Nosferatu... at long last!

Nosferatu

I’ve been promising Nosferatu for a long time now. And so here he is.

I am somewhat of an old movie junkie. I am not much for the current genre of horror movies as they are far too violent for me, but old ones, that’s another story. I love the silent film, Nosferatu. I love how gruesome the vampire is in this movie—not all lovely like that twlight dude with dirty hair or Tom Cruise from the Ann Rice generation before that.

Nosferatu moves slowly and silently and when he at last pounces on his victim they are held arrestingly still—captive to this being that darns life from them.

We love vampire stories— obviously they are once again on the rise as we have new stories about this old myth.

The question I was have about legends and stories and myths is this: How are they real?

Vampires are real to me. Vampires remind me of those people in my life that create chaos and drama. Those that drain my energy with their incessant need for conflict and attention.

But Nosferatu, he’s a little different. If you’ve watched that old movie, you know what I mean: gruesome silent and slow.

One night, sitting at home in quiet, I couldn’t sleep. I got up and sat on the couch and reviewed the very long day’s journey. I remembered those places in my heart where I felt like I wasn’t enough—where I had failed utterly. Those places that I felt less than. And in that moment, I suddenly understood: Nosferatu had crept into the room suddenly. I was held captive to him as he stalked me silently. I was arrested by his gaze—there wasn’t anything pretty about him.

Nosferatu reminds me of shame. Shame is an arresting emotion, it stops us dead in our tracks, it is a slow dreadful secret that stalks us silently. It freezes us and with the uttermost stealth, it pounces on our hearts and drains us of life.

This is how Nosferatu is real for me. In naming this feeling, this being, I am given some power to over come it.

By subjecting Nosferatu to the light, I can stop him. By placing holy objects before him, I stop him.

How can I do that with shame? Shame is often a silent creeping secret that overcomes us. I find that when I can speak it, it dies. We are only as sick as our secrets. And the more secrets we have, the more power we give to Nosferatu.

Holy Objects might be those things I use to remind myself that I am LOVED beyond my intellect, reason and imagination—so how do I know that I am loved? For some reason, photographs of loved ones whisper this to me. Maybe these are my holy relics.

So this is Nosferatu to me.

Who is he to you?

Time... time, time!!!

Time, that human made concept that marks all of us, marching on always. Has it ever marched on. I don't even remember when, but sometime back, the laptop hard-drive fried and whammo, just like that, I am off the web and thrown back into the stone age. So, I apologize for my protracted absence.

If I say that I am going to do a better job of keeping up my blog, would you believe me? Okay, maybe not. So, I am back in the cyber landscape once again, blogging, twittering, checking facebook and email obsessively.

What did I do without all these gizmos???

Now I promise that Nosferatu (did I spell that wrong?) will make an entry but not today. We'll save him for another day. Today, we ordain a new priest into the Episcopal church.

Allow me to get churchy for just a minute or maybe longer. Today, our Curate, Andrew is ordained at 7:00 p.m. It is a really special time not just for him but for me as well and for this whole community and even our larger region, that we call a Diocese.

It is special because it names a reality that we already know: Andrew is called by God. But not just him. ALL OF US ARE.

I sometimes wish that we had Ordinations for all kinds of people: firemen, teachers, school principals, street-sweepers... all of us are called to something. The hardship is knowing what that is and how to live and hear it.

I recently heard an interesting little tidbit about this. I credit my friend Lesslie with this story:

There was this guy by the name of Homer. Homer was a priest and for years, he dreamed of working in a church and being the head kahuna. (In our tradition, the head priest is called a Rector or a Vicar. For argument sake, we'll say Rector)
Homer felt called to be a Rector, but Homer found a job at a Seminary teaching and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get a job as a Rector.

Finally, Homer one day decided to give up that dream and to really launch himself into his work at the seminary. The more he dedicated his passion and balanced his work life with his personal, the more he became happy and at peace.

Well, one day, the PERFECT rector job came along-- the one he had dreamed of for years and now, he was so happy with the job that he couldn't decide what to do. So he left it to God to help him know. So Homer left the whole issue of what to do and where to go in God's lap.

And days went by... and nothing. No answers, no signs no nothing.

Of course, Homer had to arrive at an answer and soon so finally, Homer threw himself at the foot of the altar and cried out to God, "PLEEEASE God! Tell me what to do!!"

And finally, God answered.

"Homer," God said, "I don't care what you do-- just be happy!"

And so it was for Homer.

And so it is us.

What makes you happy?

Time time time marches on. The ordination is hours away and lots to see to. I will see you soon-- hopefully with Nosferatu.

Oh! One more thing: if you like my blog, and are located somewhere in the Olympia/Tumwater/Lacey area, come join me and our new community for our 5:30 Service on Advent I (that November 29) from that Sunday on, we will be doing a 5:30 service with expansive language, silence, conversation and best of all, beer or wine or whatever you want to drink at the local pub, O'Blarney's to follow. Good times...

Oh yes... time.

time time time

As soon as I have some more time, I will add a new post. Nosferatu is coming soon...

The Stream & the Potter

One of the biggest surprises on my spiritual journey has been prayer-- not just my private devotion or silence or meditation-- but the surprise has been for me in corporate prayer-- words or silences exchanged with large groups of people together.

It is like a stream that flows from us-- poetry and words or silence held together there is this flow that happens beyond the words, beyond the silence, there is the being in this together & putting this out there in the universe. The flow and stream that is sent-- be it Christian Prayer or Buddhist prayer or dare I say it, Atheist prayer. (yes, I know an oxymoron and perhaps I look like a moron, but.. we can ponder that in another blog!)

I realize that this statement must sound utterly absurd—for what is a spiritual journey but prayer. Prayer however is one the greatest mysteries and paradoxes of the unseen—how is it that our words or silence or walk or any sort of action that we might “do” and call prayer, how can it actually change or alter anything— and yet it does. Prayer changes everything. Not in some Hollywood special effects kind of a way, but the very core of our being is changed, made lovelier by prayer.

The image of a potter comes to my mind and I suddenly see the beautiful iridescent interior of a fired ceramic pot—on the exterior, you can’t see the loveliness of the hidden interior and yet you know it is present. So it is with prayer. Prayer, the filling of our consciousness with such joy poetry and love causes an interior beauty that can’t quite be noticed on the exterior and yet, you can tell gazing at the vessel that such care and beauty are present on the interior—an iridescent loveliness that is numinous is present in the one that centers their life on making space for God. That is the work of prayer. And prayer of course is not just bowing our heads and saying a few lovely words—it is an inner quality that softens the ground of our being. Prayer and a life time of it changes us in ways that aren’t quantifiable by any methodology or logic. Prayer is a way of being that is intentional and open to the presence of God.

I believe that all written traditional prayers—be they Christian or other—point us to that reality of such transformation. When we allow the words of any prayer to wash over our being, it smoothes out our roughness and makes us into that transformed being that we are called to be. All written prayer points us to that changed reality. So it is with the Lord’s Prayer, an ancient that points not just to Jesus Christ or Christians, but points to the ultimate human fulfillment—that we will be fully human by living into that transformation given to us by the divine. The Lord’s Prayer is about the growing up of our own humanity, the awakening of consciousness to our fulfillment as spiritual beings on a human journey. Each phrase is about our growth from selfishness into selflessness- it is about transcendence of our selves to God. It is not just the uttering of the words in repetition that will change us—its not about the words, Our Father in Heaven said over and over that make for transcendence. It is the intentional and interior space of a human soul that slowly opens in availability to those words spoken or held in silence. It is a saturation point or a receptivity that somehow opens up to such interior beauty and fulfillment.

