Wind

I awoke to the sound and rattle of wind, moaning in the eves of my house and bending the branches of the trees outside my windows. When I went downstairs I could hear the chimes on my porch dancing crazily in their minor key.

As I awakened on Pentecost Sunday to the sound and rattle of wind, the people of my congregation were soon to gather, to hear the story:

When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. ~Acts 2:1-4

There is something about this description that thrills and unnerves me. To experience wind, unmediated by the reasonably strong walls of a building around you, is to know a primal sense of vulnerability. This invisible thing is moving you, pushing you, howling at you. It is the stuff of nightmares, or horror flicks. At the same time, when assured of our safety, it is exciting, it is heady. Growing up at the shore we would flock to the ocean as hurricanes were coming in, and gather outside our cars in our rain gear (except umbrellas; don't bother with them, they're useless in the wind) to watch the effect the wind had on the ocean, to feel it push us around. 

Things change when you see the destruction wind can leave in its path. Now my hometown knows what it is to be the place where the second most expensive hurricane in US history makes landfall. People there know what happens when you can't afford to recover from the damage, or to prepare for the next time. People there know what wind can do to your little life.

Wind is dangerous. So, scripture and mystics and poets agree, is God. A post to the Facebook RevGalBlogPals page reminded me of this quote of Annie Dillard's:

On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of the conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake some day and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return. 
~ from Teaching a Stone to Talk, Harper and Rowe 1982

I think Dillard's onto something. Pentecost is, at the very least, our annual notice that the waking God wants to draw us out to someplace new, someplace likely to be frightening, thrilling and unnerving, all at once. The waking God of Jesus wants us to walk where he has walked and further-- to walk where we haven't yet dared to walk, but where the wind and fire and healing power of the Spirit are sorely needed. 

All At Once

About ten days ago, a friend and I were talking about my ongoing struggle with self-care. This includes, but is not limited to, issues around sleep, eating, exercise, and, of course, actually taking real, true, time off. What we in the religion game like to call "Sabbath" time, time not in any way dictated by productivity or "getting things done" or work obligations.

My friend said to me, "I wonder what your life would be like if you could walk every morning, and swim every afternoon."

It's always interesting to see what your real reactions are to things, as opposed to the reactions you expect from yourself. My real reaction to this was a deep sigh of pleasure. "Oh, that sounds...so wonderful."

I would not have expected that reaction. I would have expected to feel exasperated, pressured, overwhelmed with the impossibility of it. Instead, I grabbed onto it, like a little kid being swept downstream who had been thrown a tiny, hard, and yet improbably buoyant life-preserver.

The very next day I found myself at the walk-in because I was wheezing-- loudly, alarmingly. I've never had asthma, I'm not a smoker. My blood pressure was up. They gave me an inhaler.

Three days later, instead of being in the pulpit, I was back at the walk-in being diagnosed with pneumonia. They gave me antibiotics and medications to reduce the inflammation in my lungs, and orders to rest, drink fluids, and do pretty much nothing.

The first part of this week consisted of me trying to get back into the swing of church this Sunday (and today, for the wedding of a beloved member of my congregation). It consisted of me creating bulletins, gathering thoughts for sermons and meditation, writing reports and replying to close to 150 emails.

I know that's not rest. I know that's not nothing.

But it also consisted of me reading. Two books, one novel and one book of church history/ theology. A dense one, one I haven't been able to make mental space for, but which I'm now devouring.

It also consisted of me praying. More, more intentionally. Returning to prayer patterns that have nurtured me in the past, but which have gotten swept downstream, like that little kid.

On Thursday I returned to the doctor again, not feeling a lot of improvement. (The truly disconcerting symptom in all of this has been how weak I've felt. Feel.) An x-ray, more meds. And finally, finally admitting that the idea that I could return to work this weekend was misguided at best.

With tears of frustration and real sorrow I handed off the last of my obligations. One friend had been covering pastoral emergencies. Another covered a graveside service. And one-- God bless him-- took both the wedding and Sunday.

Pentecost Sunday.

