A Silly Poor Gospel

seasonal repeat #2

2009-11-27T11:59:00.001-08:00

So There I was...

Looking at the news. Late in the day after the Feast of Gratitude. There was a video clip of a two women being interviewed by a Local TV reporter clearly at the low end of the Totem Pole. It was this poor man’s job to get a story out of how their shopping had gone. I almost clicked off, and then the camera caught an unusually good angle; the woman’s chin up and out, a laugh rolling out of her mouth, and flash of her eye that meant victory. The look was one that in earlier times or other places would be called blood satiation. She had triumphed and was bringing home the trophies, scalps and booty. She had planned and executed an invasion. The God’s and Goddesses of war had smiled upon her. She was the hero to whom the crowds yell “Die Now! Die Now!” for nothing more noble could be achieved.

She had shopped well.

Oh, my sister. How we have fallen. This is our victory.
The pillage of Wal-Mart. The plunder of Target. The sack of Sachs.

Clearly, no one has ever told you who you really are. What you were created to do. Let me try and give you a glimpse. See if it does not sound an echo within your soul.

Our most ancient stories tell us the truth of who we are and what we can do. In every culture, the stories exist. Scheherezade knew these stories. Boudica told these stories to her daughters. These stories tell of heroic women; Judith and Xena. This archetypal woman has come down to our day and turns up as a blonde in Sunnydale. But she is here and she will not go away. You know these stories, you have just forgotten their meaning, and failed at their application.

The oldest story I know is of a garden. Firstmother was seduced by a lie. A fear-based lie. A myth of scarcity. She was told that her creator was holding out on her. She bought the falsehood that she must acquire, by deceit or force, what she was not given. She realizes her mistake very quickly, but the adhesive gum of the price-sticker of that lie stuck to her soul and was passed down.

But not before her creator gave her one more thing.
A task.
He spoke to her seducer and said this.

“You who were made for glory, you who has never had a predator, you have now made an enemy, and her name is woman, and you should be afraid, very afraid for although you will cut her, in the end, she will crush your head.”

Not Firstfather. Not the second Adam who came to plant the new garden. No, SHE was tasked with vermin eradication. She shall have the final victory. Doubt me? Get thee to a Roman church; find the pretty Lady, the one of the serene face, the upturned eyes. Look at her feet, and see what is crushed under them.

Since that day two forces have been competing for your soul, my sister. One, a foul lie from Hell, which says that you are not complete, that you are not good enough, that you must have more, be more. The other force is deeper and more powerful, but often buried, unawakened. It says that you are more powerful than you could ever know – right now. That force knows that evil itself, fears YOU. You were meant to crush poverty. To thwart abuse. To free captives as well as to bind wounds. You were meant to have clear sight, wisdom and power.

But sister, you have bought the lie. You have bought it wholesale, retail and on sale. You have stocked your cupboards with it and put it away for the winter. You have breast-fed and spoon fed it to your babies. Your soul has root cellars full of it.

You have let your enemy bind your feet, so that you cannot stand your ground. You have let your enemy steal your right to read, so that your may not look upon the truth. You have let your enemy impoverish you through mistaken wars you have enabled with your cooking pot and laundry pail. You have died bearing daughters who do not know who they are.

Yet in your deepest dreams the battle songs on Miriam and Deborah still sing.
“Horses and chariots are no match for my God”

There was nothing wrong with that feeling you felt on Friday night, my dear. You were hardwired to crave it, seek it, fight for it and revel in it. But oh, by sister, my mother, my daughter, you have settled for a pale echo of the truth.

Give it a thought now, before we settle into the cookies and the glass balls and the laughter of children. Any maybe on this New Year, you might want to sing a new song, and laugh a new laugh, and look your true enemy in the eye and let him see that you see him, clearly. Let him see that flash in your eye. Scare the Hell out of him, I tell you it will.

“Get the claymore out of the thatch where you hid it Molly.”

Veni… Vidi… Vi – effin – Ci

Seasonal repeat - Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T15:19:00.000-08:00

10.24.2006

The Spiritual Discipline of Gratitude

Three seasonal repeats

and then

SOMETHING NEW

So There I was...

…Getting my clock cleaned weekly.

I was training to be a counselor. I was in my last term. I had 18 months of clinical practicum in my backpack. End of tunnel in sight – didn’t expect that light to be an oncoming train.

I had a new supervisor, and she did not appreciate me. I don’t think that there was anything about me that she liked. And her disdain of all things Peggy Parsons was apparent in the first session. Our meetings focused on listening to, and critiquing tapes of my counseling sessions – my clients signed up for this by getting a cheap student driver counselor. From the get go it was apparent that she thought that I could do nothing right. I remember her criticizing the tonal pitch of one of the sounds that counselors make to show empathetic listening. She didn’t like it when I spoke, she didn’t like it when I was silent. Realizing, of course, that a good supervisor would never give ONLY criticism, she occasionally faintly praised ridiculously small things; as in “Well, Peggy at least you called your client by their proper name – that was adequate.”

I never did figure out if there was anything I did to precipitate her treatment of me, but I do know that moment that I sealed the deal.

After weeks of tearing apart my work, we ended a meeting and I looked up at her shelf of books by feminist theologians and psychologists and said “Gee, you know, I would have thought that feminist supervision would have been a little more nurturing than this.”

It wasn’t a clever thing to say. After that she called the school I was to graduate from, and the clinic where I was doing my practicum and tried to get me fired and held-back. It’s pretty rare to get held back a grade in graduate school, but she tried.

At that point I was starting to wonder if, despite lots of evidence to the contrary, I really sucked at this. And if I did not, how I was going to get through the last couple of months of the ordeal.

I hired an independent person, another clinical supervisor, to give me some perspective. He listened to my tapes and told me that I was doing fine. I asked him for advice on surviving an upcoming exit interview, when my supervisor would meet with me and the director of the clinic where I was working. The one I was hoping would hire me after my graduation. I was certain that she was going to try and make sure that I did not get that job.