The other oddity about such transformation is, however momentary it seems to be—it shimmers in the eyes briefly and then is gone, like a humming bird feasting for a moment, lovely and then gone. It is an awesome moving experience that is fleeting at best, at least in our human observation. I believe that ultimately, it is all that is truly seen revealed and known—because in those brief episodes of such beauty and goodness, it is where we find God and know that shining presence.

More than anything else, what I realize is that Spirit is not done with me yet.

Unspoken Agreements & Tribal Knowledge between the you and me

Sociological & Psychological Studies have been done showing that human beings without ever speaking a word to their friend or companion or family member or spouse make a deal. The deal is that each will remember different bits and pieces or aspects of memories: the halves will each hold a half of the virtual scrapbook in their minds.

Simply put, you remember one aspect of a memory and your beloved remembers another piece of it. And you remember one day and your beloved the next.

I was recently reminded of this unspoken reality when two close friends from the past got in touch with me via facebook. Both relationships were such that it was like picking up where we left off. And then it started to happen: remember… and soon we were each reminding the other of aspects of our common story that we’d forgotten: two halves once again brought back together to be whole again in that common story we held.

Even after getting off the phone, there were memories that came to me—stuff I had long since forgotten suddenly dusted off and remembered from the back recesses of my mind.

However, it isn’t always as pleasant as this. How many times have I uncomfortably sat with older couples arguing about some minute detail from their wedding day or arguing whether or not it was Thanksgiving 2006 or 2007 when old Aunt Ruth kicked the bucket. Ugh…

That of course is trivial in comparison to those embodied scrapbooks that are so disparate and incongruent that you’d swear that the two speaking are talking about different stories rather than their common one. It is this torn and ripped place that can feel very crazy.

The siblings that see childhood so differently: one claims that the other is a klutz while the klutzy one recognizes bruises from a violent father. One spouse sees alcohol abuse while the other sees only wanting a drink to unwind.

Stories are sacred—especially our own personal ones.

A friend some years ago shared with me after a very painful divorce a study about this embodied unspoken memory issue. I remember thinking at the time, “Oh yeah, this makes sense.”

And then there were so many light bulbs that went off after that: wow, this is why relationships that end catastrophically (divorce, not speaking to each other, etc) can be so painful and devastating-- we are losing not just a person, but half of our story.

Truly there is tribal knowledge between us-- and yes, it is difficult when we sever our stories from the tribal truth for the sake of our own reality and sanity. Wow, I remember thinking-- this is really helpful to know and to notice.

I am still haunted by the places of incongruence that I know—the places where the pictures in my virtual scrapbook that looks so different from the "yous" in my life. Its not the small differences or arguments like what year when such and such happened—it’s the bigger ones that are troubling. Is it me that's crazy or the you? Or maybe both? I don’t know quite what to do with those.

Of course, our perceptions are different and our memories are not accurate recording tools—rather they are story makers.

The question I have in the disparate places are how can you hold up both pieces of perception and honor them—is that a possibility? Or is it that the best we can do is choose not to talk about those places of radical incongruence? Or is it that we should flee from such places and relationships? I don’t have answers for this, only more questions and memories and unspoken pacts formed between relationships.


And notice, I've kept it simple-- there is only in this the two-- the you and the me but you know there's more than that: there's the tribal knowledge of relationships and unspoken memory between 3 or 4 or 5 or more.

I think I'll take that glass of wine now.

Blood & Water

You’ve heard it said, “Blood is thicker than water.”

But I say blood coagulates. It can seal up a wound or complicate a life. Water thickens to ice but melts again. Blood can only go in one direction.

Wounds sealed up, clots in the legs and heart and brain. Or hemophilia on the other extreme. Gushing and gushing and gushing free.

Blood is thicker than water.

Is that a good thing?

Free Counter

8 things that I love about life...

Not just chocolate... there's so much.

1) The sound of my dog sleeping at night. She makes this noise-- its a grunt that sounds a bit like a mowing cow. We like to imagine that there is a sacred cow burial ground under our house and that if you listen very closely at night, the ghost cow rises to moo000...

2) Lattes in the morning. I use to drink a pot of french pressed coffee every morning until this past spring when I gave up coffee cold turkey. Oh man. Now I drink green tea or some other healthy crap in the morning. I feel great... really. But every now and again, I wake up to find my partner has gone astray to the local bakery for a morning latte. OH, what a delight. The smell... the foam... its... heaven in a cup.

3) The way I feel after going to church. Okay, it sounds REALLY cheesy, but today I woke up in the worst mood EVER. I could have fought with a rock if it talked back. I didn't sleep well on Saturday night, I don't like getting up early but somehow, it happened. It happens every Sunday-- regardless of my mood. I find joy and I love these people that God has given me to tend. I leave (most) every Sunday satiated in ways that I didn't imagine possible. There's something to this God stuff...

4) Children's art made for just for me. "You are a good prest, gorgi" It reads. Then there's the piece with God as a big boobed woman playing tea party with a little girl. Then there's the picture of the girl priest at the altar with the note that reads, "After all these boy priests, I'm really glad to know a girl one. Today, you were wearing my favorite color, green." There's pictures of dinosaurs and monsters and the baby Jesus too. I'd take these over a Picasso anyday.

5) Fixing dinner for friends. Vino. Salmon. Raw Vegetable Salad. Fresh Ccrn on the cob. Laughter. What's better? The salmon was a bit over cooked, but oh my, what a wonderful gift.

6) Thunder Storms. Woe to us who live in the Pacific Northwest. Thunder Storms are an anomaly. We had one this morning. Just as the Gospel was being read, there it was: The Holy Gospel of our Lord CRACK! BOOM!

7) Beauty. It doesn't matter what or where. More than anything else in life, I am convinced that beauty saves lives. Now, I'm not talking super model superficial plastic boob looks. I'm talking real beauty-- something that takes your breath away and makes life so unbearably gorgeous that you can barely take it in. The smell of honeysuckle on sultry hot July day, a baby laughing, the couple that's been married for 62 years and still hold hands, good poetry, humanity being born, humanity dying after a full life. Beauty is everywhere.

8) Walking in the woods with the dogs and with Betsy. Silent together.

Hermetically Sealed

I stepped outside on the airplane wing to catch some fresh air and she was out there too: a big Christian. I could tell.

There appeared to be something that looked like a crystal ball hanging round her neck.

"Is that a crystal ball?" I asked. "NO!" she replied--"It is a sign of my faith: a mustard seed," she said and coming up closer to me she showed me the seed up close.

"Sure 'nough," I said, holding my balance on the wing of the plane-- not an easy feat at 10,000 feet. "But why a seed in a glass ball?"

My sister in faith preached to me: "Jesus said, 'that the mustard seed when planted was the strongest of all trees-- home to birds and all."

"Oh yes, but its not planted-- its hermetically sealed." Our plane wing began to tilt in our direction. It was hard to hold on. I hate flying-- especially when the plane tilts and the clouds roll in-- it gets cold up there on the wing of the plane. I leaned my shoulder in to help hold my place. I was fine and so was she. Only, she looked dissed somehow.

"What's your point?" she asked, now sounding defensive.

"Well unless a seed dies," I say to her. The plane tilts more-- damn, where are we going anyway-- changing direction and going to Florida instead?