And then, all at once, the emails all but stopped, slowing down to a trickle.

And now, I am in a great stillness. My house is quiet (though I am still wheezing). My mind is awake (except when I fall into a deep sleep, which happens a lot).

I read an article this morning from the Well in the New York Times, their section for health and well-being. It says that, in making changes for our well-being, it may actually help us to do several things at once, rather than focusing on one thing at a time. Don't simply change your sleep schedule; do the meditation you've been wanting to do as well. Make your diet healthier at the same time you are adding weight training to your regimen. Take up both walking and swimming.

At least one study seems to show that, not only do we thrive when we make a bunch of positive changes at once, but the effect stay with us, even after we're not adhering to the new regimen perfectly. The new practices reinforce one another. Win, win, win.

I'm wondering how my pneumonia/ enforced Sabbath regimen might be continued after I am back at work. The time I've taken for prayer. The time spent reading. The healthier eating choices I've made (embracing the fact that applesauce appeals more than fries just now). And maybe the addition of a walk in the morning and a swim in the afternoon.

I had been pondering how to make a change, a big change, that would help me in my quest to care for myself better.

The first thing I had to do, evidently, was get sick enough that everything I was doing would be interrupted, all at once. Enforced stillness. A full stop.

Now. Waiting for what's next. But truly waiting.

A Kind of Telephone Line Through Time

Now I would remind you, brothers and sisters, of the good news that I proclaimed to you, which you in turn received, in which also you stand, through which also you are being saved, if you hold firmly to the message that I proclaimed to you—unless you have come to believe in vain. For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, and that he was buried, and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve. Then he appeared to more than five hundred brothers and sisters at one time, most of whom are still alive, though some have died. Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles. Last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me.  ~ 1 Cor. 15:1-8

A long time ago, when I was a young mother, I received a birthday gift of the album “Rites of Passage” by the Indigo Girls. One of the songs on that album was called, of all things, “Virginia Woolf.” Here are some of its lyrics.

They published your diary

And that's how I got to know you

The key to the room of your own and a mind without end

And here's a young girl

On a kind of a telephone line through time

And the voice at the other end comes like a long lost friend

So I know I'm all right

Life will come and life will go

Still I feel it's all right

Cause I just got a letter to my soul

And when my whole life is on the tip of my tongue

Empty pages for the no longer young

The apathy of time laughs in my face

You say, "each life has its place" …

Emily Saliers, who is one of the Girls, wrote that song. Emily is a PK—Preacher’s Kid. Her dad is Don Saliers, a United Methodist pastor and theologian. They wrote a book together on singing as a spiritual practice—A Song to Sing, a Life to Live. I mention all this because when I listen to this song, I hear echoes from this passage from Paul’s letter to the church in Corinth.

They published your diary… they told your story… that’s how I got to know you.

The key to a room of your own and a mind without end… the key to the life of Jesus Christ, and life without end.

And here’s a young girl, on a kind of telephone line through time… and he appeared to his followers, and last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me.

This scripture passage is about the Good News coming to Paul on a kind of telephone line through time. Paul got a letter to his soul: the message he received, and that he also passed on to the church in Corinth. Despite time and distance. Despite, in Paul’s case, an inclination to disbelieve, or even revile. Despite all these things… the message arrived. The message on which he stood, and through which he was saved.

The message from Virignia Woolf... well, I don't know if it saved Emily Saliers’ life. Her mom was a librarian (Emily tells the story in her intro the song on "1200 Curfews," a fantastic live double album). Her mom found the book for her and sent it to her. Did Mrs. Saliers sense that Emily was having a rough time, for some reason? Did she have any reason to believe her daughter might be struggling with, perhaps, her sexual identity? I don't know. It's all conjecture. But Emily sings in this song that, after immersing herself in that life, after meeting Virginia Woolf as one “untimely born,” Emily knew she was alright.

“Rites of Passage” came out in 1992. Both Indigo Girls—who have never been a couple—came out as lesbians in 1994.

