Don’t flay the sheep.

Hope and Havel

“Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.” –Vaclav Havel

On the news this morning: Vaclav Havel, great figure in the fall of communism in Czechoslovakia has died.

I am by no means an expert in Eastern European politics, but I stopped for a minute when I heard this news, and started thinking.

I’m part of the generation that is not sure if we’re Gen X or Gen Y, born in the years that sort of fall between both groups, depending on which sociologist or demographer is defining things. (I find this article about my people helpful, if only to confirm that there are other people like me who are living proof that these sorts of generational generalizations are arbitrary.)

One of the things my age means is that I am too young to remember, with any specificity, some of the really crappy things that happened in the late 70s and early 80s (energy crisis? Iran hostages? huh?), and  I was too young to understand much of what was happening in the mid 80s. My political awareness, and my sense of geo-politics in those years was shaped by the last gasps of nuclear bombing drills in school. I lived in a town that was full of people with roots in Eastern Europe. Driving to the mall, we went over a stretch of interstate where there were several majestic onion dome orthodox churches in view. One of my science teachers, Mr. Chicanowsky, was famous for cooking up Lithuanian Kielbasa on the hotplate in science lab to share with students at Christmastime. One of my best friends growing up was the daughter of a couple who defected from Eastern Europe.

By the time I was starting to get the intellectual capacity to understand the world around me, some pretty extraordinary things happened. I remember watching TV with my parents in the days when communism was crumbling. I remember a teacher running through the building, in tears, to tell us that Nelson Mandela had been released from prison. (OK, admittedly, that year, I was attending a school that was run by hippies, so this was probably a little different than it was in your run-of-the-mill public school.) I was part of the first classes that suddenly had to memorize a heck of a lot more countries for Miss Schmidt’s famously rigorous Global Studies geography tests as the Soviet Union split up.

Of course there were some crappy things in the news as well (First Iraq war? Yes. Terrible.) But some of the first things I saw on the news, when I first had the intellectual capacity to get it were things like the Velvet Revolution and the Berlin Wall coming down. There’s no way around it: those were incredibly images of hope.

In fact, within a few years, my parents would pack their 4 kids and camping equipment into a rental car, and we would spend 10 weeks traveling all over Europe. Our itinerary included parts of theEastern Bloc: East Germany; Hungary; Romania. In other words, countries that, 5 or 6 years earlier, were completely closed off; countries we were taught to feel sorry for, and even be a little afraid of.

Now, here’s where I’m going with this: honestly, I am not often hopeful right now when I listen to the news. Things don’t look so good. The economy is the crapper, not just here, but all over the world. Our country has incredible, rising levels of disparity. (A few days ago, I had a conversation with my grandfather that brought home to me the profound sadness of people of his generation that, while their children may have thrived and “done better” in life, they are worried for their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.) Governments all over the place are corrupt and faltering in their duty to take care of people and preserve the gifts their countries have been given.

It’s not very hopeful.

Last week, I read this article (about someone’s bike getting stolen…) with the great quote:

“Hope is not the smartest of emotions.”

It made me chuckle. I heard a similar sentiment in a Norm MacDonald stand-up routine yesterday.

It might be the general view of hope right now: There’s not much to hope for. And, what we do hope for is probably not going to happen.

I often don’t disagree with this thought.

I’m not proud to say that. As a Christian (a MINISTER, even!) I know I’m supposed to be a great advocate of hope.

I think I stopped this morning when I heard that Vaclav Havel had died because it reminded me of hope.

And, taken back to those first years when I started to understand the news, I remembered this hopefulness.

At my best, when I remember that, I find that I am inclined toward hope. (Not as cynical as the Gen Xers are stereotyped to be.) Maybe things can get better in the world. Things had BETTER get better in the world.

There is one more story about Eastern Europe and the fall of communism that I need to tell.

There is a historic branch of the Reformed Church in Hungary. (That’s right, Presbyterians: you have cousins who speak Magyar!) One of its learning centers in in a town called Sarospatek.

After WWII, my grandparents, through their Dutch Reformed Church, were part of a relief effort to help their brothers and sisters in Hungary, sending clothing. They were strictly prohibited from doing anything, though, to identify where the help was coming from (somehow, the communist government allowed this help, but did not want the Hungarian Church to know that this was a church-driven effort). My grandmother was not one to follow these sorts of rules. So she slyly pinned a small scrap of paper with her name and address deep into the pocket of a pair of pants.

And they got a letter, from Zoltan, a man in Sarospatek. He was an artist and teacher. They wrote occasionally over the years.