"Unless the seed dies, it can't have new life-- isn't it ironic that the symbol you wear keeps you from enacting what Christ was asking his followers to do?" I"m holding onto rivets by now. Definitely heading to Florida. Why would you want to have such symbol...

"Oh its not a real seed. anyway."

"Oh?"

"Yea. Its one of those Monotuxedo Seeds anyway.

"Who? What?" I asked. I was wondering if the plane was going in circles.

"You know-- one of those seeds that really can't produce food from it. A Christian company got a whole bunch of fake seeds and put them in glass balls and sell them as symbols now."

I was starting to lose my grip so I merely grunted to show I was intrigued-- well, intrigued isn't quite the right word-- intrigued like seeing the bearded lady at the circus or the dude walking down the board walk covered in a Boa that's eight feet long-- you just can't seem to break away. Holding on tight I popped back into her big Christian monolog.

...so at least they could recoop their money and people could know we are Christians."

"Hmm. A crystal ball would be more useful than a mustard seed that can't even become a tree anymore."

"I don't believe in Crystal balls.

"Right." I said, "Of course. I don't believe in standing out on the wing of a plane either at 10,000 feet, but here we are and if you had a crystal ball, at least you would have known it: that thing can't even be planted and grown-- what good is it?

"True," she said with a furrowed brow, "but its a symbol of my faith."

"Yea, I suppose." Thank goodness the plane was now tilting the opposite direction and we could balance a bit better. "But here's the thing: isn't kind of a weird symbol-- it goes counter to everything Jesus said in a way-- its all neat and tidy and not of use at all inside that perfect little globe. I wish faith and the spirit were more... like that, but in my experience, well, damn: a cross sums it up pretty good, or a seed in lots of horse... (I wanted to say shit, but I thought better of it) manure dying to live... that's what's it like. Its never so neat as a hermetically sealed ball."

She was quiet for a long time.

Much to my surprise, the plane landed smooth as could be. Just a little pop.

Abigail spoke again just after the plane landed.

"Yeah, well... maybe that's your experience, but its not mine!" she said and then popped back in through the window into the interior of the plane where she was safe. I watched her go in shaking her head and take her seat. She even buckled her safety belt.

I wished that I could join her inside that safe little bubble, but I like it better out here on the wing of the plane-- the air is a lot fresher and there is more to breath.

How to be a perfect mess: Chapter IV

Some months have too much bad history. I think this is why Christmas is such a dreaded time of the year-- too much baggage for too many people. For me, I've gotten past my Christmas hang-ups. I'm damn tired in December anyway.

My bad history month is July. Last year, I hit the reset button on July and took the entire month off as a declaration to the universe that I was taking back the month of July, dammit, from the cloud of misfortune that seems to always hang over it. It was a good July. I hung out and worked on my tan.

But then came this year and fireworks again. I love the pretty colors but the idea of blown off fingers and drunks on the road have really helped to dull the 4th of July holiday for me. Plus, you can only imagine how crazy the dogs go.

So once again, I find myself in the thick of bad history month: awaiting ghosts around every corner, wishing I had been smart enough to take the damn month off. Its so hot and dry anyway. Ghosts go away!

Ghosts may linger when you are a mess. Closure is never as simple as it sounds: Close... Sure. Bang! A door slams. As one of my sage aunties once said to me, "Let's admit it honey-- closure does not exist. Pain goes on and on until it is transformed." I never stopped to ask transformed into what?

Part of being a spiritual mess is recognizing that life's painful seasons aren't like a laundry list-- okay, I grieved that loss! I can check it off and be done. Life's not a list for the messy-- what list? I lost the list! Screw the damn list!

No, life for the messy is more like a labyrinth-- we walk in circles coming back to places again and again from different angles and ways and at different times. Painful seasons can remain painful for years, I'm finding. Long after you hit the reset button.

July will always start with a bang, I reckon. The dogs are upset, I can barely sleep, the roof catches on fire. This is only the beginning.

T.S. Eliot once wrote, " April is cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the deadland." I think July is crueler yet for me-- the labyrinth is not so pleasant to traverse.

Where is there good news in this? I suppose the good stuff is in knowing. Like my desk-- its messy, but I know what's there. Maybe that's the trick with cruel months-- in hitting the reset button, it didn't change everything, but instead, this year, I wasn't blind-sided by history. I am aware it is coming and maybe awareness is enough for now.

Yes indeed, its messy isn't it?

Wild Grapes

Wild Grapes

I’ve grown to love gardening over the years. It takes me out of my head and puts me in the moment. It’s hard to space off and worry about much when you are digging up dandelions or planting rose bushes. You have to be in the moment.

Years ago when I first started gardening, I was renting a little house with a large back yard that had not been tended in years. There were these large “domes” of thick brown dead grape vines. I had never seen anything like it before. Some of the vines were as thick around as my arm. They had grown and grown around themselves until they had become these domed rounded masses. From a distance, I would imagine that they were hobbit dwellings.

It happened one autumn. Betsy said to me, “Mern, (she calls everyone Mern or Merna) we’re going to chop down those dead vines. I was sad somehow—the hobbit dwellings were to go. I knew she was right—up close without my imagination, the dead vines were not nearly as romantic—they were an eyesore.

And so it came to pass that for days we hacked our way through wild dead grape vines—some as thick around as my arm. Hacking and cutting away one day, the voice of the word we call scripture came to me and she whispered to me,

1Let me sing now for my well-beloved
A song of my beloved concerning His vineyard.
My well-beloved had a (A)vineyard on a fertile hill.
2He dug it all around, removed its stones,
And planted it with the (B)choicest vine
And He built a tower in the middle of it
And also hewed out a wine vat in it;
Then He (C)expected it to produce good grapes,
But it produced only wild grapes.
3"And now, O inhabitants of Jerusalem and men of Judah,
(D)Judge between Me and My vineyard. (Is. 5:1-3)

Wild grapes indeed. My mind is deluged in my garden with parable and story and messages about garden and spiritual stuff. Since hacking through wild grape vine, I’ve never been the same.

The wild grape vines returned the following spring—green and sprouting new life from where my imagination had strained to see the old Hobbit dwellings made of dead vines.

But the story doesn’t end there… the story continues on today…

We moved and started a new garden. I often wonder if the grapes vines will ever yield good fruit?

How to be a Holy Mess: Chapter III

The Dream
I was back at Ella G Clarke Elementary School in the auditorium. It was empty as I made my way up the darkened theatre aisle to the stage where my current Bishop, Roger White was standing at a table. He was dressed in the full Episcopal drag—mitre, (that weird hat) and all. As I walked down the aisle, I proudly touted a lunch box. It was one of those old fashioned kind of lunchboxes—the kind that I associate with blue-collar workers of ‘50’s-- black, metal, and arched- top. However the arch-top of this lunch box was translucent. Inside sat my lunch. A perfectly cute lamb,

almost cartoon-like, she had blue eyes with long lashes and peach colored hooves. She even had one of those darling little Christian flags that one sees churchy medieval lambs holding—the kind with the red and white cross on them—a real honest to goodness Agnes Dei Lamb!

I proudly sported my lunch down the aisle, up the stage and to the altar. The Bishop was saying Mass and holding up the wafer, talking to the cookie, as I like to call it. As I stood there watching him say the Mass, I leaned over to the bishop and asked when lunch was. Soon he told me. Good I said back. I wondered if he might exchange lunches with me. The concept of eating such a cute little lamb was not at all appealing.