Did Virginia Woolf save Emily's life? I don't know. I know she wrote a song about her, and about the experience of recognition of herself in some deep and affirming way. I also know that the Indigo Girls served, in a way, as my Virginia Woolf. Their music spoke to me, at first, on a level I didn't quite fully understand. Why did I listen to this next song, for instance, over and over, at a time when I was, in theory, happily married to a kind and generous man?

dark and dangerous like a secret 
that gets whispered in a hush (don't tell a soul) 
when i wake the things i dreamt about you last night make me blush (don't tell a soul) 
when you kiss me like a lover then you sting me like a viper 
i go follow to the river play your memory like the piper 
and i feel it like a sickness how this love is killing me 
but i'd walk into the fingers of your fire willingly 
and dance the edge of sanity i've never been this close 
in love with your ghost...

I think the answer is that I recognized something of myself in these words and melodies that I only half dared to contemplate. Of course, my unwillingness to contemplate the truth-- the fact that I was a lesbian married to a man-- did not alter the truth in any way. The Indigo Girls spoke to me on a kind of telephone line, if not through time, then, through circumstance. They said, "This is our truth." (They said it pretty clearly even before they said it  officially.) Years later, after a season of pain, I was finally able to embrace that truth for myself. (I fell in love.)

This is my good news, on which I stand. I too am one of those untimely born, to whom Jesus has "appeared" (though in my case it involved an Amy Grant song heard in my Volvo on Route 128 outside of Boston, rather than a flash of light and temporary blindness on the road to Damascus). I am also one who knows herself to be "alright"-- a proud and grateful member of that little LGBTQI alphabet cluster,  who knows that by grace she is loved by the God who ensured that she was born this way.

Seven years ago this week I shared the fullness of my identity with the wonderful congregation I serve, just as, this week, 111 United Methodist pastors and candidates for ordained ministry have shared their truth. It is not an action anyone undertakes lightly while they serve a denomination that could discipline them or, worse, remove or block their ministerial credentials altogether. But these brave souls-- one of whom I am so very proud to call my friend--know that #ItsTime. (We all have a way of knowing that.) The good news on which we stand is this: the love of God is big enough to include and affirm all of us. Blessings, prayers, and love go with my UMC brothers and sisters this week.

Friday in Holy Week: Good Friday

The Annunciation by Gloria Ssali

Why on earth do Christians call a day on which Jesus was brutally tortured and executed by the Roman Empire "good"?

It's complicated.

At 9:00 in the morning on the day before the Sabbath, so the gospel of Mark tells us, Jesus was nailed to a cross- probably a crossbeam, actually, which was then attached to/ suspended from a more permanent pole.

Crucifixion was the preferred form of capital punishment for those the Roman Empire deemed especially dangerous criminals. Though some of our translations speak of those crucified alongside Jesus as "bandits," the truth is, they wouldn't have been crucified for simple theft. They must have been, like Jesus, considered insurrectionists, or worse. They must have done something the state was convinced was a crime against its security.

One of the advantages to crucifixion, for Rome, was the fact that it was so horrifying. Jesus was one of the lucky ones, dying within a matter of hours. Many lingered for days. It was the custom to leave the body on the cross after death, so that birds could eat away the flesh. No burial for those crucified-- not normally, anyway. Jesus seems to have been an exception. The advantage was, the punishment was a deterrent to those who looked upon the executed. The roads into Rome were lined with crosses. The message was clear: Threaten the empire, and this will be your fate. Make no mistake: the crucifixion was a political act.

So far I'm not making much of a case for calling the day "good."

This year Good Friday falls on the day many scholars believe was the actual date of Jesus' crucifixion.  It also happens to be the date much of the church marks the Feast of the Annunciation, the occasion when the angel announced to Mary that she was to be a mother (and, if the gospel of Luke tells it true, gained Mary's consent).

According to some scholars, this is not a coincidence.