His advice; “Thank her.”

“For what? – abusing me?”

“Yes, call it diligence and thank her for it. Make a list of everything you could possible think of, and thank her for it. Thank her for providing you with a chair to sit in, thank her for agreeing to see you, thank her for her attention to detail. Start with that list – take up as much time as possible and then when she gets her say, argue with nothing and thank her again, in detail. Gratitude is your only option, any other response will look like defense or offense and they will both fail. But Peggy – you have to thank her sincerely, you can’t sound facetious when you do it.”

I didn’t like his advice, but I took it.

It was nasty hard to do, but I did it.

The look on her face was pretty precious, but the bottom line was that I graduated, got the job, and that woman has become an unnamed footnote in my story.

That was my first awareness of gratitude as a spiritual discipline.

I am grateful to her for that. Really.

My mom taught me to say thank-you – but that was usually for things that were good, and that I liked. She gave me a way to express my natural gratitude.

The discipline of being grateful when things are going to hell in a hand basket came harder and later.

But I have come to believe that it is a foundational spiritual discipline. It is the discipline that frees you to learn all the others. It completely circumvents resentment. It takes anger and divides it into that which requires action and that which can be released. Eliminating resentment and reducing anger allows you much more time for attention. It makes failure bearable. It sweetens everything that is already sweet.

If I start and end my day with gratitude, nothing that happens in between has the power to ruin tomorrow.

A couple of years back I received a second-hand instruction from a Benedictine nun. It was shared with me by a friend, and it dropped immediately into that hole in my soul that is truth shaped. She said, “Pray this prayer daily; Thank-you for everything – I have no complaint.”

I have tried to do this, not just daily but hourly and moment-by-moment. It is not easy. Some things, like interruptions and thwartings, do not fall easily into the gratitude basket.

I wrestled for a while with thanking God for things that I did not really believe that God was sending me. I do not believe it is God’s explicit intention for me to be sick or stupid or in harms way. But then I came to believe that these things were part of the global package and that for all its faults I choose to believe that the package is good.

Most of my problems are the consequences of my own foolish actions. I realized that having painful consequences for stupidity was indeed a gift from God, how else was I going to know when to change?

A smaller percentage of the things I hate are the consequences of other people’s stupid actions. But I have learned to thank God for this because it gives me a chance to be perfected in my own reactions, and to step up to the plate for things like justice and peace.

The smallest percentage of my grief is in response to things that are not in human control, like death and sickness. This IS God’s deal – it is part of the set-up. I do not like it very often. But I have come to accept even these things, and trust God in them.

The hardest part of this prayer is the “choosing not to complain” bit. For years I have used God as my unedited sounding board. If I have to yell at somebody, why not God, I mean God’s a tough mother and can take it, right? God has always seemed patient about this, and after I rant a bit, I always feel better and settle into a better place. So to give up complaints, seemed to be giving up one of my favorite coping mechanisms. It also seems at odds with justice. There is a lot of bad stuff going down on this planet; don’t we need to make an issue of certain things?What I have discovered is that forsaking complaint and going straight to gratitude has zero affect on the truth, in fact, it makes truth clearer, and you can move straight to action.

Dear God, thanks for this mess – I have no complaint – please get my back as I step into the middle of it.

Sometimes I need to do something. Sometimes I need to be something. I have found that gratitude is the fast track to the place where God needs me most, and where I most need God.

Laughing Baby

2009-11-10T16:39:00.000-08:00

Two Minutes of medicinal Baby Laughter

Apply as needed.

Can repeat as often as necessary.

A Seasonal Repeat

2009-10-31T15:19:00.000-07:00

So There I was...

In the kitchen with daughter #1. She was four years old. It was a few days before Halloween. I had finished making her blue gingham dress and found the required red sparkly shoes. She had a hand basket, and one of her stuffed dogs had volunteered to play Toto. I thought we were all set. But this was the child who from birth had done things all or nothing. She had one more request.

“Mommy, could you make me a cyclone? - Why not?

It shouldn’t be hard – cyclones are made of air.

Stop laughing Mommy – Cyclones are not funny!”

I never really have stopped laughing about that one. She was right, of course, cyclones are not funny – but four-year-olds are.

I have always loved Halloween, and not just for the candy. I love the imagination, the limitless possibilities. I had a very imaginative mother who was good with the sewing machine, and she worked hard to make our dreams come true. You went to school in costume, and the teachers didn’t bother trying to teach – it was an all day party. Back in the day (pre-maternal paranoia) once you were old enough to walk to school alone, you were old enough to trick-or-treat alone, especially if your older brother was supposed to watch you. Of course, your older brother and his friends always ditched you because you couldn’t keep up with their door-to-door capacity, but that was fine.

We were members, and multiple times a week attenders, of a pretty conservative Christian church, but I don’t remember anyone saying a word against the holiday. We dreaded that 7-year occurrence of Halloween on a Sunday, but those years most people would trick-or-treat on Saturday night, so we didn’t suffer.

Which is why I have trouble with the segment of American Christendom that feels that they have to turn Halloween into a “biblical costume only – Harvest Party” event. It looks as if they are afraid of Halloween – which misses the whole point! Halloween is the day where WE laugh at darkness, death, and all things spooky. Halloween is a celebration of anti-fear. As the year wanes, as darkness and leaves fall, we send our little children out to mock the unknown. They can be fairies or witches, ghosts or pirates and take no harm at all from it. We reward them with sweets for knocking on strange doors.

I love it when there is a three foot tall Darth Vader on my doorstep. Christendom should be proud of the fact that we send our most vulnerable out to deal with the dark side of the force. I do not for a minute fear that this will lead to a life of galaxy-wide domination.

I am not always thrilled with the levels of homicidal violence being portrayed. I do not like to see little girls being uber-sexy. Good parents can and do moderate these things well into adolescence. But these things reflect our greatest fears, and we conquer them by reducing them to manageable size.