So there I stood with Bishop White on the stage of my childhood theatre. He held a ratty brown paper bag in his hand and I had my little cartoon lamb in the lunch box. Carefully, slowly he handed me his paper sack and I gave him my box. We kept our eyes glued on each other—afraid that one of us might abscond with both lunches I suppose. I remember such trades in childhood. With the exchange at last brokered each of us turned away to check out the spoils of our swap. Reaching my hand into the bag, I pulled out a small-bloodied, dirty body the size of a baby bird. The body of Christ lay in my hand. My hand was now stained with mud, piss and blood. His skin was stretched thin across his chest and ribs. I could see his heart and lungs struggling for life as he lay in my hands dying. This was my feast. I looked up into my Bishop’s blue twinkling knowing eyes.
***
I don’t remember much of that last discernment meeting. I know that I shared my dream and said that I desired to exchange this perfect Agnes Dei Lamb image for a messy existence.

I remember we laughed. They had been waiting for me to be me with them. I was and life has been a mess ever since.

How to be a Holy Mess: Chapter II

I started down my lovely messy path in 1998 while living in Wisconsin. Jeff that long time friend was my priest then and I was in discernment to become a priest. Talk about chaos—if you ever want to encounter a mess, try becoming a priest—it’s a circus of red tape voodoo, woo-woo choo-choo churchy lingo—words like calling, discernment and vocation, countless committees, batteries of psychological tests which of course include flaming hoops to jump through like a well trained tiger. One of the first committees that I met with was at my parish, St. Christopher’s. Quite often we sat in silence. It was awkward at first, but comfortable in time. It was kind of like a Quaker meeting—a member of my discernment committee would say something and then there was silence.

Later, someone else might respond. What I remember most is my fear. I was afraid that I didn’t have my shit together.
I was afraid to really share how God spoke to me. As if… God speaking… I hear those words and I think of Charlton Heston on Mount Sinai as Moses. I wish it were that clean for me.

For me, God shows up in children, poetry and dreams. I was reticent to share that—that couldn’t possibly be what they wanted to hear… how messy that is: children are way too honest and transparent and noisy to be God’s Messengers… and poetry… well… we won’t even go there… but poetry is the space of prayer for me. Poetry is the boat that Christ invites me to get into—it is the way I am transported from one place to another, but that’s not very clean…

And dreams, well dreams… once in a galaxy far far away (well actually Florida) I had an interview (of sorts) for a church job (of sorts… this is a whole ‘nother story) and a member of the interview committee told me that dreams and their interpretation were the work of the occult and Satan. Lovely! That’s clean and easy, right?

But my good old royal messiness had to argue back sardonically ( yes, right in the middle of the interview) “Well, I replied, “So much for good old Joe in Genesis who has dreams and interprets them for others… or good old Joe in Matthew (you know, Jesus’ step-dad?) who has dreams as well and listens to them… yes, absolutely, me and the Joes are really tight with Satan.”

Needless to say in the galaxy in Florida for the job interview at a church far far away, my messy self did not get the job.

So, Dreaming, God and talking about it in the church went underground with my mess—after all, I had to be neat and dreams, well, they just aren’t usually neat and tidy… at least mine aren’t. Given my experience, perhaps you understand why I chose to hide.

Somehow, I thought my Church Discernment Committee wanted Cecil B. Demille and thunderbolt clarity—which I couldn’t deliver. I knew it wasn’t going well in my meetings— the heavens hadn’t once parted, there were no doves descending, no booming voices coming from the sky only silence and my half hearted attempts to be neat and tidy… which is not what I am called to be…

God’s call to me is clear in my heart.

God speaks to me in the colors of morning
Irises blooming with fragrance sweetly arousing,
God whispers in the song of birds,

“Come and play with me.
Play in the dirt of the garden
sleep in the morning and dream.

Come and play with me.
Pull out the play-doh
and laugh with children
until tears are streaming down your face
or you are so caught up
transfixed in wonder of their imaginations
that linear time ceases to matter
and holy time takes over.

Come and play with me.”

But who in their right mind inside the church would want to hear such mess? Certainly not the discernment team who held my calling in their hands… if the people of the good church in Florida that were in a galaxy far far away didn’t want to hear that mess, why would the church discernment committee in Wisconsin want it either?

I was really puzzled—didn’t they want neat & tidy? Why wasn’t it going well? I somehow knew that they were waiting for something… but what?

It was a Saturday night before a discernment committee meeting. I had decided that the next day I would fess up—I find a bigger sense of self, life and reality (call that God if you like) in my dreams. I said my usual prayer that night before sleeping—Holy Spirit, breath of life, fire that burns in me, send me dreams and vision. And that night I dreamed.

How to be a Holy Mess

Come and be messy…
I believe that everyone in their journey through life has one or two themes that play over and over again—our life themes are constantly resurfacing. One of my life themes is being a mess. Not too long ago, I was loath to admit this. I cleaned up the messy edges as much as possible and pour on veneer… until until.. the mess resurfaced.

Perhaps it comes from being an off the chart “P” on the Myers-Briggs test. Myers-Briggs of course has become the unofficial astrology for those that find themselves on the spiritual left. I’ve tried to integrate my P over the years, but overall I am a perceiving preferenced person—I hate filing papers, I never know where my keys are and its anyone’s guess which drawer I stuck something in.

Yes, life is a mess, but its much bigger than that. Maybe it started in childhood with a messy room and nagging parents. Jumping in mud puddles on Sundays was an act of protest— I didn’t mind going to church, I just couldn’t stomach the idea that God really gave a damn about what I wore to church. It somehow felt asinine to wear a garment that felt like a medieval torture device. I couldn’t express that as a child so I’d simply ruin perfectly good lace dresses.

Is it the graphic-dyslexia? I know second graders with handwriting better than mine. Believe me, I’m not complaining. Or at least I’m not complaining anymore. I’ve somehow reconciled my mess—I am at peace in my chaos. For whatever reason, my theme or vocation or path is a spiritual journey equivalent to that of Charlie Brown’s friend pigpen. I travel around unknowingly submerged in a cloud of spiritual dust, smiling.

Being a mess resurfaced in my adult life. I ended up in Seminary studying theology and becoming an Episcopal Priest. What could be messier than that? Only my father’s profession, I suppose. As a plumber he swam through shit for a living. But so do I quite often-- just a different kind.

Episcopalians in general are criticized for the level of chaos and mess they allow within their church. A Baptist I knew once accused us Episcopalians of having sloppy agape. That’s sloppy love. A large non-denominational church near my home is rumored to offer course on how to talk to and save your Episcopalian friends. Episcopalians are reputed for being somewhat non-doctrinal, believe what you will but come and pray with us. My long time friend Jeff Lee said it better in an All Saints Day sermon a couple years back— “Belief in God is optional. Living together as a community and praying together is not.”

Being a divorced gay woman priest is a lovely mess. Theology, religion, God, liberals, conservatives, people dying, people in transition and pain, babies being born and baptized for grandma’s sake or for the purposes of fire insurance or because of an intentional practicing of Christian spirituality, all coming together in one place, all thanks to good old Henry the eighth and his lovely daughter, Elizabeth.

Yup, the Episcopal church is a mess and so am I.

Blessed be the messiness that I no longer want to hide-- but instead want to revel in-- like Charlie Brown's friend pigpen: I want to walk around in my own cloud of unknowing, smiling... and messy.