But more amazing than the letters were the paintings. He sent them at least two.

In one painting, there is a church under a dark cloudy sky. Just over top of the church, the clouds are parting a little and there is light.

That could have just been scenery, but the other painting confirmed his message:

He sent a painting of the Reformed Theological College in Sarospatek, in winter, viewed through a screen of leafless trees and branches. And if you take a closer look, there is a “tree” that is clearly a cross.

My grandparents knew, from these paintings, what Zoltan couldn’t say in the letters: the church was still there. And it was doing all right. There was hope.

I met Zoltan and his wife in 1993 when my family traveled in Europe. We sat in their living room and they plied us with coffee and sweet drinks and plate after plate of food. Then they took us to the Theological School. Zoltan could not have been prouder that it was again training pastors.

Hope is absolutely ridiculous. Unbelievable.

But so is the idea that things will get better, that a baby could be God, that God is not done loving us and cleaning up the mess.

It’s Advent. Anything is possible. What makes sense to me is that God loves the world, and somehow, everything will be made right.

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By the numbers

On this most incredible number day (11/11/11), a few numbers I’m contemplating this week. (None are particularly “biggie” numbers, like fives or tens or anything, but still cause to think around here.)

Thirty Four

I turn 34 this week. I think this means that I exit any claim to my early thirties and land in the mid-thirties. Whatever. Zora asked me the other day about the etiquette of asking people their age and I explained that sometimes, as people get older, they are embarrassed by their age. But I told her I am proud of each year I’ve lived. Maybe proud wasn’t the right word to use. I’m grateful for each year. So, I don’t care if you all know I’m in my mid-thirties.

Nine

Abram is nine months old this week. He is, of course, beautiful and brilliant, and the definition of a bouncing baby boy. We have high hopes that he is finally getting the hang of sleeping through the night, although the fact that I’ve written this will probably jinx it.

Seventy Two

Seventy two days of not holding a ministry position. Not working is an odd thing (and yes, I KNOW that I am working by being in charge of the house and children, etc. But still, this is a whole new thing.) I waver between loving it and eagerness for what’s next.

Eight

The eighth anniversary of my ordination is this week. Which means I’ve made it past seven without leaving ministry (I’ve heard that’s a year when people leave). On the other hand, this is not where I predicted I’d be 8 years ago. Then again, 8 years ago I was in my mid twenties, when one is full of hopeful and sometimes unrealistic optimism. And now I have two kids and Erik and I have two careers and things are more real. Not bad. Just real.

Fifty

Coming up in a few weeks: Zora’s fiftieth day of kindergarten. For which we must produce a poster that uses 50 small objects, grouped in fives and tens, to make some sort of collage picture. In theory, this is a cool project. In practice, I kind of hate kindergarten homework.

Four-Seven-(Eight?)

I have three siblings. There are four of us. Between me (oldest) and Anna (youngest), there’s only a 6 year split. Our last decade has been fascinating because the age difference has collapsed so quickly. Two weeks ago, Anna got married. My brother Mark has been married for 6 years and I’ve been married for 12. I love my sister in law. I love that my husband is friends with my siblings. I think Anna’s husband is wonderful. The fun of this whole marry-ing thing is that the siblings are choosing such fun people to add to the mix. And, we think the remaining single sibling, Emily, is close to not being so single anymore. Her guy is lovely, too. From four to seven, and we’re hoping for eight.

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Could this be the last fine day of the season?

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Bully by Conscience

Michigan has been working on enacting an anti-bullying law. Nice job, mitten folks.

But here’s the upsetting part: in the course of debate, Republicans added a clause that allows for sincerely held opinions based on religion and conscience to be expressed.

Here’s a concise explanation of this. (And, yes, I know that my source is “liberal.)

Now, all in all, I have to say that while I (obviously) don’t support bullying, and while my interpretation of Scripture on things tends to the more liberal, I think there might need to be some wiggle room in legislation like this to allow people to hold opinions, say, that their religion leads them to believe something is wrong. Opinion is different than bullying. And I think it’s acceptable for one to say that there are some things that are morally wrong, even when some of these things are not things we would be able to legislate against. (There were things Jesus thought were wrong. He was not a bully.) The trick is: one must learn how to hold opinions, and even express them, without doing so in a way that is harmful and hateful to other people. This is a life skill.

But, there’s a very very very fine line here, and an illustration from the suburb where I used to live and work causes me to worry about the editing of this law.

Last fall, students at a local high school called for a week to show support against bullying of gay and transgendered students.

