August, and the church would have the opportunity to vote to either install me permanently, or to give me another contract for 2-4 years, or to say, "Thanks, but no thanks," and to say goodbye. I reasoned, this gave the congregation some time to discern together which of those options they wanted to take. 

May 13 also worked well because Easter was over (and the busy season of Lent and Holy Week that led up to it). I would have returned from a conference, in which I was co-leader of a small group of recently ordained ministers, and I knew I wouldn't be going anywhere (either for continuing education or for vacation), for several months. This was important. The positive spin on my logic is: I wanted to be available to folks who wanted to talk to me, to ask me questions, and, for better or for worse, tell me whatever they needed me to hear. The less positive spin? I was afraid that if I went away after the news was out, those who were unhappy that their pastor had come out of the closet might begin making plans to end our time together.

It feels important to mention that I couldn't at that time have imagined exactly who those people would be. My experience, after 21 months in that congregation, was of being warmly welcomed, loved, respected, and supported. And I'd mentioned LGBTQ things from time to time in a sermon-- here and there, I'd let my position be known, that people are people, and we ought to love them all and welcome them all; I'd never had a moment of pushback to that sentiment.

Still. I was very afraid that if I went away during this time of congregational discernment, things would go south. I felt loved. But I also felt scared. I understood very well that, while the congregation might love me, etc., they also might not want to have a lesbian pastor. These two things were not necessarily mutually exclusive.

On May 13 I placed a letter to the congregation in the mail. It said, basically, hey, I love you all, but you probably want to know this about me: I have a partner, and she's also a woman. Also, I think God is love, and I think we have more to do together as congregation and pastor. Still, I'm also aware that that's your call.

That evening I met with the Session. I placed copies of the letter before them, and asked them to read it. I told them I didn't expect a response that evening, that we would meet again the following week and talk after they'd had time to take it in. As they looked up, one by one, I tried to read their faces. I remember vividly the first person to speak... he looked around the room and said, "Well, I don't know about everyone else, but I'm absolutely fine with this." Someone else said, "Oh thank God... I thought you were resigning." A conversation began, the gist of which was: We are fine with this. In fact, we're so happy to know that you are in a relationship with someone! Good for you! This isn't a problem for the denomination, is it?

Wellllllll, yeah. Kinda. Actually, definitely. Heavy sigh.

To be continued.

Lent 19: Soul-Searching, 2018

What was my number?

I spent nearly the entire month of January this year preparing for, and then participating in, a workshop for women in church leadership in Dallas, Texas. The workshop (to be led by Suzanne Stabile) was on the Enneagram, a tool for self-understanding and spiritual growth. (It's a dicey thing, trying to understand the personalities of others. Best to concentrate on the person whose spiritual growth you can actually do something about.)

This means I spent about a month reading and re-reading a book, "The Road Back to You" by Suzanne Stabile and Ian Kron, and trying to figure out my number.

What was my number?

There are online tests you can take to determine your Enneagram number. But it's not recommended that you rely exclusively on those. (I'd taken a test, maybe three years ago, and found out I was a 2 with a 3 wing, but done absolutely nothing about it, and couldn't even have given you a clue as to what that meant.) It's recommended that you read extensively about all the numbers, and that you listen carefully to see what resonates with you. And by "resonates," they mean something along the lines of "convicts" you (in that old-time-religion way). "Skewers" might be too strong. Might not. But it is acknowledged that your number will probably make you cringe, because the Enneagram reveals our motivations in the form of the childhood wounds that shape our personalities, wounds to which we are still responding, and around which we are still organizing ourselves.

To give you a sense of what those childhood wounds are, and why this work feels so important, here are brief descriptions (courtesy of Ms. Stabile and RevGal JS). As a child you may have learned...

It's not okay to make mistakes.

It's not okay to have needs.

It's not okay to have your own feelings or your own identity.

It's not okay to be too functional or too happy.

It's not okay to be comfortable in the world.

It's not okay to trust yourself.

