Whom will you serve?

Back in college, when I was grappling with the implications of being newly baptized, I moved fluidly (more or less) in and out of different Christian communities, picking up valuable insights as I traveled. The Pentacostals taught me not to be wary of emotion in worship, while the St. Margaret Sisters helped me learn about the discipline of the divine office and the importance of waiting upon God. The village church of St. James and its unpretentious priest, Bill Wickham, welcomed me without fuss or fanfare and created a space where I could explore my calling. The liberal Protestant chaplain and professor, Joel Tibbetts and his first wife, Ginger, opened their home to me in good times and not so good ones. But the one tradition I didn't learn much about was Anabaptism-the pietistic sects of the radical reformation that were so often persecuted in their home countries and fled to American to find freedom to worship. Anabaptists, of course, believe in adult baptism-and also have a very wary view of secular authority. As I've observed this Administration's evident willingness to pitch American foreign policy as coming straight from the desk of the Almighty, I've wondered if perhaps I didn't have more in common with the pietists-who have often taken to civil disobedience to protest actions they believe to be immoral and unbiblical. Yesterday, at Colin's winter concert, I was ready to race to the first Mennonite congregation I could find and ask the pastor where I could sign up. Since Colin attends a public school, it was considered completely inappropriate to mention God, of course. But about three quarters of the way through the third grader's charming renditions of "Jingle Bells" and "Let there be peace on earth" a little guy came to the mike and piped up: "We are going to do this next set of songs to honor our Armed Forces defending our freedom in Iraq." There followed a selection of traditional flag-worshipping songs-another sign that in
America we can't tell the difference between the Lord of Heaven and Earth and a national symbol with 50 stars. The children did a wonderful job. They were applauded with great enthusiam by parents and grandparents who had brought their videocams to preserve the event for posterity. But as I stood, quietly boiling in the back of the gym, I wondered about the ongoing, pervasive, and troubling lesson of such an event-that for fear of offending someone's values, we must strip Christmas, and Chanukah and Ramadan of their spiritual roots. To do so, we seek the lowest common denominator, the hubristic idol worship of nationalism. So perhaps I'm not as Anabaptist as I thought. I believe there must be a safe place for dialogue about faith in the public schools-with the understanding that to talk about our traditions and diversity starts, but does not end, the conversation.

Lines in the sand

After the children are on their school buses and I have my early morning cup of strong British tea in hand, I get online and read the New York Times. You never know, when you open up the paper, what news will greet you. Often it is tragic, sometimes it is bizarre, occasionally touching. Now and then it is regrettable but entrancing-I must admit I've been avidly following the fall-out from the Knicks Madison Square Garden brawl with the Nuggets. Often the stories are distressing-but rarely are they personal. Over the past few days, though, I've been going around with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. When my denomination makes the front page of the newspaper, and the articles hit the top of the 'most blogged' list, it's not a good day for the Episcopal Church. Though it seems like a long time since the national church got good press, this week has been a particularly bad one. On Sunday, the congregations of two historic, large Episcopal churches in the Diocese of Virginia voted (along with some smaller Virginia churches) to leave the denomination and ally themselves with the Archbishop of Nigeria, Peter Akinola. The reason? Members of these suburban D.C. parishes, Truro and The Falls Church, thought that the Episcopal church had abandoned fidelity to Scripture and to church tradition by assenting to the consecration of an openly gay bishop and by winking and nodding at gay unions in various dioceses. Naturally, given the pragmatic and worldly politics practiced by all sides, the churches will fight tooth and claw to keep their extremely valuable real estate. It is particularly distressing that the Bishop of the diocese, the Rt. Rev. Peter Lee, is a moderate who had made many attempts to accomodate the conservative churches. Observing what occurred, liberals could wonder whether it is worth attempting to accomodate conservative congregations if the result is that they end up leaving, anyway. Evangelical and conservative congregations in other dioceses will probably be impelled to take another hard look at the cost of staying and to weigh them against the risks of leaving. One thing is for sure-the schism will proceed. And, in the end, this small denomination, whose governance modeled on the bicameral American legislature, may become a parable for what happens when men and women of good faith are deaf to the call of the Gospel for reconciliation, self-sacrifice and mutual forbearance. Katherine Jefferts Schori, the New Presiding Bishop, has her work cut out for her. Frankly, I would not want Archbishop Akinola for an enemy-the firebrand prelate is well acquainted with how to use power-and has no hesitation about deploying it. Time alone will tell if he is on the side of the angels-or just another power player who has convinced himself that he is God's chosen, the scourge of the West and preserver of the faith. Crusade, anyone?