I love the implication that fear, and the conquering of it, is child’s work. The mature members of our spiritual community are busy turning the actual non-metaphorical Hell into a skating rink. We may not live up to this ideal, not often even close, but the model of it is there if we wish to participate in it.

The other despicable thing that in vogue in some parts of Christendom is turning the traditional haunted house into a “Hell House” were you attempted to scare teenagers straight by depicting hell in all it’s torment. Intentionally scaring people into faith has been tried since the 3rd century. The Spanish inquisition (while never expected) had a real specialty in it. It didn’t work then and it doesn’t work now. What these folks are doing is using the tools of darkness – fear, terror, revulsion - to try and control. Using the tools of the devil to attempt God’s work backfires every time. When, oh when, will we learn this lesson?

Hell Houses encourages the adolescent carnage fascination that adults should be moderating. Also encouraged is judgementalism in all its forms. They only depict certain sins; usually the ones they think they themselves do not commit. Always the gory ones. An honest Christian Hell House would have one room dedicated to gluttony; a portrayal of a typical American potluck would do. In another room would be the gossips and backstabbers. I suppose you could get some gore mileage about a beam protruding from the eyeball of the person calling others sinners. Unlike tiny witches, who only very rarely actually ride broomsticks as adults, youthful training in judgementalism does often lead to a lifetime of sin.

Tomorrow is All Saints Day. Same deal - part two. Not only are we not afraid of darkness, but we know where our dead loved ones have gone have gone – and they are not lost. They are right here with us, cheering for us from the stands. We know we will join them one day. Death where is thy sting? The Mexican people take Thursday to have Day of the Dead – not a scary zombie flick – but a day to take a picnic lunch out to the graveyard to visit with the old folks.

This is our week to celebrate our lack of fear in the face of death, sin and all it’s fellows. Pass the sugar!

Nearly Out of Print

2009-10-26T15:58:00.000-07:00

Readers,

I have 14 copies of "So There I Was..."

I will do a second run, but not until after the release of

"So There I Was - In Afria."

If you have been thinking about books as Christmas gifts, you might want to speak for one now.

Today for my suicidal friends

2009-10-23T13:39:00.001-07:00

You, like I, have signed up to work for team LIFE, do not forget this.

The death this poet talks about dying is the one that comes in its right time.

Hastening that day, for ourselves or any other is not part of our commission.

Conscientious Objector by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death.

I hear him leading his horse out of the stall; I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba, business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself: I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip, I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabouts of my friends nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to any man’s door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never through me
Shall you be overcome.

Kitty Cat

2009-10-22T12:57:00.000-07:00

I promise that I am not going to let this blog devolve into a gramma blog. But besides teaching three sections of psychology and counseling and pastoring. I am trying to edit the African volume of "So There I was"

In the meantime, for your vitamin cute dosage today, baby Nia is talking.

At the beginning of this short clip you can hear her say "gitty-gat" and at the end her mommy says "I think she's escaping" and I hear Nia say "Gitty-cat gaping?"

Nia lives with three cats. They can all jump the baby gates. I think Nia is taking notes on "escaping" what do you think?

FIFTY KAY

2009-10-10T21:02:00.000-07:00

Sometime during that last couple of weeks of hectic, this blog logged visitor number

FIFTY THOUSAND!!!

It appears to have been during a flurry of the
Kevin Sorbo Effect. Wish I could have a contest and offer lunch with Kevin.

Check in, wouldja, dude?

Me Too

2009-09-27T21:58:00.000-07:00

It all starts today. Syllabus? check. Bullwhip? Check. Machete? Check. Let's Go!

.

For Sale

2009-09-09T12:11:00.000-07:00

2006 Kawasaki Concours/ZG1000

Slightly Better than New!

Very low miles – 3030 – yes. 3K

Never dropped – garaged – careful break-in and first service.

Heli Bars modification for slightly more upright ride.

Engine guards (protect faring)

Good winter commuting bike. Warm and dry. Large gas tank.

Hard case bags.

Beautiful Blue - Debadged – Kanji decals could easily be removed

One side says "truth" - the other "power"

This bike turns heads and gets questions

Blue Book $5500 w/o extras - asking $4995

Would consider delivery on the I-5 corridor

Evidence of a loving God

2009-09-08T13:35:00.000-07:00

Purple Potato Face

2009-09-07T14:05:00.001-07:00

See the face?
That's my mood today.

Happy Baby

2009-08-28T19:34:00.000-07:00

Good Grief

2009-08-26T18:20:00.000-07:00

So there I was...

Sitting Shiva with a baby. It seems wrong for babies to grieve, but they do. They do not hide their grief. They do not isolate, they let the whole world know. They wail.

The infant in question was my granddaughter, eight months old. She is a healthy and generally happy baby. She is bright, aware, and nobody’s fool. And she is at a place where she is totally dedicated to the fact that her mother should not stray out of sight. Not even for moments of time. She does not, of course, get her way all the time - just most of the time. Her mother is dedicated to her well being and understands that this is a developmental stage and that it will lighten up eventually. But sometimes her mother does need to do things that babies cannot do.

We do not lie to the babe. Mom tells her she is leaving, and that she will return. We do not attempt to trick the babe. Mother does not sneak away. She kisses her, says goodbye and walks out. She does not hesitate or look back, no matter what her hearts says. The babe looks at grandmother – she who is not mom. She lets loose a yell of protest. She is angry. I pick her up and tell her true things – She is all right. Mom will be back very soon. She is safe and loved, and we have books and toys and snacks. She does not give a whit for truth. She does not want toys or snacks. She is smart enough to realize that she is not going to get what she wants – at least not now. The anger turns to grief, profound sadness. Real tears flow down her cheeks. And then she does an amazing thing. She reaches out for her grandmother. She clings for dear life, even as the wailing continues. She will not be content, but she will seek comfort, even as she grieves. It isn’t the love she wants, but she knows it is love, and she hangs on. No tear reaches her chin before being kissed away. Songs are sung but they are sad songs. She cries herself into sleep, but even then she will not be laid down in her crib, her hands clench on fabric and skin. “Don’t lay me down gram, mommy is not here, and I don't want to be alone.” So we rock and hum, and wait.