3 students showed up one day wearing T-shirts that said: “Straight Pride” on the front. On the back, these shirts had the reference “Leviticus 20:13″. That passage does not just say something about homosexual acts being wrong, it actually calls for putting to death people who do them.

I’m not OK with that, particularly with the use of the scripture reference (and, quoted as one verse, and in such a way that there’s really no room for dialogue or study of the passage). I think it’s a subtle way to bully. But it sounds to me like this would be a permissible action under the addition to the Michigan law.

As a Christian, these issues around bullying, I believe, come down to this: Jesus was not a bully. (And don’t tell me that the table turning in the temple was a bullying thing.) As a society, we have trouble right now behaving civilly toward each other, and we need to learn how to walk a line between holding opinions and being hurtful and hateful to others.

Young people are still learning this distinction. Not because they are bad, or worse than previous generations. That’s just where they’re at developmentally, often into their early twenties (the human brain takes a little time to figure out impulse control, etc.).

And it looks as if we may need some help, as a society, dealing with bullying.

And, for that matter, learning how to express our opinions, and how to carry out a dialogue, without being hateful or hurtful. (Kind of, I suppose, like Jesus carried on a dialogue…)

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Our hearts are restless…

Don’t you love when two completely unrelated topics converge in your head?

Here’s mine for the day: Billy Graham and Wilco. I kinda love them both. Billy Graham, admittedly not perfect, but who is? I think in many ways he is a model Christian. Devoted to Christ. Grew in his faith and in his actions through his life. Humble, even though he did great things. Also, he can preach.

Wilco: from Chicago. Some of the best road trip music ever written.

Now, the most obvious convergence: I’m SURE the members of Wilco hold Johnny Cash in high esteem and Johnny and June were dear dear friends with Billy and Ruth as they all settled into old age in the mountains together. (Oh, to be a fly on the wall for one of their evenings together!)

But two articles today have me connecting them in a different way: restless hearts.

(And, just to make it a little better, let’s add this quote so that e can make a three-way connection: Wilco, Billy, and Augustine:

et inquietum est cor nostrum donec requiescat in te

Our hearts are restless until they rest in you)

In this lovely review of the new Wilco album, John Thompson points out that Wilco’s indictment of religion is not a complete rejection…it may, in fact, be restlessness rather than rejection:

Tweedy is in rare form lyrically. His is a consistent meditation on the need for – and personal commitment to – lasting love that runs far deeper than mere sentiment. Even his ruminations on faith and his own lack of religiousness feel more like a rejection of hypocrisy than the middle finger so many rockers and cynics seem to feel the need to throw at God. When Tweedy talks about the God he doesn’t believe in, it is with sadness, not vitriol, and often sounds like a God I don’t believe in either. His thoughtful and brutally self-aware articulation of his frustration with his own nature, his need for the love of others and his fractured commitment to be there for the recipients of his love is moving. His seems to be a heart facing in the right direction. Here’s hoping he finds that heart’s true home, if he hasn’t already, before his journey ends.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Montreat, NC, Billy is waiting to die. And he’s written honestly about what it’s like to grow old, and what it’s like to wait for full union with God. This reinterprets that classic Augustine quote for me. Restlessness goes on and on, even after one has “found” God (or, should I say, after one has figured out that God never got lost or lost you). The restlessness continues throughout the Christian life, and the final restlessness is in the waiting for reunion.

So, here’s a hopeful prayer: in that reunion, may we someday see Johnny and June jamming with Wilco while Billy and Ruth and Augustine sit back, nodding they heads to the sound of the eternal choir.

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I’ll take what I can get

It would be an understatement to call the last week of parenting around here “rocky”.

But, I’ll take what I can get…

Erik took the kids out today. I stayed home and hacked away at the home organization project. And enjoyed a few hours of no one needing anything.

I met them for dinner. We walked to the (super nice) grocery store and had caramel apples custom made.

We walked home in the dark.

Abram went to sleep relatively quickly.

And then Zora hugged me on her way to bed and I said,

“You’re my best girl.”

And she said, “You’re my best mama…no you’re my best baby.”

“Really?!?”

“No…you’re my best peanut.”

“Then you’re my best cashew.”

And then we made up a lullaby based on the song, “Close Your Sleepy Eyes, My Little Buckaroo,” but called it “Close your sleepy eyes my cashew”.

And if that’s the best 15 minutes I can get this week, I’ll take it. Makes everything completely worthwhile.

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Praying on 9/11

As I write this, I know I have some ministry colleagues who are rubbing their eyes from computer-strain, and earnestly begging the Holy Spirit to GET ON WITH IT already and give them a little boost for the sermon tomorrow.