Blessed are the dead

This was the first time I'd attended the lighting of the memorial tree. A few years ago one of our board members, an energetic ball of fire who is a genius at fundraising, thought of lighting a holiday tree as a way of raising money for our Romanian kids who live with, and die from, the effects of AIDS. Standing outside the home of a friend on an eeriely warm evening, we struggled to see the words of the liturgy. Knowing that I was to give the closing prayer, I attempted to follow along in the dim light of the tiny flashlights. When we got to the prayers for the dead, I saw a name I had not expected. "No one told me Bertha had died," I thought sadly. A parishioner at my former church, Bertha was a librarian for the choir. A tiny, bird-like woman, she had big glasses and a bright smile. Because Bertha's sister in law Eleanor was not able to attend church, I had many occasions to visit them. Sitting in their neat living room, we'd exchange conversation on church matters, health issues, my work and other topics-with my short skirts and unorthodox manners, I came into their quiet lives like a minor tempest. But we grew to appreciate each other. When Eleanor died, I missed those moments of grace in Bertha's living room. Now Bertha was gone-and I had not had the opportunity to mourn. So permit me to grieve a moment now. Bertha, you are missed-for all the work you did organizing the music, work that is not undertaken by those who prefer the glow of public acclaim, but by those who see a job that needs to be done and do it. For the uncomplaining way in which you dealt with your physical challenges in your latter years. For your faithful care for your sister in law. For the servant leadership you brought to each task before you. A childless widow, you may not be remembered often on this earth. But I am sure that you are celebrated in the celestial choir-blessed indeed are the dead who die in the Lord. Godspeed, dear Bertha.

The paradoxical meets the nearly impossible

Tuesday and Wednesday of this past week I traveled to Lancaster County to attend classes for potential substitute teachers. I have to admit that the idea had not occured to me until a friend who earns a living as a painter told me she was thinking about this as an income source in between other assignments. The more I thought about it, the more appealing it was. I like children, both eager and ingenous young ones and the more complicated, drama-prone questioning older ones. As a parent, it would offer me an unparrelled opportunity to find out something about standards and practices in teaching-assuming they have improved since I was last in elementary school. It would also, I thought, be a good way of earning mortgage money (boy did I turn out to be off-base about that) whilst preserving some flexibility so that I could take writing assignments. I'd be home at about the same time as my children. As to the demands of the job? Hey, I'd led worship services for little kids in a day school, taught Sunday school classes, and worked in academic institutions where sometimes the faculty acted like big babies...how hard could it be to act like a den mom to two dozen eight year olds for seven hours? When I showed up for my training at the Lancaster County IU, with perhaps a hundred other professionals of all ages and stages of life, I realized that the art of being a substitute teacher had paradox, incongruity and frustration engrained in its very being. Teaching is a deeply relational discipline-but few of us are good at meeting 25 new people and remembering their names in the course of a day, let alone getting to know them. Each child has his or her own learning style-what can they possible learn in the company of someone who sees the lesson an half an hour before they do? I'm definitely a right-brain person-making lists, following a set schedule doesn't just mean I have to use my shadow side, but have to find where I mislaid it yesterday-underneath the mismatched socks, maybe? I wondered, and asked one speaker, how a person who is not compulsively organized would fare in this environment. Finally, there is the whole question of compensation. In many districts substitutes are paid less than I pay my babysitter. In another sign of how messed up we are about compensating people fairly for doing work that few of us have the backbone to do, aides in emotional support classrooms are paid 60.00 a day. My conclusion? Anyone going into this for the money, or because they thought it was going to be a cakewalk was going to be quickly dissilusioned and disappointed. But as I chatted with my desk set neighbors-a retired teacher, a former director of development, a communications generalist, a singer-I realized that most of us were there for a whole grab bag of reasons that had little to do with making a fast profit. Their motives were as mixed as mine. All in all, however, the school system would be very fortunate to have us show up on any given morning looking for the lesson plans, the cafeteria and the bathroom. As I observed my colleagues, what I saw was a group of highly trained professionals who still hoped-against hope-to have a positive impact, even for the space of a day, on the life of someone else's children.