A Prayer

Let us live with uncertainty
as with a friend
to feel certain
means feeling secure
to feel safe is unreal
knowing we do not know is
the only certainty
letting the self be lost into Christ.

Where everybody knows your name...

Ever notice if you talk to churchy "established" folk about their church community one of the things that they will say is, "I love my church because its so warm and friendly."

Warm and Friendly.

Years ago when, back when I was a church geek in the pews instead of the pulpit, the organization that I worked for sent me to a conference on the east coast. It worked out that I had free time on Sunday morning... and yup, you guessed it-- being the church geek I am, I went to... church! I found their ad in my hotel directory-- a local Episcopal church walking distance from my hotel-- warm and friendly their little ad read. Cool.
So off, I went taking their ad at face value... what did I know? I was barely 25!

It was an old historic east coast kind of place. The dude handing out bulletins looked like an old fashioned banker in his three piece pinstripe suit as he handed me a bulletin and a scowl... warm and friendly...

One person obligingly shook my hand at the peace.

As I snuck out after communion, the bulletin guy stopped me short of the exit out onto the street. "Where's your family?" he asked. "Oh," I answered, "I'm single. I don't have a family."

"Oh," he said back and without skipping a beat, "Well, why are you here then?" Yup, warm and friendly church.

Ask most people who belong to a warm and friendly church about new members or growing and they'll most likely tell you," We're not interested in growing-- we like our size-- we're warm and friendly.

I've served and attended a few warm and friendly places and have watched at the Peace and Coffee Hour and other social events as newer people stand near the edges like junior high wall flowers at the school dance waiting and hoping that the cute boy will grace their presence... warm and friendly. I've sat with new member after new member who have cried on my shoulder or shook their head in disbelief because they just couldn't crack their way into the warm and friendly church.

How often I've heard the only thing that keeps me here is your sermons on Sundays. And I've wanted to weep because there should be more to hold people in a community rather than just little old me.

I've sat with leaders in the warm and friendly church as they've asked, "whatever happened to so and so?" And we've suddenly realized that months, not weeks have gone by but because every member in our warm and friendly community is either too busy over functioning doing a million and one ministries or just schlepping in on a Sunday morning for the "show", no one in the warm and friendly community ever noticed the one that fell through the cracks.

Yes, warm and friendly can't seem to value the concept of intentional small circles of people who pray together and maybe check on other members who are part of their smaller prayer circle.

Nope, we'll have none of that-- no smaller circles outside the warm and friendly one.

In the end, of course its the priest's fault that so and so snuck away... priests are to be ober-competent over-functioning cruise directors for the warm and friendly church.

I've talked to members of the warm and friendly community that are starving for deeper fellowship and meaning in their lives, depressed or in grief or simply wanting to pray and discern but because the community was warm and friendly, there was not enough people to develop a circle of disciples to pray together and a create a safe place to ask the hard questions of life. Warm and Friendly was some how more important than discipleship and prayer.

When I've served in the warm and friendly places, I've noticed that quite often what gets sabotaged is being a witness for Jesus Christ in the world to others through invitation to church and offering real hospitality to those who are outside the warm and friendly circle and maybe even outsiders to church or Christianity.

I've also noticed that the priests tend to burn out of such places because the ministry was all about them and when they go, the whole place goes to hell in a hand basket. When its all about the priest, what do you expect? Everyone is so warm and friendly, but where are the disciples who follow Jesus?

My advice to anyone who is even thinking of darkening the doors of a church is to do a little asking around when you arrive-- ask the dude in the suit at the door handing out the church bulletin-- what do you like about this place?

If he answers, "its so warm and friendly," run like hell and then go to brunch instead.

Paschal Mystery

When I was little girl growing up in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey (yes, Virginia there is more to NJ than a Turnpike and Newark!) there was a horrible fire that decimated the pine forests. It is a common occurrence really… the barrens being decimated by fire. I later learned in my middle school earth science that there are even pine cones that only pop open and give off seed when fires begin and reaches the cone.

This fire swept through town after town and mile after mile. The earth was desolate in those lonely stretches of Jersey barrens—miles and miles of forest were blackened and gone. Empty.

I had a really good cry the other night. Betsy tells me that I don’t cry a great deal. In my mind, I am a weeping willow, but by her estimation, not so much. She can count on her hand the number of times she has seen me really break down and cry hard. I mean really cry, not just whimper a little or shed a tear or two, but sob and weep until everything inside is all gone and I am spent from the emotional exertion of such an event.

I woke up today after such a cry the night before. I was hollow like the bunnies that came in baskets on Easter Sunday. As I drove to the church, I thought of those desolate blackened miles of my childhood. In my state of feeling hollowed out, I dragged myself into church and said the noonday office. I was a miserable offender: I said Psalm 22 instead of the recommended options. My heart was melting wax in my breast. As I prayed, I heard my mind tell God, “There is no grace present here today; please help.”

But the strangest thing happened.

What felt like only days after the fire, I began to notice signs of life. Birds in the trees, green coming forth from blackened earth. Slow growth came but some 30 years later, (at least at last visit) there is hardly a sign of desolation left.

Signs of life came again today for me. Grace happened like song birds returning or green springing forth. Today, of all days, grace happened.

This is how it is. In the midst of tears and sobbing, in places of blackened earth and hollowed out souls, hearts melting like wax, God forsaken places, grace comes and appears. And new life comes forth.
Maybe it is different life, but it is life nonetheless and why is it that grace is always sweeter after desolation-- like good dark chocolate that melts as you savor it, there is bitterness in this grace but somehow it is all the better than anything I’ve ever known.

God... She???

“Can God be a girl?” The third grader asked me. Errol was a wonderful artist of eight. Like many of her female classmates, she was thoughtful and liked sitting to draw pictures. She was usually the first one out of the gate eagerly drawing an art response to the story or the question asked in Sunday school class. That day, she sat still looking at her blank piece of paper. I had asked what dinner with God would look like for the second and third grade class. Errol looked worried and twice I had asked her if she was okay. Finally, she asked, with reticence and barely audible, “Can God be a girl?”
“Of course!” I responded.
She was so pleased with my response—eagerly she set out to draw a picture of a wonderful tea party that she’d fix for God: there was fancy china, and a beautiful table cloth and God was a large breasted big girl that sat the table with a little girl eagerly enjoying the tea party supper of the Errol’s imagination. “God is my Mother” she wrote across the bottom of the page.
But not everyone appreciates such an image of God.

My Rector noticed the picture on the bulletin board. He was not comfortable with Errol’s art being on our bulletin board. I had labeled the bulletin board, “How our Children Imagine Supper with God”. He asked me to take down the picture, while he believed deeply in the idea of God who was beyond father or mother, he didn’t want to cause problems in our parish—we had enough to deal with already. Every students’ picture came down before Sunday—I wasn’t about to single out Errol. The disaster of a mothering God was averted for now. He was right—there were many things happening in our parish at the time—God knows there’s no fight better than a church fight-- but of all things, a picture of God as a woman was problematic.