I love this child like I love life. I would stand between her and threat through an apocalypse. But even if I could magically grant her a life without grief, I would not. It would not be a life fully lived. But I know that she will make it. She will thrive. Because she already has the God-given wisdom to hang on to someone she loves when she is bereft. I count it as deep privilege that she found me worthy to share her sadness. I will always try to come when she calls, but even when I cannot, I know she will love and be loved – no matter her circumstances.

The key turned in the lock, and the source of all goodness returned, and the babe rejoiced. She smiled at me as her mommy swooped her up and told her what a good brave girl she was. She forgave me the dark place. More than that we were companions in a dark place, and survivors, and comrades who deserved to share our joy because we had shared grief.

It is good. It is enough.

Taters

2009-07-23T20:02:00.000-07:00

These reds were volunteers in the asparagus bed. The whites, golds and blues we planted are a couple of weeks behind. I replanted all the tiny ones, and we will have a third crop in this bed before the rains set in. The first Quakers in this area called this The Garden of the Lord. I have no argument.

Garden Report

2009-07-19T19:54:00.000-07:00

I am not sure I have ever seen a better garden year here in the Willamette Valley, and that is saying something.

Things are coming on early and abundant. They are producing long. I am not sure I have ever seen the snow peas last through the blueberry season. We have been eating buttercrunch lettuce for a month and it has not yet bolted. The strawberries were abundant. The tomatoes are many and mid-range orange. The potato crop makes me think we need a root cellar.

I wish I had planted more.

Our only mistake.
We had a fine big batch of compost ready at the end of may. I mounded several wheel barrows, and then planted not one, but TWO zucchini. They are producing two to three six inchers every day. Last evening I picked every zuke that was out there plus a handful of radishes to take to church. This evening before dinner I went out to get some peas, and there was a happy eight inch zuke, and another six. In under 24 hours.

Why, oh, why, has no one figured out how to make bio diesel from zucchinis?

Turns out it was hard to get rid of the zukes at church. Even the first time, even with cute little ones, even with hungry people.

We are in trouble.

Last of Six

2009-07-17T13:11:00.000-07:00

This last selection come from the section of topical columns. This evening happened in the Spring of 2007

Star-Belly Sneeches and Modern Day Cossacks

So there I was ...

walking the halls of democracy and sitting in the midst of hostility.

The Capitol Building of the State of Oregon is a short distance from my house. I had received a phone call from a clergyperson I associate with and she was trying to turn out bodies for a series of evening hearings at the Capitol. The legislature was considering two bills, one to limit discrimination against gays, lesbians, and trans-gendered people, and one to set up a way for the same people to legally protect their relationships in a manner akin, but not equal to, the institution of marriage. I could go, so I did.

My problem was that I was two weeks home from a Central African war zone. I still had a pretty bad case of the social/emotional/spiritual bends. It takes me about a month to re-adjust from the effects of genocide to the comforts and concerns of American life. I cannot do counseling during this time. I just cannot immediately work up compassion for normal American problems after being emotionally present to people living in actual Hell. I get over it. I reset all the dials. But it takes a while.

That night as I walked into the Capitol, I was not real enthusiastic. But I remembered that I normally felt quite strongly about this issue and I figured I could be bodily present, if not spiritually present.

The first thing I noticed as I entered was that everybody was labeled. It was Dr. Seuss and the star-bellied Sneeches. Everybody was wearing stickers to designate their side. There were folks in the doorway discerning what party you belonged to and handing you your sticker. I don’t really like stickers on my person. I was picked out by the Basic Rights Oregon person and offered my progressive sticker. I was not real sure how I was spotted, but I declined out of sheer rebelliousness. The young man then took another look at me and spotted my grandmother’s cross that I often wear around my neck. He actually took a step back, and said “Oh, sorry.” That was my first clue.

The next thing I noticed was that the building was overflowing with people. I had trouble finding any of my friends. There was the main hearing room and then many overflow rooms with closed circuit TV and because those were all full, the lobbies were filled with chairs and people and additional TV sets. And security. Lots of security people. The security people looked nervous. Second clue.

By observing stickers, I noticed that all the gay families were huddled together in the hearing rooms. The lobbies were full of their opponents.

The next thing I noticed was that the people opposing the bills all looked like each other, really - they did. Round, scarved, middle aged women who looked like nesting dolls, and droves of tall, good-looking, clear skinned, brown haired blue-eyed men. A smattering of pretty blonde girls.

I found my clergy friend.

“Who are these people?” I asked.

“They are all from one church here in Salem. It’s a Slavic fundamentalist church. They can turn out 300 bodies any time the pastor calls for it. Thanks for coming, Peggy.”

“Where are your folks?”

“They are all together in the hearing rooms; nobody feels comfortable mingling.”

Well then, that gave me my mission for the night. Mingle with the Slavic Christians and see what was what. I don’t like fear-based segregation. I do not often find that it is based in reality. I like to challenge it and look for the good in the other side. That’s my default setting.

There was a seat open in front of one of the TV’s right in the middle of a knot of young men. I took the seat. The energy was really quite amazing. I could feel it in the air. Primal, like big sexual energy only about anger, not sex. Anger pheromones. I watched as people testified before the legislators - three pro, then three against. The rule for the evening, both in the hearing room and in the lobby, was no vocal demonstrations. But the young men around me were having a hard time containing it. Quietly cheering the people who predicted the fall of civilization if a couple of lesbians made a civil union, and jeering, hissing, and spitting invectives at anyone who disagreed with that analysis. There were many dozens of testimonies that night. I got weary, but the young Slavic men did not. They seemed to gain steam from each chance to hate, which did not dissipate with the speakers who they supported. They had a one-sided reaction that ratcheted up with each round.

