what a concept...

The reality, of course, is that any time people gather to deal with life, especially suffering and unfairness, the context is profoundly religious and political. This is where God will be found, "working the crowd" of victims and mercy-givers, helping people to connect despite a world bent on division, helping God's beloved to see the holiness of life and to venture outside self-interest. —Tom Ehrich

I think this is a piece of the puzzle that many who have no faith in God (and many who profess faith in God) overlook in their understanding of the human connection to the sacred. "Religion" cannot be a title that means the same thing to all people, just as "mother" does not mean the same thing. I am a mother by definition, both by choice and accident, and I raised two sons who have differing views of the world and differing understandings of who I am... as their mother, as a nun, and as a female human being. My own definition of mother doesn't match theirs, either of myself or of my own mother. So what?

So nothing. Just an observation. Communication seems to be the major bugaboo in every relationship, whether person-to-person, group interaction, or conversations with and/or about God. Listening is more key than speaking, and many of us just won't make the effort to listen. It's too exhausting. It's too annoying. It's too easy to stay in our heads with our own interpretations of the perceived reality. It's one reason the internet and blogging are so popular... you can stay in your head, or hit delete, or make anonymous comments that further your agenda without any fallout. The internet, by that definition, is not an especially sacred space. There are sites devoted to prayer, to religious discussion and learning, of course, but in the end it is still one person browsing and gleaning, utilizing or pooh-poohing. Still, it's a start.

The kind of interaction Tom describes is a whole lot messier. People coming together to join forces for a purpose... whether for social justice, feeding the hungry, bringing aid to natural disaster victims... or running in a race to raise awareness about a particular disease. The agendas are many but they are set aside for the time it takes to get the job done. What a concept. How come we can't apply that to more of our activities?

physician, heal thyself

"Telling other people how to live can be as intoxicating as leading an army into battle or basking in applause at a political rally." —Tom Ehrich

That's certainly one of the pitfalls of spiritual direction. Talking too much is another... that's one I battle with constantly. I see several people for spiritual direction now... it's one of our ministries here, especially in the city where there's easy access by mass transit. Our two oldest sisters did it for years, but they have pretty much retired and some of their directees were passed on to others. (Me included.)

Most directors come to the session with their calendars, and schedule the next month's appointment. In the beginning I just decided not to do that. "Call me (or email me) when you're ready to come again." I say. One reason is: that I think the spiritual journey is not as neat and timely as the calendar page, and I remember having to think things up to say to my own director. (Not that that's necessarily a bad thing... but it seems to me if you feel a need to talk, then that's the time to do it.) The other reason is selfish. I don't want to waste my own time listening to someone else trying to think something up to say to me. My time may be free, but it's valuable to me, and there are a gazillion other things I could be doing.

But back to Tom's quote. I was thinking about it in relation to the passage from Scripture about removing the log from your own eye before you point out the speck in the other person's. (Even though it always seems easier to see another person's situation more clearly.) But I was also thinking about it in relation to my dealings with another sister. I have a nasty habit of correcting her when she goofs up. She gave me information she thought would be helpful yesterday... information I was already aware of, because I had just finished doing the job. I snapped at her in a way that was totally unnecessary, telling her I already knew because I took that particular job seriously. The implication was, of course, that she did not.

Oh for heavens sake. What's that about? Well, partly it's about my evil "oneness"... expecting everyone to do things the right way, which of course, I always know how to do. Except when I don't. I don't know the right way to do my new job at the church. I constantly have to ask for assistance in the correct procedure for this form or that qualification, or some report I'm supposed to file. I'm so uncomfortable with not knowing what I'm doing, I come home with a headache every day I'm there. That will eventually even out, I think, but not before I've consumed a few bottles of Excedrin. But I digress. So... it's partly the oneness. But more than that, it's the hangover I feel which is the direct opposite of the intoxication Tom speaks about. I can't feel the buzz because this particular sister doesn't listen. Or... more correctly, she may listen, but she does it her own way anyway. Ha ha on me. I've been here before, haven't I?