It's not okay to depend on anybody for anything.

It's not okay to be vulnerable, or to trust anybody.

It's not okay to assert yourself.

Each of us carries one of these wounds around with us, and we respond to life through the lens that wound provides us.

What was my number??

I'll admit it: I had a rough month. I found myself very invested in knowing my number before the workshop, and when I hadn't really narrowed it down to my satisfaction, I felt like I'd failed. (A very 3-ish thing--3 is "the achiever"). But it wasn't just about the workshop. I kept thinking about those wounds, and as I did, scenes from my childhood came up... things I was remembering for the first time. To be clear: it wasn't Dickens. I had a good childhood with parents who were both good and human. But... there's a reason they call them wounds. And in the face of those scenes. and reflecting on the nature of my own wound, I kept thinking about my relationships. I thought about my relationship with my partner (who actually watched this whole process with, first, amusement, and then, a little bit of alarm... I was obsessed, and she got worried). I thought about my relationships with my children (had my childhood wound limited my ability to be a good mother? Had I inflicted wounds on them? Yeah, probably.). I thought about my relationship with my congregation, both the entire community and at the individual level (am I authentic with them? am I anxious with them?).

This all felt very important, as if I were on the verge of some discovery that could be the key to my truly being a better person in all these relationships. I love my partner and my kids... I so want to be my best self with them and for them. Pastors who don't have sufficient self-awareness can be incredibly destructive in congregations. I don't want to be that pastor; I want to help the congregation and its individual members to thrive.

What was my NUMBER?

Once in Dallas, through intensive teaching sessions with Suzanne, and conversations with my pal and roommate (I'm looking at you, KC), and the many other women attending, I finally arrived at my number. (Guess what? I'm a 2 with a big ol' 3 wing. That is, the Helper, with a side of Achiever/ Performer.)

Now that I know my number, what difference does it make? For me, it's chiefly about noticing. At different points in my journey as a pastor, I've been given opportunities to notice my own responses and reactions, and to ask myself what was going on inside me as different conversations, interactions, scenes played out. Now I am noticing when the particular motivation of the "helper" nudges me in one direction or another. I am noticing how I do when I'm reasonably well, happy, and rested, and I'm noticing how I do when I'm in a bad mood, or haven't had enough sleep, or am recovering from the flu (as has been the case this past few weeks). I'm noticing the distress it caused me when I had to miss two Sundays (and a Wednesday in between!) when I was sick (the Helper wants to know: will they still love me?). And I'm noticing when my helping self seems to spring from the best, as well as the less-than-best, of myself.

And noticing means I have an opportunity to understand myself, and an opportunity the next time to change my behavior, or to lean into it, or to simply be.

It sounds like a small thing. It's not. This is the beginning of work I will be doing the rest of my life. I am so grateful I had the opportunity to begin.

What a journey! Labyrinth courtesy of a beloved member
of STA's congregation.

Lent 18: Gestation, 1987

The summer of 1987 was marked by preparation for a number of changes. We'd decided the fourth floor walk-up was not the ideal set-up as the second trimester of pregnancy progressed. The "forgetting to make sure the building is heated in the middle of winter" had sufficiently spooked us that we were determined to become homeowners. We began house-hunting. 

I was also singing the part of Dorabella in an opera workshop production of the first act (and only the first act) of "Cosi Fan Tutte." This would be pretty much the last act in my attempt at a singing career.

And I started to wonder whether I could, in good conscience, bring my child up in the Catholic church.

This concern had been growing for a while. I suppose you could say we were "cafeteria Catholics," putting on our plates those practices and beliefs with which we agreed, and leaving the rest in their warming trays. But the more I dwelt in the church... even in the Boston-progressive-change-is-just-around-the-corner version of the church... the less this felt like haphazard "picking and choosing," and the more it felt like a concern-- no, a conflict, a disagreement-- with a fundamental operating assumption of the institution. That assumption had to do with the full humanity of women. Were women human beings or not? 