I was touched in some way by all the testimony. I was pretty put off by the fear-mongering, but when someone stood up and spoke eloquently on behalf of their alternative family, it warmed me, gave me hope, and trust that love would eventually win out. One young woman did an especially good job, and I just couldn’t help but say a quiet “Amen, preach it sister.” The young men on either side of me, sat bolt upright and looked at me.

“Hi, my name’s Peggy, I’m with the other side – I just didn’t get my sticker.” I put out my hand to the young man on my left.

He did not take it.

The next speaker was a clergyman from some progressive protestant denomination. He wore a Roman-style collar. He spoke of God’s love for all people. This really heated up my area. Much gasping and hissing. They really didn’t like the pro-gay clergy guy.

The young man on my right sat with his fists and probably a few other body parts clenched. “Using God’s name to defend an abomination! God should strike him dead,” he hissed. I had the distinct impression that if God didn’t do it, that this young man would volunteer to be God’s agent.

I suddenly remembered why I cared about this issue. These fine Christian folk, would, if they knew everything I believed and everything I preached, and if given a free rein, likely stone me dead without a second thought.

Think that couldn’t happen in America? Quaker preacher Mary Dyer was hung in Boston Commons by fine Plymouth Rock, Thanksgiving Day, Christian folk. The framers of our constitution knew that well and attempted to prevent it from happening in the new union. But they knew it was a real problem that needed to be addressed.

I remember something Garrison Keillor said about the Puritans, his forbearers. He said, “They came to America to practice religious persecution at a level not actually allowed under British law.” He was right, the Puritans, of course, thought they were fleeing religious persecution and protecting their faith by hanging Quakers. The Slavic Christians gathered around me also fled religious persecution and believe that they are protecting their faith.

There was one other person sitting in that group that stood out even more than I. An orthodox Jew – side curls, hat, fringe – the whole thing. We don’t see a lot of that in Salem. From his sticker I could see that he was in harmony with the Slavic Christians on this issue. When I got the chance I moved and sat by him.

“Hello, Friend, so you agree with these folks?” I said

“I do, they are on God’s side of this issue.” He said, stiff, not looking at me.

“Don’t they remind you of anyone?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Like, I don’t know, Cossacks, maybe?”

“You do not know what you are talking about.”

“Probably not, no, I’m sure I don’t. But are you really sure that if they managed to put down the gays like they wish to, that they wouldn’t come next for, oh, say the Jews?”

Then he looked at me.

“Just a thought.” I said and I moved on.

STORM SOMETHING

2009-07-14T12:57:00.000-07:00

It's Bastille Day!

A Pastoral Letter about Loss and Grief

2009-07-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

For Freedom Friends Church and anyone who needs it.

I will bring you by a way you do not know, I will make the darkness light before you, and I will make the rough places smooth. I have made up my mind, I will never forsake you. Isaiah 42:16

I have decided to write a general and public letter because so many in our community are going through, or have someone they care about going through, some pretty rough places. We have lots of loss and death and sickness is our wider community at the moment. I want to remind us of some truths that we know, but occasionally lose track of, and outline some healthy responses to loss and grief so that we can help ourselves and each other.

Loss is terribly real. It is terribly consistent. It is never far from us. It is never fun, and often is excruciatingly painful, This is just the truth. It is ironic that the “luckier” we are by human standards, the more loss we will experience. If you are so fortunate as to live into old age, you will watch all your predecessors die, and many of those younger than you as well. The more friends, mentors, and family members you have, the more funerals you will attend. You will also experience other kinds of losses. Jobs, relationships, and situations will be transitory. If you live long enough you will lose your strength, physical beauty, sharpness, and independence. This is the path of a blessed life. I know that this sounds grim, but we have to start the path to redemption from somewhere in realityland. The difference between people who live life abundantly and with intermittent joy, and those who feel picked on and defeated is how they have learned to perceive, interpret and cope with loss. It is not an optional discipline.

The Apostle Paul said that “We do not grieve like those who have no hope past the grave.” He recognized that people of faith have access to a way of living, that while not making us in any way immune to loss, nevertheless makes us able to walk through it with some level or grace and serenity. This way of living helps us with all kinds of loss. I want to remind you of that way.

The first thing we can do is work on changing how we think about loss. You are not being “picked on” even when you are in a season of multiple losses. God is not angry with you, is not punishing you, has not abandoned you. I do not even think that God is ‘testing’ you, except in the sense that all loss offers the chance of growth and change, and that loss is part of the greater lesson of life. Loss is part of the package and people of faith accept the package as good. The serenity prayer says this: “Living on day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as the pathway to peace.” Not all the moments are enjoyable, but they are all part of the path. And in the worst of times, we can find evidence of goodness and God. People pull together, comfort each other, and we see God evidenced in community. Acceptance of loss as a normal part of a healthy and blessed life is the first major task in recovery. It is also a recurring task. We accept in waves. Anger and resistance in the face of loss is not sin, but for health it must eventually give way to acceptance.

“Not my will, but yours.” This requires trust. And for some of us that the very core of the problem. We know we are supposed to trust God, but trusting other authority figures in our life has never gone very well, and so we are very cautious about trusting God. God is not like your parents, or your ex-boss or ex-spouse, or teachers, or the government or whomever it is you have very good reason to keep at arm’s length. If trusting God is a core issue for you, then moving that up to an active project will make dealing with loss possible. Without that trust, you will have the same losses, but you will have shut the door on your best resource, the immediate comfort of the Spirit.