I think, for church-y people, the tenth anniversary of 9/11/2001 falling on a Sunday is both a curse and a blessing.

On the one hand, it means that an expectation of commemoration during worship has fallen on us. Ten years later, how people react to 9/11 still runs the gamut, and often says as much about other things in their lives as it does about how they were affected by the actual event. There’s a good chance that someone in your congregation will think you got it wrong, no matter what you preach, how you pray, or what special thing you planned for worship.

On the other hand, if you’re a church-y person, you’ve been given the opportunity to commemorate in the way you do best: with the gathered community, in prayer and reflection.

I’ll be off to church tomorrow, my second Sunday of this new adventure as not-the-pastor. I have no illusion that, as an associate pastor, I would have gotten to preach this Sunday. But I know I would have at least had an opportunity to help plan worship.

And, for me especially, being in church to remember seems about right: ten years ago, I spent 9/11 surrounded by my seminary classmates, watching the news on a big screen, with the sound turned down while we prayed…and prayed…and prayed…

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How it’s going

It’s official: I’m no longer working. Or, in church lingo, I no longer have a call. As of September 1, I am a stay at home parent.

Given that in this same week, Zora also started kindergarten, and, without the commute, I finally feel like I am living in the new neighborhood, it feels like a whole new life.

Here are a few thoughts on how it’s going:

1. The other kindergarten moms (because, yes, they are mostly moms) all seem to know each other already. This is the thing that I always find hardest about moving…I feel like I’m disturbing the balance of things when I try to break into a chatting group. And, then I start going toward the introvert-side of things, and hang out on my own in a corner.
2. Thank goodness, then, for Abram’s winning smile. This kid literally stops people in their tracks on the sidewalk with his goofy, enthusiastic grin. He is my little conversation starter.
3. And, as for making friends, yesterday was a great reminder that I already have some: Kim, who I taught with several years ago at Providence St Mel lives 5 blocks north of me. And she, too, has just left the workforce. We went for a walk yesterday morning. Then, in the evening, another friend who precedes our move to St. Charles and this subsequent move, Alison, dropped by to “borrow” our piano, and stayed for dinner.
4. The kindergarten schedule is kicking my butt. Zora’s fine. But as I get into the rhythm of dropping her off and picking, and taking care of Abram in between, I find myself thinking: how would we do this if I was working? The truth is, we managed a pretty crazy pick up and drop off schedule last year (preschool in the morning; daycare in the afternoon) and if we had stayed put, without a middle of the day transfer from one place to another, things would be easier this year. We would figure it out if I was working. But I understand how easy it is to get used to not having to figure it out!
5. Most important achievement of the week: doing enough unpacking that I can turn my little study/office space into usable office space. (Which is why I’m finally dipping my toes into the blog again…) At the beginning of the week, the study was just scary boxes everywhere. You could barely walk through the room. Now I am sitting at a desk, and I have a comfy chair, and a wall full of books. Pictures and plaques and crosses are going up on the walls. There’s a desk lamp. Oh, it’s so nice.
6. And unpacking and organizing are exactly the kind of thing I now have time to do. I feel like my “call” for now at least, is to dig through several years of organizational neglect of our household. (Not because I’m the woman: if for some reason Erik were the at home person right now, I’d expect him to do it.) But I think this will be a good cleansing.
7. I’ve jokingly called this time my “baby-batical.” November will mark the 8th anniversary of my ordination. And, while I’ve not stayed in one position that whole time and had some respite between calls, I think I do need some time to regroup. So, joking aside, it seems like the right time to pull some things, and myself, together.
8. At the same time that I am enjoying this, I am reminding myself of what a privilege it is that I can do this. By some measures, we probably can’t afford me not working as a family (for instance, I’m sure it will delay any possibility of home ownership for a us a god bit longer…although, in this economy, I sometimes think our renter status is a bit of a privilege as well). But in the grand scheme of things, we will survive just fine, and quite well in fact. And I’m grateful that we have the affluence to slow down like this.

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Spiritual but not religious

I find this meditation on the whole “spiritual but not religious”  thing by Lillian Daniels to be true, but also a bit harsh. (And, I would like to add as a disclaimer that Rev. Daniels serves a church not too far from me, so partly just in case I ever run into her: from everything I’ve heard about her, and from other things I’ve read, she is a lovely person and deep thinker, so if you are really turned off by this piece, I’d say you ought to read more of her stuff before making any quick judgement calls. I also recognize, as a writer, that this sort of short-form meditation is hard to write because you usually have to leave quite a bit out.)