It is commonly thought that we do not know the date of Jesus' actual birth, but that December 25 was chosen to coincide with the Roman feast of Sol Invictus (the Unvanquished Sun), a celebration whose name  dovetails neatly with certain theological language often used about Jesus. However, the earliest writings addressing the date of Jesus' birth connect it, not to the Roman holiday, but to the date of the crucifixion. The logic goes, the date of the crucifixion is the date of salvation of humankind by God's gracious self-emptying, in Jesus. But salvation can also be dated to the conception of Jesus in his mother's womb. It stood to reason, to the early church, that the date of salvation was the same in any case-- Jesus' crucifixion must have taken place on the same date as his conception. This is how December 25 was arrived at, as the date of Jesus' birth.

We call this day "good," because it is the date on which God's love for humanity was demonstrated by Jesus' death on the cross. God so loved the world that God came in Jesus, to live as we live, and to suffer the worst of what human sin had to offer. God did not and does not leave us alone and unloved, but goes through it with us, and for us.

It just so happens that this year Good Friday falls on March 25, and we have double the reason to call it "good."

Thursday in Holy Week: Last Supper Thursday/ Maundy Thursday/ Judas Kiss Thursday/ Arrest Thursday/ Cock-Crow Thursday

Scripture can be found here...

Many, many things happen on the Thursday my church calls "Maundy" (from the Latin "mandate," meaning "commandment." From John 13:34.)

For me and my house, due to the nature of my work, I will confine myself to commenting on the supper, and that meditation can be found here.

Wednesday in Holy Week: Prophetic Anointing Day (Formerly Known as Spy Wednesday)

"Alabaster Cup," by P. Raube, 2014

 
It was two days before the Passover and the festival of Unleavened Bread. The chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to arrest Jesus by stealth and kill him; for they said, “Not during the festival, or there may be a riot among the people.” 

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.” 

Then Judas Iscariot, who was one of the twelve, went to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were greatly pleased, and promised to give him money. So he began to look for an opportunity to betray him. 

~ Mark 14:1-11

The traditional (though, apparently, not really well-known) name for the Wednesday in Holy Week is Spy Wednesday. I know this because when I was in college one of my professors published a book of poetry called "Spy Wednesday's Kind." The title poem is cryptic in the extreme... I probably understand it less well today than I did when I was 18. But the professor, a lovely odd-duck of a Jesuit, explained it to me. Wednesday was the day when the religious leadership sought a way to arrest Jesus, and also when, later on, Judas presented himself as the solution to that problem.

In Mark's and Matthew's gospels, those two passages form the outer scenes of an "inclusio", i.e., a sandwich-shaped story. In this case, the parts about needing a betrayer/ finding a betrayer are the bread.

The 'filling' of the sandwich is the story of a woman anointing Jesus.

There is a story in each gospel about a woman anointing Jesus, but they are not all the same story. In the gospel of Luke, Jesus is in the home of a Pharisee, and the woman who anoints him is said to be a "sinner." She anoints and kisses his feet. The gospel of John gives us a name for the woman: Mary of Bethany, sister of Martha and Lazarus; the anointing takes place in their home. Mary also anoints Jesus' feet, in gratitude, it would seem, for his raising her brother from the dead. (Fun Fact: It is from the misguided conflation of these stories we get the idle tale that Mary Magdalene-- a different Mary altogether-- is a sinner.)

Matthew and Mark tell the story in much the same way. In both the anointing takes place at the home of  Simon the leper. In both, the story is surrounded by the material about the search for and finding of a means to arrest Jesus.

In both the woman is unnamed.

In both the woman anoints Jesus' head.

I love all these stories.

I love how the women interrupt an all-male gathering to perform a startling action honoring Jesus.

I love how the nature of the action prohibits anyone from not noticing--spikenard ointment is highly aromatic/ fragrant, and the scent would have permeated the room.

I love how in each instance the woman is scolded for her wastefulness-- the ointment is too costly, couldn't we have helped the poor instead?

I love how Jesus responds by paraphrasing a well-known verse of scripture (well-known to the people in that room):  'Since there will never cease to [there will always] be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, “Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.”'  I love that he doesn't in any way disparage or downplay the needs of the poor (as some would interpret it), but extends a both-and possibility: He can be anointed and the poor can be cared for. These are not mutually exclusive occurrences.