Honoring your loss and the feelings you have about it is another major task. Denial of your pain is no healthier than wallowing in it. When someone we love dies, we feel pain, often deep searing and lasting pain. If they died in a way that seems unjust, or early, we also feel anger. The pain is hard wired into us as part of the reality of love – it is one of the ways that we know love is real. Anger is hardwired into us as a response to injustice. Injustice is supposed to move us to action, and anger is what gets us moving.

There is no timetable or formula for grief. Everyone copes in their own way. But there are some important tools that everyone needs to have. Because everyone is unique, we cannot really know what to do for someone when they are suffering. We have some customs; we offer food, we offer company, we have rites and rituals that feel correct. But when we are dealing with loss the most effective tool we can have is the awareness and courage to ask for what we need. The awareness part is not easy for some of us. But the way you do it is to start doing the best you can to take care of yourself, and then notice where the gaps are. What is not getting done? What is it that you just cannot cope with right now? Then you ask yourself if perhaps it just doesn’t need to get done, but if it does, you need to ask for help. This is why community is absolutely essential for everyone. We access it and enjoy it at different levels, but we all will need it eventually. Most of us are lucky enough to have multiple communities (church, work, family) and the ability to build a community around us that meets our needs (doctors, therapists, mentors). If you have only one community and it is small, you do need to be sensitive to not burn them out, but you do this by asking with the clear assurance that saying “yes”, “no”, or “I can get to that at a later time”, are all acceptable answers.

While grieving, we need to lighten up. We need to slow down and do less. We need to make this OK in our life. We need to be rigorous about our self-care, we need to rest, eat, and take care of ourselves physically. It is a really good time to be super protective about addictions – more meetings – more chats with our sponsor. Developing good self-care skills, and dealing with our addictions when we are not under duress is really smart. It is optional however, and some of us don’t even notice how bad our self-care is until we get to the critical level. You might need a coach. If you know that your historical coping methods are addictive or destructive or harming, you need to move that problem up to the top of your list and engage some help to turn those habits down or off.

When we are grieving we need to connect – as often as is indicated. Introverts may have more of a tendency to crawl under a bush and lick their wounds, and to a certain extent this is natural for them, but there need to be trusted people who can check on you, who you will tolerate and be honest with. Extroverts who are grieving may need to be attended nearly round the clock for a while. Usually extroverts have a social system that can accommodate this.

When you have had a string of losses you will definitely need to up your self-care. It is my experience that losses often do some in clusters or waves. When you feel you are at your limits of receiving bad news, sometimes you need to restrict your access to news for a while. I mean this literally. We are all affected by the pummeling of our so often negative world. When you are hurting, turn the TV off, and stop looking at the headlines. Pick up something old and comforting, a favorite book, or pick up the phone and talk to someone who is consistently encouraging. If you feel like you ‘can’t take it’ any more, you may have to assign someone in your life to be your filter, and just ask not to be informed of any peripheral bad news for a week or so. This is caring filtering, not isolation – it is sometimes needful.

In our community, like all good communities, we share each other’s burdens. But sometimes we need to hold others in the Light very lightly. If you are on the edge, don’t try and hold the prayer list for the meeting. If you are at your edge, you get to therapeutically stop caring about others for a bit. This may sound unchristian to you, but it is not. This is an act of faith in God. You are saying to God, yourself and your community that you trust that God has infinite ways to help others, and that you are taking yourself out of the batting rotation for a bit, trusting that the skipper has other good hitters to put in the game. God will not be mad at you for this, and any human who would shame you for this, needs to be put at a little distance. This extends even to sitting in meeting. Be there if you want to be, if it comforts you. But if you can’t handle anyone else’s pain, you can stay away for a week and ask the pastor, or Ministry and Oversight to meet with you for individual care and worship. Only you can know if you need to be with others or not. But whatever you need to do to care for yourself, is all right with us.

Eventually you need start re-investing. First you can take the energy you would have spent on what is lost and invest it in yourself. But after a while you need to honor that loss by saying that it was so important to you that you need something like unto it in your life. You love again, you work again, you let the pain fade and seek out things that bring you joy. It is not a betrayal to those lost, when you seek out new interests, it honors their place in your life. As we proceed far enough into life, we not only reach out again to another ahead of us, but we reach out to those behind us, and repay our debt of love to new people. This is another round of acceptance.

Christ said that after the intervention of His life, that he would leave and a Comforter would come. This Spirit that we call the Present Christ or Spirit is all around us. We access it when we meet on Sundays, and when we practice our gratitude, petition and listening during the week. It is there whenever two of us have a cup of coffee. It is there on our pillows at night, and in our cereal bowl in the morning. You trust that Goodness and mercy are that near to you at all times, even and especially when you are in pain. Your pain does not mean that you are outside of a state of grace, it means that you are deeply in the center of God’s love.

I do not fully understand, no one does, why God allows the depth and variety and number of losses that we experience in this world. But with half a century in, I do believe that joy can outweigh pain, that peace can be the default setting that you return to, and that hope is not only realistic, that it is functional.

I hope this has been a help to you. We can talk about it some more. Just ask.

Six of Sixty - Number 5

2009-07-06T19:50:00.000-07:00

Continuing the celebration of "So There I Was ..."

From the Section of Post-Modern Theology

Hell's Freezing Over

So there I was ...

sitting at a lunch table with a group of insightful, visionary, powerful, spiritual women. We were talking about what it would take for our corner of the Body of Christ to embrace an application of our professed testimony of equality. Specifically, what it would take for the spiritual sea to change enough to make gender identity and sexual orientation non-obstacles to membership and ministry.

“What if we just opened that door and walked through it and let them watch? – Maybe they’d follow.” I proposed.

“Yeah, when Hell freezes over!” said one of my sisters.

That phrase haunted me for a while after that. It rattled around in my heart like a marble in a glass milk bottle. Then the bottle broke, and it was spilt milk all over, but I had a jagged glass epiphany.

That is our job. That is precisely our job. We are supposed to be freezing Hell. Turning the thermostat of evil down till the devil is wearing thermal underwear.