The crisis was coming, and that crisis was baptism. Would I be able to baptize my baby in a church that did not fulfill its baptismal promises to half of the faithful? In Paul's letter to the Galatians he makes the distinction between life under the law and the life of faith.

But now that faith has come, we are no longer subject to a disciplinarian, for in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith. As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to the promise. ~ Galatians 3:25-29

The promise of baptism is that there is no longer "male and female," but, rather, all are one. The promises of baptism are one. And by baptism, we enter into the ministry of Christ's church. This ancient understanding is the source of those buttons some women (and men) started wearing to church in the 1970's, "Ordain Women or Stop Baptizing Them." 

But I had known since my confirmation in seventh grade that there were seven sacraments for boys and only six for girls, Holy Orders being off the menu. It was believed that women, because they lacked a penis, would insufficiently "image" Christ in the sacrifice of the mass. This view, of course, takes us down a road in which the strong implication is that the  point of the incarnation is not that God became human, but that God became male. And, as the wonderful Mary Daly points out, when God is male, the male becomes God. (See the documentary "The Keepers" for just one example of the evil that is made possible when the male as God is embraced by clergy and all who keep their secrets.) It was also taught that Christ's choice of only male apostles was the definitive criterion for who might be ordained (rather than being a necessity of the cultural context of Jesus' mission). The fact of women being named as ministers (and, on at least one occasion, an apostle) in the New Testament was waved aside: meaningless. (Though... if that's the case, why did Saint Jerome "correct" the female name Junia into Junius, a previously unknown male name?)

The irony is, the Catholic church had also held open windows through which women could see images of the divine in female form: see, Mary, the Mother of God. But see also the communion of saints, filled with women who lived and died for Christ, and whom the church saw fit to elevate for veneration (not worship, as some Protestants mistakenly hold). It had long been home to communities of women who served God's people through education, nursing, and solidarity and service to those whom Jesus calls "the least of these" (in popular parlance, "losers"). The Protestant Reformation, in its fervor to obliterate all things "popish," abolished all such practices, and spiritually and vocationally impoverished women of faith in the process. And the Reformers, sadly, did all this in the name of sola scriptura, scripture alone as the guide to faith. But scripture tells the story of two individuals who could with complete authority and truth, say the words, "This is my body, this is my blood," and one of them is a woman.

In the summer of 1987, while packing for the move, going to ever more frequent pre-natal visits, and rehearsing for the opera, I went on a kind of strike where church was concerned. I stopped attending mass, and started exploring other faith communities. The two that stand out in my memory were a lovely, historic Episcopal church in Wellesley and a Quaker meeting in Cambridge. The Quaker meeting was particularly appealing, because the service was not a service at all, but instead a time of communal silence in expectation of the appearance of the Holy Spirit. But no satisfactory answer came to my question: Could I, in good conscience, baptize my baby in the Catholic church?

Ned arrived in November 1987 during a snowstorm,
with no opinion on the matter of his baptism.

(The pastor in me asks, now, why didn't I go to talk to a priest? I certainly knew and had relationships with at least a half dozen who would have been happy to have that conversation with me, supporters of women's ordination. every last one of them. For some reason I didn't. And I suspect that reason was that I doubted they could help me, having made whatever accommodation they needed to make in order to stay in a system they acknowledged was flawed.)

In the end, Ned was baptized by a priest I love, in the beautiful church of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, surrounded by a loving community of friends and family. Had I come to the same accommodation as my Catholic clergy friends? What had tipped the scales? A package had arrived, after Ned was born. It contained an exquisite custom made Christening gown, sent by his grandmother. In the end, no decision was the decision, and we were carried along on the tide of events by that Christening gown. I had let it go. For now.

Lent 17: International Women's Day, 2017

For Lent, I am writing here about my life in faith.

This was a blogpost I shared one year ago, marking International Women's Day, 

some thoughts on being a woman in ordained ministry.

I've had some conversations in recent days about how to observe International Women's Day. I support those who will be striking. The world needs to understand the debt it owes to women's work.