Are we brave enough to expand to God to include all of us? Can God be Creator Father and Mother?
Maybe you’re chuckling or doubtful of such things being an issue—or maybe you’re wholly offended by such an idea as Mothering God. Not too long ago, after my national church, the Episcopal Church in the U.S.A., elected its first woman as Presiding Bishop, all kinds of anxious action and reaction took place—there was definitely heat. There were the conservative corners of the church that don’t ordain women that were deeply disenfranchised. There were horrendous comments about Catherine's “looks” and dress that were passed round chat rooms and church coffee hours. I remember reading an online thread of conversation about how ugly her vestments were and how frumpy she is. I never heard such things about Edmond Browning or Frank Griswold—we never discussed their looks or frumpiness as older men. An evangelical preacher actually had the nerve to say something to the effect of, “A woman Presiding Bishop: what’s next—a fluffy bunny?”
And then came the coup de gras: our Presiding Bishop made reference in a sermon to God our Mother. The whole church seemingly came unhinged overnight. Not only were we now out of step with our Catholic and Orthodox brothers by having women priests and now a woman presiding bishop, what’s worse, she was throwing around untraditional languaged images about God that belonged to Pagans, not to Christians.
How sad for us. My heart grieves that the church has abandoned the rich heritage of Julian and Anselm who called God and Jesus, Mother. The medieval church, which was far less body squeamish and less phobic about metaphors than we often depicted Christ as having breasts on the cross from which the church is nourished.
In the early church, we hear of Holy Wisdom, Hagio Sophia the Holy Spirit that is often talked of in the feminine. Jesus talking of Jerusalem says that he longs to take the holy city to himself like a mother hen with her chicks. So what is our problem? Why can’t God be Father/Mother God? Why must we struggle over something that seems fairly logical—both man and woman are made in the image of God and therefore God is both male and female and neither all at the same time—why is God the Father only in the church and why does so many corners of the church raise such a fuss when God She or Mother God is invoked as an image—can’t we realize that the very religious life and self imaging of our children might depend upon our imaging God bigger?
Again the old adage rings in my ears: praying shapes believing. Believing shapes our living and that living requires confidence faithfulness and reliance.

Metaphori

"Give me any word in English and I will tell you how it came from the Greek." My Popou is a proud Greek man and he loved to play this game with me. Metaphor he told me came from the Greek-- Metaphori-- wheelbarrow.

Wheelbarrow: a device that takes you from one place to another. That is purpose of a metaphor as well.

Americans are very poor at understanding this-- probably because the only time we learn about it is 7th grade English when we are at our worst: all pimples and hormones, why should we give a damn about devices that take us from one place to another-- our bodies and minds and collective psyche are doing enough of that already by moving us from childhood to adulthood.

Is it any wonder that here we are as a nation struggling with Religious Right who can't see the Metaphor through the JESUS salvation trees and the Spiritual who are frightened to death of the church because so much mystery, the apophatic and the understanding of the Cosmic Christ have been sacrificed for the sake of certainty and dogmatics.

And then there are the believers themselves. As one bumper sticker put it, "Jesus, Save Me From Your Followers." Yup. Sometimes I'm there too. How Christianity and Bigotry ever got into bed together is beyond me.

a fav vlog ger of mine had this awesome theology around the very loaded word, Sin. Rather than separation or pride or missing the mark, the vlogger said it was a spiritual blockage. Wow... I thought... cool, I could go there... there's a good metaphor that takes me from one place to another. It worked for me-- I've been stuck and blocked a lot in my life.

Could hardly believe the comments that people made-- once again, I say it: it amazes me what people say in Cyber-space to each other-- damn we're mean-- no wonder people are scared of Christians-- I'm a little scared myself! People railing on and on: that's NOT the traditional answer!!! Yadayada... burn in hell, heresy... yadayada...

I sometimes wonder why we just can't see theology as wheelbarrow. And no-- it doesn't make God or Spirit or Higher Power any less "real". Why do we need such rigid boxes for God? No wonder why atheists are so strident-- its because Christians can be so ridiculous.

Who wants an image of God & a religion that hasn't changed one iota since the 1oth Century? Anyone? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? Ah, but I am a product of my generation.

The importance of religion is that is a tool-- a wheelbarrow in our soul that is takes us from one place to another.

I suppose that there are those that would cleaverly retort, "Yes and your wheelbarrow will take you to hell." Well, all right... just be sure to save me a seat at the bar if you end up there first.

Everyone deserves someone to share the popcorn with...

She was 38 and dying. It was cancer that was claiming her life. I was a hospital chaplain in Chicago when we met. By my fourth visit, I had the sense there was something she wasn’t telling me. I don’t remember how it came out; if I asked her or if she just told me, but we came to the heart of the matter. She was gay. She had been with her partner for almost a decade and they had a child. Her family was Christian and estranged. The missing component of her story was the fear she lived with: the fear her biological family would not honor her wishes and allow her partner to come hold her hand and be with her as she died. The fear that there would be legal battles over her biological son, their grandson who was “no one” to her partner—even though the boy called her partner mom.

Recently, in Washington state, laws were past that gave gay couples some of the same rights that married couples afford. Of course, prop 8 in California is still fresh in our minds... People from faith communities registered all kinds of responses everything from dismay to joy. Mostly though, dismay. As believers, we often fall back on faith traditions to justify why we believe the way we do about a particular issue. As Americans, we also look to our laws and constitution. It can become complex to navigate between religion and state as our American tradition has a separation of church and state to allow for religious freedoms for all kinds of believers. While for some, this separation is troubling, it has been one of the things that makes our nation great.

From the beginning, religious freedom allowed for a diversity of believers to live along side each other with relative harmony unlike other parts of the world where believers with different ideas were persecuted. Many of us who are here from several generations back are here because our families were seeking freedoms to practice and live the way we wished to live: Life liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

What about this woman in the hospital? Oh yes, believers might say that she’s unnatural or against their holy scriptures. But doesn’t even a sinner deserve to have her last wishes honored on her death bed? Aren’t all of us as Americans afforded the rights to choose how we choose to pursue our lives as consenting adults?

I have heard many people say that a family made up of two mothers or two fathers is somehow hurtful to marriage everywhere and perhaps I am just not tracking, but I can’t figure how. As studies continue to show kids who grow up with gay parents tend to be well adjusted, productive children who are as capable as their counter-parts. So how is it that gay families wreck other families? How is it that rights such as a same sex partner being in a hospital room would wreak havoc on a family with a man, woman & a child?

I know that has been a tough issue for many people but I can’t help thinking about that woman in the hospital. I think everyone regardless of our personal religious beliefs deserves the ability to be with the person they love the most in the world. These two adults had shared a decade together and struggled and laughed and cried and dreamed together—come on, even the worst unrepentant sinners get to have their loved ones—I watched as gang members died with mothers and girl friends and gang members there—and somehow that didn’t test the metal of family—I wonder why one woman grieving alongside another would.

Back to the Basics...

The bumper sticker had a big cross on it and read, “Back to basics: Feed the hungry, House the poor, Cloth the naked.

Those are the basic values of being a Christian, aren’t they?

Personally, I'd never guess that by the behavior of so many Christians in our country. Christian has become such a loaded term that folks I know actually call it the C word... man oh man...

So what do people say about those that call themselves the C word? Here are some responses I got from random folks on the street:

"Whenever I think of Christians, I can't help but think of dead babies."

"What?"

"Yea, you know those people who stand with signs outside abortion clinics..."

"People who say they follow Jesus but don't act anything like him."

"People who hate gay people and any else that's different."

Does the Gospel say to do that???

In looking at the Gospels, Jesus is constantly healing people and eating with people. Very rarely, do I find Jesus, as he is healing or feeding people asking, “Wait, what do you believe, or who do you live with?” He simply feeds or eats with outcasts and heals people—even people who are of a different religious background than his!