Hell requires conflagration. Badness expends huge energy. Evil itches and requires lots of scratching, which leads to angry inflammation. Hellfire can be quenched.

The best way to chill inequality is to not participate in it, not cooperate with it, not ignore it. Racism is not by any means conquered in our world or our church. But in our country in the last century, it has been moderated by courageous people refusing to accept that it is the norm. Racism lives, but Jim Crow is history. People, a few people at first, just refused to be segregated, black people and white people. They just stopped participating. They had a chilling effect on evil.

We were created to be effective. Each one of us individually and all of us together.

Individually, we can douse and stomp on fires of evil that spark up around us. As a people of God we can be the cool soft rain that puts the forest fire to bed.

Hell loves a mob; especially a trauma crazed mob, an unthinking, angry mob. Hell especially loves an armed mob; guns are nice, but machetes will do. But it is amazing what a few people or even one person can do to a mob. Hell was having a picnic in My Lai, Vietnam when Hugh Thompson, Lawrence Colburn and Glenn Andreotta landed their helicopter between their comrades and their comrade’s innocent prey. They stopped the carnage. The devil considered those guys to be party crashers. They were called traitors when they got home. Eventually, they were decorated as heroes.

What we don’t know is how many similar atrocities, in that war, and in the wars since then, including the travesty of a conflict we are engaged in now, have been stopped short by one person saying, “Hey, that’s not what we’re here for” or “Don’t even think about it.” They don’t get written up as heroes for preventing evil. It happens all the time. The devil doesn’t want you to know that he gets thwarted a thousand times for every time he succeeds in getting drunk on mayhem.

And don’t think that it is only warriors who block disaster. I have seen a pig-tailed eight-year-old walk into a knot of bullies and take a scared six-year old by the hand and walk them out with a “Shame on you – I’m telling” look.

The truth is that evil is the sissy. Our spiritual adversary and all his minions are cowards of the first order. Hell can be frozen by the kindness of a child, the courage of a man, the voice of a boy, the persistence of an old woman. All we have to do is wake up, speak up, and step right in.

Happy Fourth!

2009-07-04T12:37:00.000-07:00

Six of Sixty - Number Four

2009-07-01T14:46:00.000-07:00

Continuing the celebration of "So There I Was ..."

From the section "Where I Came From" - the early stories

So there I was ...

walking the green mile.

OK, it wasn’t a mile, it just seemed like it. But the long corridor was a sort of turquoise green. I wasn’t actually condemned to death, though for a second grader I might as well have been. Dead little girl walking, and worse, I had to do it every Tuesday afternoon for all of second grade.

The call came at two p.m. every Tuesday, just before all the other kids went to recess. My teacher, Miss Cartier tried to be as subtle as possible, sidling up to my desk and whispering, “Peggy, it’s time.” But it didn’t matter because all the kids knew where I was going. They snickered behind their hands, and giggled as I got up from my seat and left the room. I was nervous and often managed to kick something or bump into something on the way out. Kids would stick their foot out and try to trip me if the teacher took her eyes off me. Miss Cartier didn’t let them get away with any words, but it didn’t matter, because there was after school, and before school, and other recesses to get the taunts in. I was labeled for the rest of grade school.

I was walking down to what the kids at school called the “retard room.” Even in 1965 nobody was allowed to call it that in front of teachers or staff, it was officially the classroom for the “handicapped” children. But on the playground that is what they called it, and they called me a “retard.”

I actually got to know the kids in that classroom. Some of them spent their whole days there. Some kids assigned to that class spent part of their days in a regular classroom. It was a pretty progressive school district. Some of them had physical difficulties, some had developmental difficulties, and some of them didn’t seem all that different from the kids in the regular classes.

I was pigeon-toed. Seriously pigeon-toed. I tripped over my own feet all the time. I scuffed my Mary Jane’s all to death. They tried making me wear those special stiff high shoes, but they didn’t help. So I got sent to Miss Belknap the physical rehab teacher.

Here’s what the other kids didn’t know. The long walk down the green hall was hell, but heaven was just on the other side of the door to Miss Belknap’s room. The room was full of giant toys and gymnastics equipment. She wore sneakers and shorts while all the other teachers were in heels and dresses. She was kinda loud, and funny, and she was pretty masculine for a lady. She called me “Girly.” I didn’t know anybody else like her. But she liked me. I think she liked all her kids. When I walked in the door she welcomed me, like a beloved lost lamb. As if she was surprised to see me. As if I was the best part of her day. She was the best part of my week.

She taught me how to walk. How to turn my hips so that my toes would go straight. How to tuck in my tiny little butt so that my hips would open out. We practiced many walks, we walked like ducks, we walked like cowboys. She would have me put my hands behind my back as if they were tied and I would pretend to walk the plank – with plenty of pirate talk to go with it. We laughed a lot. Wednesday mornings during second grade I was always a little sore. I remember one day in the spring when she was pretty pleased with me and she said, “Well, we could quit now, Girly, but as long as we’ve taught you to walk straight, we might as well teach you how to walk pretty.” I did not object. Then I spent a few weeks walking like Miss America with a crown on my head. If they would have let me stay with Miss Belknap for the three R’s I would have stayed. Miss Belknap was my secret treasure.

There is a stanza in the Serenity prayer attributed to Reinhold Niebuhr that goes

Living one day at a time;

Enjoying one moment at a time;

Accepting hardship

As the pathway to peace.

I learned the truth of that every Tuesday in second grade. After the mocking there was grace. After the loneliness there was kind attention. After the pain came fun. I could have let the humiliation ruin the joy, but I didn’t. And in my memory the grace is huge and lively and the persecution is ghostly and pale.

Perspective is a choice.

So there I was ten years later, 1975, in the grocery on an errand for my mother. I whizzed around a corner in my three-inch platform sandals and mini skirt. I heard a loud voice from the back of the store yell,

“Stop right there! – Is that you Peggy? Peggy Senger?