Bethany

This past Saturday morning the house was quiet-children with their dad, my neighbors sleeping in or already gone, the nocturnal animals returned to their lairs until nightfall. In the bedroom, our orange tabby slumbered off the effects of her morning exercise chasing game pieces and bottletops across the dining room floor. With all of these forces inviting me to procrastinate, I was proud that I made it to Bethany Farm before 9:00. Not too proud-the farm is only a couple of miles down the road from me. The air was frosty when I got out of my car, farmers nowhere in sight. Christmas trees, both cut and with root balls still attached, filled the field nearest the road. Shivering, eager to make my choice of tree and be done, I walked towards the sound of voices-they seemed to emanate from the milking barn. Introducing myself to Farmer Dan, I hastily balanced the advantages of white-barked pine, Norway Spruces, and Fraser Firs. This year, I decided to buy a live tree-impetous as usual, I figured that I would dig the hole for the tree myself-after all, how hard could this be? I have to admit that I'm really excited about returning a tree to the ground instead of putting it out for the recyclers. Farmer Dan told me that his main business is raw milk-free of the antibiotics that goes into the stuff sold in the grocery store chains. Take the cream off the top, and you have fat-free milk. Leave it in, and you have milk the way your anscestors drank it 3000 years ago (apparently lactose tolerance is relatively new on the evolutionary chain). As we talked, we stumbled into one of those amazing minutes of serendipity-turns out that he is related to one of my best friends. She and he come from the stock of two brothers who settled in this area more than 300 years ago-and never left. When he bought his farm and took a look at the ownership papers, he found out that the land (and the fields across from Bethany) had been farmed by his (great?) grandparents a hundred years ago. After arranging for delivery of the tree, I drove out towards the mall, very aware of the irony of this pilgrimage to the altar of materialism. Still, I was warmed in the chilly air by the conversation with Farmer Dan-by his affirmation of the value of faith, community and family. In an era of exburban developments and bland malls, Bethany, with its stock of milk and homemade bread and apples, does indeed seem anomalous. Named, said Farmer Dan, in honor of the hospitality Mary and Martha offered Jesus, it welcomes weary travelers not sure of what they want, or even of what they need.

Even if....you don't love me anymore

I've had occasion recently to grapple with what it means to forgive a friend for behavior that, at least in my own rather warped perception, has been deeply hurtful to me over a period of years. "Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner"-or so goes the French aphorism. The quotation is attributed to Madame de Stael-who perhaps would be shocked to find her words twisted into a French caricature. What she apparently said is "Tout comprendre rend tres indulgent"... understanding everything makes one more indulgent. I have found that my characterological, quite human ability to draw reasonable conclusions about someone else's behavior-how it fits their character, their limitations, their virtues-only gets me so far. For years I have tried to rationalize my friend's actions as a prompted by a general aversion to conflict, desire for consensus, and hope to be able to please all sides. Yet when a recent encounter left me feeling bruised and battered once again, I found that my great wisdom and soi-disant objectivity was nothing more than a band-aid. Underneath, the wound still festered. I wanted nothing more than to be done with the relationship-as though the reckoning between us had been too long deferred and was now out of the realm of the possible. The "Don Henley" school of forgiveness, articulated in his song "The Heart of the Matter", still often works well for me. "There are people in your life who have come and gone-they've let you down, you know, they've hurt your pride...You better put it all behind you babe, 'cause life goes on...if you carry all that anger, it will eat you up inside..." I do find that carrying around resentment and bitterness is a huge waste of time. On purely practical grounds, the act of forgiveness, of setting aside, is a useful strategy. Yet even that doesn't always do the trick. Sometimes the pain of the broken intimacy hits too close to the center of my being. But as I wrestle with my own pain, I remember the words of Jesus and his command to forgive brothers and sisters seventy plus seven, or seven times 70. C'mon, Lord, you can't mean that I have to keep forgiving the same brother or sister? How about you look at my overall record-kind of a spiritual RBI? And if I'm supposed to forgive this dude (again), then does it mean I have to be his or her pal? Or can healing really occur without relationship to the other? As you can probably tell, in spite of all the reading I've done and Jesus' command in the Gospels, I'm now where near figuring this trying problem out. Most definitely a work in progress..wholly in need of grace.

Today's post

I have no idea what happened to this morning's post, "Living Boldly." Hopefully it will reappear at some point-or I'll figure out how to transfer it to another post. There are some people who can wreak technological havoc just by walking into a room. (Ironically, the purpose of today's post was to pay tribute to a technologist and his heroically practical priorities.) I shall now disappear for the moment, lest your cell phones lose their power, computers crash, and satellite radio starts to fade. In the meantime...live boldly!