As a woman pastor I'm doing work that was forbidden women until relatively recently (60 years in the denomination I serve, the Presbyterian Church USA), and which is still forbidden women in many Christian denominations and in other religious bodies.

Andrea and Mike's wedding rehearsal, with the wonderful
Father John Bucki, S. J.

So today, I am preparing for Sunday by finalizing a bulletin, readings, hymns, prayers. I will be leading worship tonight, along with our church's praise band the Scapegoats. I will be sharing a brief meditation. Afterward, I will be doing work on behalf of our regional denominational body, the Presbytery, by phone conference. I want to work today, because the work I do gives me joy and satisfaction, and the people with whom I do it love, honor, and support me, as I seek to love, honor, and support them.

Some parts of what I do as a pastor look very much like "typical women's work": Visiting the sick. Listening carefully as people share their heartbreak or their joy with me. Helping couples to plan their weddings! Other aspects of this work, I am very aware of the privilege and gift it is to be able to do it, as a woman. I am acutely aware of how, for many women (as it was once for me) it is such an overwhelming gift to see women in this role we were denied until our collective memories of the first women disciples (women like Mary the mother of Jesus, the Samaritan Woman at the well, Mary Magdalene) were retrieved and once again, finally, affirmed. Each time I step into the pulpit and open the folder that holds my sermon notes; each time I invite people to the communion table and repeat the ancient words reminding us of God's immeasurable love and provision for us; each time I hold an infant in my arms (or help a child, on tiptoe, to peer into the font) and pour water over their head; each time I stand over a grave and speak words of hope in a future none of us can yet see clearly... I am aware, so, so, acutely, almost painfully aware, of the cost that has been paid by generation after generation of women, so that I might do these things. 

I will not be striking today. I am privileged. I know that. But I support the strike, and women everywhere who do what must be done.

Lent 16: Dark Night of the Soul, 1978.

For Lent I'm writing here about my life in faith.

This meditation was also shared with my congregation this evening, as we do a series based on Barbara Brown Taylor's book, Learning to Walk in the Dark.

Psalm 88 can be found here...

By my count, it’s happened to me at least three times. This was the first time.

I was seventeen years old, a freshman at Boston College, a school I loved, in a great city. I’d been accepted into the University Chorale, and was rehearsing solos for the Vivaldi “Gloria.” My biology major didn’t yet feel like a huge mistake. I had great roommates, people I love and good friends still.

And yet, one fall night as I was walking from lower campus to upper, past beautiful grey stone buildings, crunching through crisp fall leaves, I abruptly felt a little like you do after the roller coaster passes over the crest of the mountain and starts to fall. Something inside of me dropped. Dropped away… some mental, emotional, spiritual thing I had been standing on, and which I’d thought was a big solid rock, turned out to be just a trap door, like the ones the condemned man is standing on with the hangman’s noose around his neck. And in that moment, everything I’d been sure of simply… fell away. I was terrified.

And within a second or two, I already knew what this was called. This was what John of the Cross called “the dark night of the soul.”

John lived in sixteenth century Spain, and he was part of the counter-Reformation. Together with Teresa of Avila, he tried to correct the abuses that were going on in monasteries… things like big fancy apartments with servants and relatives for monks and nuns from rich families.  Guess who didn’t like these attempts at reformation? John was thrown into a monastery prison for 11 months, given only bread and water to eat, and beaten. While there, he wrote his book, The Dark Night of the Soul (which became a much easier project after a kindly jailer provided him with ink and paper).