As they said in my first year here, "welcome to community living."

sinking sand

Our celebrant Sunday had some interesting things to say about the lessons, and in particular about the sticky business of discerning God's will. "Not everyone who says "Lord, Lord... will enter the Kingdom..." —Matthew 7:21 He believed this passage was a warning to those of us who are really sure we are doing God's will. Because, as the song proclaims: it ain't necessarily so. He went on to quote Lao Tsu on the subject of emptiness... "that it is only the emptiness inside that makes a vessel useful, that's it's easier to carry an empty cup than one that is filled to the brim."

As he spoke, I immediately thought of one of our sisters who seems hell-bent on a path she truly believes God has chosen her for. Not all of us in the community agree that she has heard this call straight from God, some of us may even believe she has an unhealthy obsession about it. But we are not she. As our celebrant so eloquently said: Each of us is a unique and unrepeatable turn of God's creative love. We are not spiritual clones, and each sister must follow her heart and be true to her own understanding of God's will. The rest of us can only pray that if it turns out not to be (God's will or call) that she will not be left disillusioned and in pain. It has already been painful enough for us to allow her to follow this dream.

But it's so much easier to see what we perceive as the speck in someone else's eye, isn't it? I caught myself in the middle of my musings about her, and asked: What if this is about me? What things am I pursuing that I'm too cock-sure are from God, and not my own personal agenda?

Ouch. Too many answers to that one. My cartoons, for one thing. Even though I haven't drawn anything for ages doesn't mean they aren't on my list to start up again once we have a little more help around the place. I love thinking up humorous conversations between the three entities of the Trinity, drawing God with the shape and mind of an inquisitive child. But are these ideas from God? When I get on a creative roll with my cartoons, do I empty myself of all need for recognition, for applause at my witty little turns of phrase? No, I do not. I cannot wait to show them off. So what about that?

I've also been asked to serve as a spiritual advisor for the governing group for Cursillo in this diocese. Is that what God wants? Or is it a way for me to get out of the house once a month, or a way to make our community more visible to the larger church? And... is that a bad thing?

The next warning from Scripture was the familiar one about building your house on rock rather than sand. Our celebrant had a new twist to this passage. He had just recently buried a good friend and was freshly aware that everything we have from God is on loan. While we have the abundance of family, friendships and any material possessions, we must celebrate them and be thankful... but we cannot hang on to them. He likened the hanging on to a perceived identity to building a house on sinking sand. Of course.

Relaxing our hold on any and all things in life is a form of detachment often confused with not caring. Of course we care. But care and reliance are not the same thing. Reliance on God is the rock we must build on... and for that we must empty ourselves of everything else.

catching up

What has been done has been done... what has not been done has not been done... let it be.
That is, until tomorrow. (They don't mention that in the night prayers.)


Yesterday we celebrated Sr. Mary Christabel's 50th Anniversary of her Life Profession. Already overtaxed to our physical limits, we took on yet one more big bash... inviting the world to a little tea party yesterday afternoon. It was a lovely affair: all the Melrose sisters came, laden with a large crudité platter and little cucumber sandwiches. We had our own offerings already assembled: three more kinds of sandwiches, baby quiches, baked brie, champagne punch, and a large assortment of cookies and sweet things. A fair number of our guests stayed on for Evening Prayer and our little chapel swelled with music like we haven't heard since "the old days". To say Sister Mary Christabel is much beloved would be an understatement, and it was evident as many eyes misted on the final hymn... our "Life Profession" song.

Since we are short-handed these days, planning and preparations for much of what we do is left to the last minute. There was a time in my past life when this would have driven me up the wall. Now it just seems to be the way of life. Don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. (Matthew 6:34) As with many of the familiar Bible quotations, that particular passage has taken on a whole new meaning.

Friday night and Saturday were my busiest days: a zillion baby quiches, preparing chicken salad, egg salad and cream cheese & olives for sandwiches... chopping, shopping, organizing, cleaning up. On Saturday I had some unexpected help all day (Thank you, Joanna), and as I look back I doubt I could have done it all alone.

