Don’t flay the sheep.

Jumping off the Cliff

Yesterday, I walked to the post office and mailed envelopes with a letter and my minister profile to churches–all different, none I have ever been to before, some long-shots, some a bit more possible. It was one of the most frightening things I have ever done. I prayed as briefly as was comely over the envelopes before handing them over the guy at the post office counter. And then I left the post office and tried not to throw up (although, the nausea could have another explanation…).

After weeks of writing the profile, revising it, revising again, agonizing over what could possibly be read into any sentence or check mark, revising again; after an exhausting morning of forcing myself to write cover letters; after all of that crafting and revising, I now have no control over what happens to those packets of paper. Somewhere, at churches I’ve never seen, people I’ve never met are ripping open my envelopes, making copies for a committee, getting ready to dismiss or discuss, and there is nothing I can do about it.

Except trust. People around me keep reminding me to trust, using various versions of the line, “God has a spot for you.” For some reason, I have long equated the line in Psalm 55, “cast your cares upon the Lord” with the line from Ecclesiastes 11, “cast your bread upon the waters.” So, as I try to trust, I keep envisioning my envelopes as pieces of bread that are floating away from me on the water. I’ve sent them out, and now God gets to take care of them.

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My Funny Valentine

This is not about Erik, who is a fabulous valentine. It’s about the odd way I spent the evening.

Somehow, the presbytery decided to hold its meeting for February on Valentine’s Day. And this particular meeting was scheduled as an evening meeting. Except for clergy couples, and my colleague Patrick who brought his wife, this put a bit of a damper on the romantic traditions of the day.

I went and basked in all-things-Presbyterian: bagpipes during worship; references to the Presbyterian role in the founding of the USA; jokes about doing things “decently and in order”; heated discussion; church-basement lasagna.

But most of all, I left happy becuase for the first time since I was ordained, I got to vote as a member of a broader church assembly. In the CRC, I was in “specialized ministry” so my presence at classis meetings was not as one who votes–each church congregation sends one minister delegate. That ruled me out. I was not allowed to serve as a delegate to Synod (gender issues). In the PC(USA), all minister members get a vote at Presbytery. As of December, I’m a member. And I treasured every time I got to add my “yes” or “no” to a voice vote, or raise my hand (because we had some close votes). A good valentine gift from my new church, although Erik’s card and flowers were still the best.

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Worship Symposium 2006

I just returned from 3 days of brain-packing, earnest-praising, body-and-soul-exhausting time at the 2006 Worship Symposium at Calvin. Since I was a semianry student, this has been the one of the top three most important things in my own ministry formation. It usually takes me weeks to unpack everything that I bring back from this conference, but here’s a list for now.

1. My preaching delivery has to change. It is time for me to take the plunge and go beyond my manuscript. It is time to loosen my pulpit-death-grip and use my hands. It’s time to go extemporaneous. I need to spend more time on sermons, and use that time to get beyond the manuscript to outlines to rehearsing to better delivery that is more like me in normal life. And I should be able to do this. I spent two years teaching high school religion–and not from a manuscript, but from an outline, using carefully selected words and illustrations, using my hands, making eye contact. I’ve never been good at diving, but now’s the time.
2. I love worship that is mixed: worship that uses music from all over the globe and across time; worship that is deeply reverent, uplifting, and soul-plumbing, but also comfortable and even humorous when appropriate; worship that includes all ages and races and genders, and several languages, and different levels of skill, and all gifts. Symposium has fabulous worship. Overall, it hits all these areas, but there are still some that need improving. Most notably for me is the issue of race. It’s getting better at each year’s symposium, but I am more and more sensitive to a roomful of 98% white people. And this is a problem across the board with American Christians: Church is just too segregated. I don’t know how to fix it, but I wish it were different.
3. I need to spend less time on my couch (and, true confession, with my TV) and more time reading. But this excellent reminder came from Eugene Peterson about reading: there is just too much to read, and as Christians, we need to remember to focus on reading the Bible and being absorbed by that rather than feeling guilty for the pile of books we simply will never have time to read.
4. The pregnant stomach is a fickle thing. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.
5. I need to spend less time on my couch and more time with people. I reconnected with good friends and mentors this week, and was reminded that I do not always cultivate friendships as well as I should when I arrive in a new place. I’m good at spending time with people for the sake of ministry. I’m not good at spending time with people for the sake of my own well-being.
6. And, lest I forget, I also brought back a pile of books: a long-coveted leaders’ edition of Sing! A New Creation, which in spite of the awkward name, is a wonderful hymnal supplement that I love; The Worship Sourcebook, and I am happy to report that after thorough inspection it will be incredibly useful for my new life in the PC(USA) although it was produced by a predominantly CRC group; 2 copies of the Wild Goose Resource Group’s Wee Worship–I haven’t been able to find my own copy, and I think one of my pastoral resident colleagues wants a copy, too; and three books from the Iona Community–one on table prayers; one on blessings; and one of daily devotions.