I love how Jesus names her action as prophetic: "She has anointed me beforehand for my burial."

I love how Jesus commends her to the memory of the community: "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.”

We have failed at that last one. I don't much love that. It is reported that Elizabeth Shussler Fiorenza, when beginning her theological studies, came upon Mark's version of this story and was stunned that, in fact, this story has not been told in memory of this woman, and titled her seminal work of feminist theology accordingly: In Memory of Her.

In fact, I would suggest that the prophetic nature of this action by a woman made the early church so uncomfortable, other reasons for her action were substituted in Luke's and John's versions. She must have been a sinner. She must have been really grateful about her brother. Apparently, it was very difficult to live with this anonymous woman simply seeing Jesus clearly, and responding with a bold and intrepid gesture.

The unnamed woman saw Jesus clearly, on Wednesday, in the middle of Holy Week.

The unnamed woman performed a prophetic action, a bold and intrepid gesture: she poured incredibly expensive and fragrant oil on his head (like you might for a king or a prophet or a dead man). 

Submitted for your approval: Changing the name of Wednesday in Holy Week to Prophetic Anointing Day.

It's not like the whole world will miss Spy Wednesday.

Tuesday of Holy Week: Challenges, Parables, and Staying Woke Day

Christ Pantocrator ("Almighty"), Hagia Sophia Monastery, Istanbul

Scripture can be found here...

At three full chapters and 121 verses, Tuesday is the longest day in Holy Week... or perhaps, the most thoroughly described/ busy.

It begins with Jesus' walking again past the (poor) fig tree he cursed on Monday, and, when his disciples say, "YIKES! It withered!", replying with what feels like a non-sequitur. He speaks about faith and prayer. Mark's gospel never offers us a version of the Lord's Prayer (that can only be found, in two different forms, in Luke and Matthew). But he does end his words on prayer with an echo of the Lord's Prayer as we know it:

“Whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone; so that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses.” (11:25).

Jesus connects God's forgiveness of us to our ability to forgive others.

Forgiveness flows in both directions. In all directions.You might say, forgiveness is the heart and soul of Jesus' mission among us. You might say that.

Jesus returns to the Temple, where he is promptly questioned by the religious authorities as to where, exactly, he gets his authority. He demurs, but then tells a scathing parable that seems designed to portray those authorities as wicked tenants of the Father's vineyard, and ends with the promise of retaliation and destruction.

Which is very interesting, given his just-moments-earlier words on forgiveness. 

It continues like this, all day Tuesday, with question after question being lobbed at Jesus.

“By what authority are you doing these things? Who gave you this authority to do them?”(11:28)

"Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?" (12:14)

"In the resurrection whose wife will she be?" (referring to a woman who had married seven brothers in turn, in accordance with the law).(12:23)

“Which commandment is the first of all?”(12:28)

But Jesus asks some questions, too. And in the end, when all the questions have been exhausted (and after some scathing words about religious professionals), Jesus enters prophetic mode and begins to speak about the future of Jerusalem and the Temple.  He sees destruction everywhere. At the same time, he calls it "the beginning of the birth pangs." which leads me to believe he is describing, not a death, but a birth-- a messy, difficult, painful, even frightening birth, but a birth nonetheless.

It cannot be a coincidence that Jesus speaks of the end of all things when he himself is facing his own death. I have wondered for a while whether Jesus' tone in all these disputes-- the anger that breaks through-- is connected to his very human dread of what will truly be the longest day, beginning after supper on Thursday. 

I find it consoling to know that Jesus was anguished. But in the end, his message isn't "hide." It's "Stay woke."

Stay woke, Jesus says. Through the mess. Through the difficulty. Through the pain, and through the fear. Be on the lookout for what God is doing because, trust me (says Jesus), God is doing a new thing-- a splendid thing. A beautiful thing. And God will be with us through the mess and pain and fear. 

God is doing a new thing.