This is the litmus test for being a Christian--Following a Jesus who says love is the only commandment and commands us to feed and heal and eat with outcasts. So, I wonder, how are we doing as a Christian nation with the basics? Maybe thinking about our nation begins by looking at our own corner of the world.

So how are we doing in Thurston County? The last time I checked, there was a two year waiting list for public housing, the food bank in Thurston County was in high demand, there were over 700 children homeless in our county with places at the local shelters not even able to house half that number, the local tent city, Camp Quixote was still wondering where it will go next after St. John’s, and the Cold weather emergency shelter was scrambling to find a enough churches to host overflow for those that are cold and in need of a place to stay.

What I hear from Christian people grieves me; people who are spending more time arguing about who gets into heaven, who can come to church rather than tending to those that the Gospel requires us to tend to. We don’t have time to bicker about how scripture is supposed to be understood or if you are of the right kind of faith.

I wonder what would happen if all the churches of Thurston County decided to set aside their differences and declared their desire to make sure that people in our community have enough to eat, a place to sleep and clothing on their back, what kind of change would we unleash in our community?

In light of all the need that there is in our immediate community right now, I invite all Christians to roll up their sleeves and to be part of the answer to prayer. What prayer, you might wonder—the Lord’s Prayer! Perhaps the Lord’s Prayer maybe the one thing we all hold in common. Part of praying is that we open ourselves up to be part of the answer to prayer. As one Christian once wrote, “Christ has no hands in the world but yours, no heart in the world but yours… now you are the hands of Christ.”

We ask for our daily bread—maybe we can help be the answer to someone else’s prayer by making sandwiches and give them away to people who need them most.

Lamb of God

I went fishing. While on board this little bobbing in the water boat, I felt a tug to try something different, the tug was not on my line, but somehow in the wind-- cast my net to the other side. I decided to get out, to take a walk on the water. So setting aside my fishing pole and leaving my net on the other side, I took my first step out and plunged deep into the cold gray waters and sunk in deep. Once I was down there, and not struggling, I found I could breathe just fine—all I had to do was stop panicking and drown.

Taking a look around, I noticed a little Greek girl with a grandmother. It was Holy Week, you know that time when Christian folk celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ their teacher. The little Greek girl was maybe eleven and she was fasting with her Ya-ya. The rest of the family thought they were crazy to fast while also preparing for the feast called Easter that come early on Sunday morning. No one else in the house fasted and prepared but them.

The Ya-ya was strange. She had eyes with bulky lids that slid down her face and looked clear on into the other side and a thick accent, with broken English. Sometimes words came rushing but not too often. She said to the child, “You are not old enough to receive the lamb.” She had said this before but the child never questioned it. Today, while kneading the bread dough, the girl found courage. “When, Ya-ya?” she asked. “I will know,” Ya-ya responded. The girl had no idea and didn’t dare ask any further question. The grand-mother after all was strange and had those penetrating eyes that were clear and saw to the other side. The girl knew better than to ask too much.

For two years the girl waited and wondered about this lamb. What was it to receive the lamb? There were always surprises at her grandmother’s house and she had found that waiting was the best way to prove her worth. She knew pressing her grandmother would only cause further delay. Ya-ya was seldom open to negotiation. So, the child had learned that waiting quietly proved best. She was almost 14 when holy week came late that year. Spring was every where budding with pink promises of fragrant offerings and pretty colored eggs. Rabbits and robins were back in the yard again feasting while Ya-ya and grand-daughter fasted and prepared quietly in the kitchen. Working the dough that would later become Easter Bread, Ya-ya proudly watched her grand-daughter work without much instruction. She knew how to make the bread and the soup. “You are old enough now.” She said. The grand-daughter smiled and felt ready for her reward. She hugged her Ya-ya tight. “Come, it is time; the bread can wait. You will come with me.” Grand-daughter cleaned off her hands and took off her apron. Off they went to the church of all places. Just before Easter, the Greek Church became like a market place in early holy week. St Simeon always smelled of incense even outside in the courtyard. There were other smells today— sweet garlic and pungent fish and olives mixed together with the incense of the church. The outdoor area was alive was bustling people speaking and trading and haggling—some were yelling. Grand daughter had never seen this before. There were all kinds of delicacies for sale that were traditional for Easter supper. There were breads and oils and grape-leaves, some imported from Greece. They wandered the market picking up this and that, saying hello to their neighbors also preparing for the feast to come.

At last they came to a pen of cute little lambs. The lambs danced around the pen making their sweet noises, pungent barn smells were in the air. Grand-daughter loved the smell of the barn—manure and straw and wood all mixed together. It was pungent and earthy sweet. “Go ahead, pick!” Ya-ya told her. Smiling the teenaged grand-daughter found the cutest of lambs. It frolicked and danced. “That one,” she said, pointing. Ya-ya gave the farmer a look and nodding the farmer put on a bib, picked up the lamb then disappeared. The two waited but for what? Moments went by still the girl knew better than to say anything. Ya-ya was staring off far, her lined brow was deep and crumbled like a paper in a waste can. She was talking again—whenever she stared off into nothing, the grand daughter knew that she was talking to someone or something not seen. God or Angels or ancestors gone, she didn’t know—she was afraid to ask but someone was talking and grand daughter knew better than to interrupt.

The farmer returned. The white clean bib looked spattered and dipped like someone had taken a can of red paint and splashed him. But somehow the child knew better—the red paint was not a gag gone awry. The man had brown paper packages tied up neatly and he was presenting them to her—Ya-ya’s hands were full so she had to carry it. It was heavy and some of the packages were in a big shopping bag. Grand daughter accepted the packages. She cradled them in her arms knowing that they were the lamb. “Come,” Ya-ya summoned, turning quickly to leave the market. The child followed behind shocked at first then crying. “Some surprise,” she whispered behind her grand mother’s back. There was silence and they continued walking. “Some surprise!” Grand daughter yelled crying harder now. “It was awful. I can’t believe you did that to me. Some surprise. I don’t want to be old enough to receive the lamb!” Ya- ya had heard enough. She turned quickly on the child and looking her direct in the eye as the young woman was now almost taller than her grand mother, “What did you expect?” She asked—“that the lamb would become your pet to run round our house? Where does that food we have on our table every night for supper come from? Is it sent from heaven already dead and wrapped and all the animals on the farm live happy? NO! You see, you do not know and others are too dumb to know—all of life is sacrifice. The lamb died so you can live. It is sacrifice. The olives and the wheat and all that we eat on our table is sacrificed for us. This is why we pray because to not would be to forget the lamb. It is sacrifice do not forget this ever.” The grand-daughter still cried but said nothing more. Ya-ya turned and went on. They went home to prepare the feast and wait for Easter to come when they would shout “Christos Anesti! Alethos Anesti!”

I had seen enough under water. I had lost my breath and maybe drowning wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. I swam to the surface again, to the bobbing little boat where my net dangled on the side and my fishing pole was dormant.

The net was full and it was sacrifice.
It was never the same after that.

I remember a different story.

“The government of the United States of America is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion.”

I imagine this quote is libel to raise a few eyebrows and perhaps maybe a few readers’ blood pressure. Many Christians these days are talking about a concept called Christian Theocracy, that is, Christians must dominate our American political landscape in order for our country to be that shining city on the hill that was intended by our Founding Fathers. We are one nation under God and In God we trust -- these are core American ideas. We are a Christian Nation and that’s part of our history and legacy.

So what infidel could have uttered such Anti-American words?