And now, a down day to sit on the couch with my husband and two very sleepy cats, maybe unpack a few things, and catch up on sleep. On Monday, I write the final draft of my profile for my job search and start writing a few cover letters to churches. Scary, but as my friend Mary’s sermon at Symposium reminded us, God promises that we do not have to be afraid.

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Living in Two Denominations

I spent a huge chunk of time on Thursday sitting at my Presbyterian church desk and typing away e-mails to two female Christian Reformed women about being a Christian Reformed minister and being female. Both were stuggling with questions they shouldn’t have to struggle with–both feel called to ministry, but are sorting through questions they likely wouldn’t have to ask if they weren’t feeling a pull toward ordination in a denomination that is ever so slowly clawing its way toward ordaining women.

The whole experience has left me sad, for several reasons.

1. For now, I’m a minister in both denominations, but I’ve set my course to settle permanently in the PC(USA). I’m sad to leave behind the CRC for many reasons, but one is that it feels a little like defeat. I want to be a minister, but I also wanted to help change things for women in the CRC.
2. There is a looming minister shortage in the CRC. 50% of the people in the denomination who could consider ordination have to consider so many additional factors because of their gender. Think of the gifted women we are not using as God has gifted them!
3. How on earth did I become a role model? I am not yet 30. I have less than 5 years experience as a minister. But because I am one of so few ordained women in the CRC, I’ve been sought in that role. When I compare the advice, comfort, and wisdom that I can deliver to that of the Presbyterian women pastors I’ve met who have been doing this twice, three times, four times, as long as I have, I wish so much that young Chrisitian Reformed women had access to that within their own denomination.
4. The very existence of denominations makes me sad. Church should be Church with a big “C”, with one leader, one mission, one set of priorities (Jesus being the correct answer to those last three), and here we are splintered and splintering and arguing over whatever we can get our hands on.

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Small Mercies

Add this to the list of things I never thought I’d say:

Praise God, my tooth got pulled this morning!

I’m not taking God’s name in vain here, either. I am truly grateful for the providential cancellation of an appointment this morning, allowing me to slip in for a tooth extraction. Eating was becoming hazardous and unpleasant, and waiting until January 31 sounded nearly impossible. Did I mention the fabulous oral surgeon (Orthodox Jew, raised in Germany) and his assistant (Korean Presbyterian) who kindly distracted me while my mouth was numbing with a half hour conversation on why Christians don’t follow the Torah’s dietary laws?

I am now eating ice cream and planning to make some sort of fabulous jello concoction for dinner. I’m thinking raspberry “fluff” with mandarin oranges.

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Liturgies and Morning Sickness

Last week, I officially announced my pregnancy to the staff at church, and later to the session, making it as public as it can be in a 4,000+ congregation when I am not at all visibly pregnant. I am incredibly grateful for the kind reception of the news, but a little sad that the church will get to watch me expand, but my residency year there will likely be up before the baby arrives in August. Since I’ve never been pregnant before, and since I have never witnessed another woman pastor have a baby while working at a church, this has all felt new and a little scary.

I am so glad that I made this announcement this week. I may not know what I’m doing, but God does. For two months, I’ve had no major morning sickness symptoms–a little queasiness and heartburn, some pickiness about what I’ll eat. But that run came to an ugly halt yesterday. Of course, I was scheduled to be a worship leader at the 8:00am service this morning. But all was well. My colleagues were sympathetic, and so was my stomach, and the entire service was uneventful. Had anything happened, I guess that truly would have made the pregnancy public!

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I Take a Crack at the PIF, My Tooth Gets Cracked

Who knew granola could be so dangerous? While I was chomping away at breakfast, contemplating the possibilty of dragging Erik away from his books so that we could start our new year swimming regimen, my much abused molar cracked right in half. Fortunately, that abuse included a root canal 5 years ago, so it wasn’t as painful as it sounds.

But, it was a rather complicated morning. I’ve been pestering my HR department for months about my mysterious lack of a card from the dental HMO, they in turn have been pestering the HMO, and meanwhile said molar has been biding its time, waiting for an opportune moment to wreak havoc.

My intention today, other than the swimming, was to work at home on the PIF, the Presbyterian pastor profile I need to get together so that I can find a church. Fortunately, that meant I was at home for the day anyway. But when the molar cracked, the crazy phone tag began. I called HR. I called the HMO. I called a dentist. Everyone had completely different answers.

To drop a little more excitement into this, I’m also about 2.5 months pregnant (surprise, gentle readers!). While I’ve not been sick, my stomach has recently taken a turn of being oh-so-demainding about when and what it will accept. Liquid diet? Not very appealing. And I called an OB/GYN to check what the dentist can and cannot do to me.