It’s reasonable to assume that John’s book is a memoir of the worst period of his life, a description of suffering that was ultimately rewarded by John’s unwavering faith in God. But that’s not exactly the case. In fact, John doesn’t talk about his faith. Instead, he tells a passionate love story in which God is, as Barbara Brown Taylor describes it, “the most elusive lover of all.” She goes on,

One of the central functions of the dark night, [John says,] is to convince those who grasp after things that God cannot be grasped. In John’s native Spanish, his word for God is nada. God is no-thing. God is not a thing. And since God is not a thing, God cannot be held on to. God can only be encountered as that which eclipses the reality of all other things.[i]

For myself, I was instantly aware of the truth of this in my own dark night. I had thought I could grasp God. The creeds and the prayers with which I’d grown up… the bible stories that described people’s encounters with God, the stories about Jesus and his followers. The comfort of familiar rituals. All these things had lulled me into the idea that I had a grip on my faith, and that meant, having a grip on God.

But God is not a thing to be grasped. God is a reality to be encountered.

The dark night can descend following a great loss, or during a time leading up to a big decision. It can emerge during almost any life phase, and the only consistent quality it seems to have is a sense of not knowing and not having any control. As Taylor notes, this might mean it’s time to see a doctor, to make sure all is well with the mysteries of the chemistry of the brain. And if all is well in that department… it may be best to hunker down in the darkness and realize: What is happening is actually a gift.

John emphasizes that the dark night is intended for our liberation. It’s about freeing us from our ideas about God, our fears about God, our attachment to all the benefits we’ve been promised for believing in God, our sure cures for doubting God. All these things and more actually become a kind of spiritual pillow between us and an encounter with the Divine.  They’re substitutes for God. They get in God’s way.[ii]

I can’t tell you what bad news this felt like to me, when I was smack in the middle of it. I remember going over to a friend’s house to complain, actually, about my not-knowing, my not having clarity. And she listened, and then she finally, hesitatingly said, “Maybe you need to accept that you are in a time of not-knowing. And that you won’t know until you know.”

For some reason, that lifted a part of the burden from me. Once I knew I was in a place of not-knowing, I no longer felt all the weight of what I thought I should know or do, and instead, was able to simply be.

Maybe a cloudy evening of the soul. (BBT)

The dark night of the soul invites us to simply be.

There is nothing harder. And there is nothing more liberating.

I also found Psalm 88 liberating, because it did not insist on a happy, knowing, understanding ending. It is a psalm of lament, and almost all such psalms end with a statement of conviction that God will set things right, and that God is most worthy of praise. (And,

I do trust that God will, and God does, and God is.) But this psalm is truer for some moments in our lives, especially that last line. Our translation says, “my companions are in darkness.” I far prefer the Message paraphrase (by Eugene Peterson) “The only friend I have left is Darkness.”

Hello Darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again.[iii] There is no better moment for such a thing. To simply be, to give up on the idea of managing God, or gaming God, or pleading effectively for God to come out, come out, wherever you are… to let go of those things and befriend that spiritual darkness is not something any of us thinks we want to do. And yet, if we can, something profoundly new and surprising is made possible.

Yes, they were nights of great loss. Yes, the soul suffered from fearful subtraction. Yes, a great emptiness opened up where I had stored my spiritual treasures. And yet. And yet what? And yet what remained when everything was gone was more real than anything I could have imagined. I was no longer apart from what I sought. I was a part of it, or in it… There was no place else I wanted to be.[iv]

That fall night in 1978, I took a detour on my walk to upper campus, and stopped in Saint Joe’s. (Imagine, for just a moment, what his particular dark night of the soul must have been like, Joseph, the father of Jesus. I imagine it felt like betrayal. I imagine it felt like not knowing. I imagine it took at least nine months of waiting with Darkness, his old friend.) There were lights on in the chapel, and I found a friend there. I tried to describe what was going on inside of me, and, to my relief, he didn’t try to talk me out of it. Then, I turned around and went back into the dark night. I could smell the sweet scent of a fire burning, in a fireplace, or maybe a wood stove. Somewhere, someone was home.

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[i] Barbara Brown Taylor, Learning to Walk in the Dark (New York, NY: HarperOne, 2014), 137-138.

[ii] Ibid., 145.

[iii] Paul Simon, “The Sound of Silence” (song), C) 1964.

[iv] Taylor, op.cit., 146.