The harshness of it, to a large extent, I understand. I get her frustration as a clergyperson. Because I do find God in nature, but I also find God among the gathered community. So it sort of breaks my heart when people are unable to engage the community as part of their spiritual life. I think they are missing out.

And, I agree that American religious and spiritual practice, both inside and outside of religious institutions, has become too self-centered and individualistic.

If I were her, I would have added the observation that just as a sunset and the mountains and a lovely peaceful deer are parts of nature, so too is the busload of stinky people you are crammed into mass transit. Yes, human beings are part of the natural world. Not always pretty, but there are times when unlovely things happen in the mountains as well.

That said, I wish there were some tiny little attempt in her piece to find a way to express the desire to engage the “spiritual but not religious” person in the community. And I don’t necessarily mean getting them through the door of the church. I’m not even sure myself how to do this, but Daniels mentions the idea that spirituality practiced in community is hard work, and I wish had tipped her hat to the idea that spirituality practiced in community could include the community of the airplane seat-partner.

What do you think? I’m really curious to hear some other reactions to this!

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Book Boxes

I started packing the books this afternoon. There are (probably quite literally, but I am afraid to count) hundreds of other things on my to-do list, and with a week left, I wonder if I have no business squandering time when my brain is functional to pack books. I should probably wait until next week when, in my last three days at this call, my mother in law will be in town to watch my kids and I can pull all-nighters packing.

The book shelves in my study carry great weight for me, though. Again, probably literally, but I’d prefer not to think about what carting these boxes to my car will do to my back, or how many trips of the car it will take to get them home.

I’ve been a minister for almost 8 years now. But this is the first position where my books have had a more permanent place to rest. I packed them up 8 years ago at the end of my seminary internship, and unpacked some of them into my classroom at my first pastoring job: as a high school religion teacher. For the two years I was there, though, I had to pack up the books and take them with me when I left for the summer.

I didn’t bother to unpack them when I was in a pastoral residency program after that: my office was in a hallway and there was barely room for me, let alone my books.

When I arrived here a little over 5 years ago, the congregation was busily preparing to move me into a bigger room. I started out in a smaller one, and spent a few months there, but I returned after my maternity leave that fall to a lovely, huge study with a beautiful picture window next to my desk.

And opposite that window, there’s a whole wall of bookshelves. I got to pick them out of an office supply catalogue. And a dear, dear man named Len assembled them, and lovingly anchored them to the wall since he knew my new baby daughter might learn to crawl and pull up at church.

My books are not just some ivory-tower collection. They are connected to what I’ve done as a pastor. There’s Adam by Henri Nouwen, the book we bought all the kids on a mission trip one year, whether they were ready to read it or not, because we knew Nouwen’s story of his life with a young man with disabilities might help them understand their the week of service at an “Exceptional Persons” camp.

There are several copies of the book I give to grieving parents.

There are Bible commentaries that taught me everything I needed for sermons.

There is a beautifully bound set of all of the worship bulletins from one year of worship in this church that my head of staff secretly stashed away for a year and then turned into books for me and the other associate.

There are my Spanish grammars and workbooks that, as the pastor with the most (although it is truly pitifully little) Spanish I’ve had to use once in a while to help with translation for one of the preschool moms, or for a final check of the language in a document for a mission trip to Guatemala.

There are books about my past, and books about my future. There are books that will always remind me of a certain person, or a certain event.

Even the shelves themselves make me think about Len: when he died a year and a half ago, I was the only pastor available for an immediate visit, so I got to hold the hand that put together my shelves just after he had died, and pray with his family as they let him go.

I went into ministry for many reasons, but the books are a big reason. I love books and learning. I love the way a book can preserve knowledge, dialogue, and community, even through the centuries. I love how they smell, and I love their weight (except when I’m moving them). I love that Christians are “people of the book”.

I know this makes me a traditionalist, and a bit of an old-foagy. And I’m OK with that.

I’m not going to a new call yet. I guess God thinks I need to be not-as-busy for a little while. So in our new apartment, we have given the children a shared bedroom. My husband painted the extra room in a deep browny-purple color, and installed a floor-to-ceiling shelving system for books. In a few weeks, I’ll start unpacking my books there, across from my little arts and crafts oak desk, with one small cozy window looking out at the brick of our neighboring two-flat. There might not be room for all my books: they’ll have to share with Erik’s books and some of the kids books. And this is where I’ll write the occasional sermon and other things for the next little while, and where I hope to carve out some time to read.

As I started packing the books, I realized that they are something of a plug: one of the shelves is empty now, so I know that I am going to leave. And that I’d better get to work because there’s a whole lot to do.

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