It was George Washington who first wrote these words on November 4, 1796 for the Treaty of Tripoli. At the time, this treaty was of great importance to our foreign policy and was later ratified by John Adams; neither of these men blinked an eye over signing this treaty. Was good old George, the man who could never tell a lie, fibbing?

The United States, was founded on a principle of religious tolerance for all peoples. While we were indeed founded by Christian men, they understood the important value of religious freedom and tolerance having fled governments that held with a state religion and persecuted those with dissenting voices.

The idea of a Christian Theocracy is not only ahistorical but clearly different from what was originally intended by the founders of our nation. Our Constitution is clear in the very first amendment of our Bill of Rights—we are free to practice any religion we so choose. While we are one nation under God, it is very clear that this God is far bigger than any one religion.

The real question is this: Are Christian Values the only values? It seems that our founding fathers and Christian Theocrats have two distinctly different answers to that question. Religious freedom and Christian Theocracy are definitely two very distinctly different ideas.

So how is that we have gone so far a field from religious freedom to Christian theocracy?

In a word, fear. In a country that seems more and more governed by the anxious need for safety and security, rather than rights and freedoms, the vision of Christian Theocracy is safe. Religious freedom means allowing Muslims and Jews and Atheists to practice their different beliefs. Christian Theocracy feels safer and after all, we know what Christianity stands for.

Feeding the hungry and clothing the poor, loving our neighbor and our enemies—aren’t those Christian values? I rarely hear those values espoused from Christian theocratic visionaries. What I have heard is fear. Fear of people who are of different beliefs from us.


It is ironic that fear and anxiety have taken such a deep hold over so many Christians that say they value scripture—perhaps they should go back to their Bibles and do a little research—the most popular phrase that Jesus utters more than any other phrase is, “Be not afraid.”

Is Safety and Security worth sacrificing rights and freedoms? I believe that all too many Christians these days would say yes without thinking twice.

Is this kind of fear really a Christian value or even an American value?

One American I know summed it up this way, “those that choose security over freedom deserve neither.” What American would utter such blistering words? Benjamin Franklin.

Spiritual But Not Religious

Here's the article that I wrote for the National Episcopal Church sometime back... dude, this is the Argula Smoking Article...

In the wake of the New Age, and the ever-growing love affair our culture has with all things spiritual, a new mantra has emerged: I’m spiritual, not religious! It is the mantra of ex-Catholics and once-in-awhile Protestants and others on the spiritual path. This emerging mantra has grown up in response to religion that looks more like a museum, religion that says you practice THIS way or you aren’t one of us, religion that isn’t relevant to the life I lead, religion that tells us to believe 12 impossible things before breakfast and leaves no place open for questions or doubt.
And there’s this longing and maybe even a presence of energy in life. Perhaps if you are on the spiritual journey, you have felt this. Energy that gives life and joy — whether it’s looking at Rainer at sunrise, or playing music with others, or sitting with someone in a time of sorrow. That energy is what the Christian people call the presence of the Holy Spirit. The followers of this Jesus know this longing and energy only too well.
What is this longing? It is the longing to live in community with others from all walks of life — a community that is present in sadness and joy, a group of people searching and questioning and doubting and finding more questions about that presence together. It's not about having answers as much as it is about engaging a story. It is about your story and how your story connects to an ancient story of desert wanderers that, in time, came to see that humanity and this energy they called God mingled and existed through Christ and thus, exists in all of humanity.
Is it possible to practice and grow your spirituality within an organized church? Yes! The Episcopal Church holds many possibilities open for those on the spiritual path looking for a diverse community of believers.
The beauty of the Episcopal tradition is that it is open to questions and new possibilities, as well as ancient teachings. Imagine a spiritual practice that is both grounded in tradition and open to new possibilities.

Never Say Never

Perhaps Cliches become cliches for a reason. Never say never is a good one. I once promised myself that I'd never direct a Church Christmas Pageant. Within a year of that promise, guess what happened...

I also swore to myself that I'd never create a blog. Why do I keep on saying Never...

I swore I wouldn't blog because I made the mistake of googling my name once and finding several of my published articles online being dissected by folks who had some really mean things to say. I define mean as slams on my character or on me as a person-- rather than on my writing or what I was trying to say. I live for good constructive feed back on my writing and ministry and thinking... but this was so far from that. In one article dissection, some cyber dude made spectulation that I must have smoked some funny argula or something of the sort... hmm...

Growing up in the Reagan years, with DARE education, I have to tell you, I'm pretty straight laced. I've never even smoked a cigarette-- let alone Argula.

I guess what's gauling is that people somehow online feel like they can say anything they want-- even people who are of a Christian persuasion. Oh yes, in cyber space they will definitely know we are Christians by our love-- NOT.

Hey, I know I'm not alone. I've seen lots of people dissected and torn apart and had slams made on them. So, please understand: I'm not slamming back, rather I'm speculating on what's behind that? Why do we feel like we can say anything we want in cyber space? Why say crappy things about other people? Especially if you espouse a belief in a God that is love. It makes no sense to me. Perhaps its something about the disincarnate nature of the web-- the fact that we can't see the person we're slamming. Is it an outlet for that kind of behavior? I much prefer cycling or walking at quick clips to get that kind of stuff out of me. Seems a lot healthier than ripping apart others.

Maybe its just the sheer enjoyment of being a cyber piranha-- oh the taste of nasty words as they spew forth from the mind, and fingers flutter on a key board like a Liszt composing a concerto, and out into cyber land where with fellow piranha at fav chat room you can enjoy the sweet taste blood thirsty slamming words and personal judgment... there's only one problem with this.

Slamming others in this way and spewing such judgment is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die. It is toxic and while I at least wandered around for a day or so wondering, "do I sound like some kind of crazy hippy stoner chick in that article?" I got over it. However, I wonder about the soul that has given birth to such words.

In John's Gospel, we constantly hear this theme of unity and oneness. We are connected so deeply and profoundly. All of us. If we really believe this, then why on earth would we say such horrendous things about each other?So, like Christians say they are the Body of Christ. So what-- we hate that part of our body? Are we suddenly like the anorexic model who hates her ass or her boobs and wants to have them remade? Wow, its not a pretty picture is it?

A favorite theologian of mine, Walter Wink talks about the weird irony of hate-- he says that the problem with hate is that we become consumed by it and sooner or later we become that which we hate.

Now, I realize that I'm making a HUGE leap here-- I don't know if I can go so far as to say that cyber piranha hate those that they are ripping apart personally. But judgment and disdain seems to be abundantly present at least and man, where there's judgment and disdain, we're getting close to hate.

I really believe there is power in what we say and call each other and the truth is what we say to others in disdain is a disdain we hold within ourselves for ourselves. In other words, that childhood thing, I'm rubber you're glue... wow, look at that! Another cliche that just might have some truth to it.

Or maybe... I can just say, if you have time to be a cyber piranha then dude, you really need a life-- step away from the keyboard and go be a disciple somewhere: feed hungry people, visit someone in prison, buy your mother some flowers. And if you are Christian doing it, DUUUUDE... that's one hell of an Evangelism tool you're wielding. No wonder the title Christian has become a four letter word. Good job spreading love of God!

So, after much thought, I decided to reneg on another never oath I'd made.
After all, if the piranha want to exercise their blood thirsty cyber jaws, who am I deprive them?

And why should I let some silly cyber fish keep me from enjoying a good cyber swim right? So, here we go... the launching of a new blog.
I can hear the royal trumpets sounding now.