I executed a perfect pivot turn and faced Miss Belknap, now a retired teacher. I grinned. She whistled a loud wolf whistle as all the patrons of the store turned and looked.

“Look at that walk! Look at that pretty, humdinger of a walk! Give me a bit more, Girly!”

So I gave her my best strut and then a hug and we laughed. And she said,

“Well, Girly, when you walk that plank they are gonna remember the last thing they see! Go get ‘em.”

So I did.

Dreaded Preacher Shakes Flakey Quakes

2009-06-30T12:13:00.000-07:00

POMO preacher Shane Claiborne preached at FGC this week. It made the Roanoke News.

"We've got a little bit of an identity crisis," he told the group. "We have so much to say with our mouths and so little to do with our lives."

Christians "need a rummage sale," Claiborne said. "We don't need to throw away the family photo album. But we need to get rid of some of the infomercial stuff."

Claiborne advocates working directly with the poor and needy and following Jesus' actions. Too often, he said, Christians focus on belief instead of love in action. He said he hopes to see in the next generation a Christian faith transformed.

read the rest here.

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New Things

2009-06-28T19:20:00.000-07:00

This is my granddaughter Nia.
She is having a bit of a conflicting instinct problem here.
She is almost seven months old and has gotten real interested in spoon food. She has been happily taking rice cereal mixed with breast milk for a few weeks. Mommy thought it was time to try some fruit.
Applesauce, pears and bananas have been tried. Nia reacts just like this with each one. She really wants the spoon. She opens her mouth. And each time is shocked, SHOCKED, at how weird that stuff tastes.

I am like this sometimes. I know I want to try something new.
I need to broaden my range. But it is just so freakin' DIFFERENT!
I shudder and grimace, and then I open my mouth again.

Nia will figure out food. I will figure things out too.

Six of Sixty - part three

2009-06-27T14:50:00.000-07:00

Continuing the celebration of "So There I Was ..."

Fresh Roads

So there I was ...

looking for fresh road. When I got my first motorcycle, one of the first things I did was go down to the State Department of Transportation and buy the big map of the county that I live in. It was several feet to a side and showed every road and alley within about 30 miles of my house. I started marking off each road as I covered it. Soon I had to purchase the maps for the five counties around my county and ride farther to get onto new pavement. Eventually my mega-map took up a whole wall of my house. After ten years and two bikes, I about had the State of Oregon covered; and Oregon is about 300 miles tall by 500 miles wide.

So around the turn of the century I was offered a preaching gig in Idaho and decided to take the opportunity to knock off some out of the way roads in the very far northeastern corner of the state.

Perhaps you do not understand why fresh road is so important. There is nothing that prevents the miracle in your back yard. There is nothing that slows down Sister Serendipity from meeting you at the corner grocery store if she is looking for you. The kingdom of Heaven is within you and can erupt at any time. However, the major inhibitor of that eruption is your own soul sleepiness. It is way too easy to get stuck on spiritual cruise control. Common intimacy encourages entropy.

The best way I know to break out of this is to find fresh road. I do it quite literally. Riding a road where I do not know what is around the next corner requires a level of awareness that makes me feel very lively. I have to pay attention. I cannot daydream. I know people who can find fresh road in a laboratory that they walk into every day for years. I know people who find fresh road on a blank piece of paper, or on the well-known strings of their favorite guitar.

Still, I like the wind. The unpredictability of the weather. So I was up in the country of Chief Joseph. His precious blue lake is still there. The Appaloosa descendents of his favorite ride live and eat this year’s grass. His spirit and the spirit of his people flow down off those mountains towards the Snake River. That’s where I was.

I reached the edge of the Snake after a long descent down the backside of the Wallowa Mountains on an unpaved road. I had been counting on a bridge over a dam on the map. The dam was there but it was no bridge. So like Joseph, I turned north towards Canada and several hundred miles out of my way. Unlike Joseph, my steed could not eat grass. But at least there was no cavalry at my back. My limits were the limits of a gas tank, not how far you could push the elders carrying the babies on their backs. I wasn’t worried, because although the ranch houses were few and far between at that point, I knew that the ranch people kept a fill of gas cans and kindness, and the worst I could face was a walk or a wait. I talked to God and to Joseph and to the Appies in the fields.

And just after I had switched my fuel valve over to “reserve” meaning that I had less than a quart of petrol left, I saw a boy. About twelve. Walking.

“Hi Lady.”

Blonde hair, freckles, big toothy smile, Huck Finn.

“Son, I need some gasoline and I need it pretty soon. How much trouble am I in?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about trouble, but if you take that next gravel road up there, you can cut through to the road that goes to the place where my dad drinks his coffee and Mrs. Wright, she has a pump in the back – you might have to ask.”

“Thanks. Really, I mean it. Do you need a ride son?”

“No, ma’am, my Ma would switch my butt if I got caught takin’ a ride with no helmet. Ma’s pretty strict about the helmets. I don’t have far to go.”

“Sorry I don’t have a spare, son. You take care.”

“Bye Lady – oh, and the pie’s really good – have the peach if she has any left.”

The peach pie was fabulous. The shortcut got me there in less than ten miles. Mrs. Wright did indeed have a small reserve of gasoline. I described the boy to Mrs. Wright and the ranchers taking their coffee. I was hoping to speak a good word about him and his manners to someone who knew him. Maybe leave him a small reward – though I doubted any adult would convey a reward to a boy for just being neighborly – they would expect such.

Mrs. Wright and all the ranchers were of one mind that there was no boy of that description or even of that age, living on any ranch within 40 miles of that diner. They said they knew by name every child within that distance. I believed them.

I did another hundred miles of fresh road that day. Wide awake.

That road from the town of Joseph, Oregon down to the Snake is now paved, though I wouldn’t recommend it except at high summer. You can visit the old Chief’s grave up at Wallowa Lake; if you do, greet him for me.

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