The morning’s excitement culminated with the moment when I was on the phone finally scheduling an appointment with a dentist, and Erik was on the phone with the OB/GYN’s office (Can she wait a few weeks? No… OK, then. Local anesthesia, OK; x-rays OK with really really good protection.)

Erik says this whole snafu clearly makes the case for a national health care system. Maybe, although as someone who had a British National Health Care card for 6 months, I’m not so sure.

All I know is that by 4:00pm, I hope to be reclined in the dental chair, draped with layers and layers of those lead blankets, getting ready to have some sort of fix performed on the poor molar so that I can chew again because I have a major hankering for some pretzels.

And then, I can come home and take a crack at that PIF!

Update: After an hour with the new dentist (who was excellent), I left with my tooth patched together with the dental equivalent of silly putty and estimates for my two options: a rather involved crown process that might fall apart anyway since half of my tooth is essentially gone, or a bridge. A bridge, as far as I’m concerned, sounds like full on dentures, but apparantly will be more secure. Both options are costly. By the time we got home, I was exhausted from having my tooth probed and rotated, so the PIF has been tabled until tomorrow. Meanwhile, I feel like a dental hygiene failure. Dentures before 30?! A dance-line of every dental hygenist I’ve ever had is tapdancing through my head telling me to floss more often.

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Discourse among yourselves

I just tried to tackle an article in the January/February 2006 Books and Culture written by my friend Craig Mattson. Craig is incredibly smart, and during my internship at Hope CRC gave me some of the best sermon feedback ever, which makes perfect sense since he is an associate professor of Communication Arts at Trinity Christian College.

Because Craig in incredibly smart, it will take me a few more read-throughs, and perhaps some consultation with my incredibly smart English Ph.D student husband, and perhaps even some additional consultation with my incredibly smart Political Science Ph.D student brother (whose always handy for a philosophy tutorial) before I fully understand the article. But, I want to understand it because I found this great little section buried in there:

I listen to students for a living, as they talk in the classroom, on the sidewalk, at the coffee shop. Their vocal quality is sibilant, often nasal, with plenty of back-of-the-throat fry. Few students use their chest cavity for resonation. They often qualify their own remarks, deprecate themselves, leave sentences unfinished. Their favorite tag is some variation on “You know what I mean?” Now, you could say that all these apparantly modest habits of discourse suggest a mastery of the rhetoric of assent. But it sounds to me like a loss of rhetorical nerve, as if students have picked up (Wayne) Booth’s inflections but not his convictions. They sound like actors who have mastered a dialect but can’t remember their lines. Call it the rhetoric of accent: slow to speak, slow to anger, and quick to shrug.

Here’s what I need to untangle:

1. I don’t know enough about Wayne Booth. Erik (the smart husband) seems to recognize the name right away.
2. What exactly does the “rhetoric of assent” mean?
3. How does Richard Rorty fit into this? He comes up frequently in the rest of the article.

But, here’s what I already like:

1. The insight that even the physiological act of speaking reflects our cultural ideas about communication.
2. Recognition of the hesitancy with which younger generations speak, and in some cases act. (Craig compares the students at Trinity today to students there 30 years ago–30 years ago, burning Nixon in effigy; today, Bush-Cheney signs and a sense that they wouldn’t even know how to protest something if they wanted to.)
3. And, of course, because this is me thinking about it, what all of this means for future generations of “church.” God’s people are called, individually and collectively, to speak, to act (speaking and acting are tightly woven together in Hebrew!). Are we coming to a time culturally when we need to learn how to do this? And, how often do I have to remove phrases like “I think” or “I feel” or “It seems” from my sermons, phrases that qualify what I’m saying, and dull sharpness of communication, phrases that verge on self-deprecation?

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I Always Wanted to Play in the Jazz Band…

Here’s something to think about:

Every minister in every faith is like a jazz musician, keeping traditions alive by playing the beloved standards the way they are supposed to be played, but also incessantly gauging and deciding, slowing the pace or speeding up, deleting or adding another phrase to a prayer, mixing familiarity and novelty in just the right proportions to grab the minds and hearts of the listeners in attendance.

I’m still mulling this over after running across it yesterday. It was at the end of a short book review, and, surprisingly, not for a book that appears to be particularly complimentary of traditional religion. But, I can’t help thinking that this idea rings true for preaching and worship, whether contemporary, traditional, blended, evagelistic, liberal, artsy, seeker-oriented…

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What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?

Dinner at the top of the Hancock Building? Party at Union Station?

Nope. I’m settled in on the couch with my husband and a happy cat, watching TV and salivating over the scent of a perfect pot of chili. We are staying in, and cooking “Chicagoland ChiliMac” from Jane and Michael Stern’s Chili Nation (a chili recipe from every state in the union, plus D.C.).

2005 has been a good year, and 2006 and promises to be even more exciting. But, for tonight, Erik, the couch, chili, and the cats are excitement enough.

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