I rally well in crisis situations; it's one of my strengths/weaknesses gifts/curses... there are always two sides of every coin. But I collapse hard after the big push. Today is Monday, our rest day. So why am I not resting?!?

Because what has not been done still needs to be done at some point, no matter what the prayer says. I missed my best friend's birthday yesterday. I have thank you notes to write, a grocery order to figure out, my to-do list from last week still has to-dos... my to-be-filed basket is overflowing...

All in all though, the undone things are few. I may take a walk, see a movie, even have a nap this afternoon. Tomorrow will be another difficult day. As Matthew and Scarlet both would say: I'll worry about that tomorrow.

Prayer II

This was the third meditation I gave several weeks ago at the Oregon Associates Retreat, continuing the subject of prayer. I began with a story that I've blogged about here, and went on to explain that any time you ask someone else to pray for you, there's going to be a filter. It seems easier to farm out prayer sometimes... whether due to our doubts that prayer even works... whether it's really just wishful thinking, magical thinking, or that in our own ignorance we may not know the right things to pray for, or even the right way to pray. Any or all of those reasons can give logical credence to farming it out to the experts: the clergy, the religious, or to established "prayer warriors". But, as in the story I related, what she wanted and what I prayed for were not the same thing.

• So point #1: Do it yourself. There's really no right way to pray anyway, there's really no right thing to pray for. For me, prayer is a conversation with God. Sometimes in conversations we argue... so argue your case. There's certainly enough Biblical evidence that arguing works.

Here's another story: I was at another retreat recently, and attended a workshop on "Prayers of the People". The leader was a deacon on the priesthood track; most of the attendees were middle-age to older ladies. The main points were: prayers of the people should be direct, concise, specific. And since they are "of the people" the language should be contemporary. Now that's a lot of shoulds to deal with, but everyone seemed interested in getting right down to the task at hand: constructing a set of prayers for the weekend's upcoming Eucharist.

Using our prayer book as a guide, our leader started with the bidding prayer, and then moved (or tried to move) through each section... for the church, the world, people in positions of authority, the ill, the dying, the bereaved. It was a noble attempt—but, as with any committee decision, it got bogged down with too many ways to articulate the exact same thing. As a result, the prayers ended up being indirect, verbose, non-specific, and the language was flowery and stilted. Here's an example: "Gracious all-merciful God, wrap your loving arms around those who mourn and weep." Now let me be the first to say there's absolutely nothing wrong with that image. It's beautiful. Just picture warm loving arms enfolding you when you need to cry your heart out.

But it certainly didn't fit the description of what the group was supposed to be working toward, and I could see the facilitator was a little frustrated. Of course I immediately went into my "They aren't doing it right" number... and went off to explore in my own judgmental mind the usual suspects for why that might be. I started thumbing through the prayer book looking at all the samples, (and we have a number of wonderful samples) and it occurred to me that this liturgy, this very beautiful language, while it unites us, in many ways keeps us distant from the whole point of praying.

If we ask God to wrap his loving arms around those who mourn, then we don't have to. God is going to do it for us and we are off the hook. At that point our prayer is not really to comfort someone else, but to make us comfortable with their grief.

Another thing I noticed about these prayers... we don't mean them. Certainly not all of them. The little group came up with this one for people in positions of authority: "Imbue our leaders with a sense of integrity and compassion." Do we really want that? Because if we get what we pray for we may not recognize it. Compassion will be seen as weakness, integrity will be seen as inexperience, naivety. Maybe what we really mean is: Make leaders tough and able to mete out judgment with an iron hand, wiley and devious when it comes to negotiating our interests as a nation.

Of all the forms in our prayer book, I like Form I best. The prayers themselves are short, maybe a bit too generalized, but certainly inclusive. in my community we seldom use Form I. Why? They take too long. (We're on a schedule.) Form II, on the other hand, is very generalized and short; we use Form II a lot. Form III is the one we can say in our sleep, the call and response... yet if we listen to what we're actually asking for, I wonder... "that your holy catholic church may all be one."

One what? One institution? The reason our Anglican church and the other Protestant denominations exist is because Holy Mother Church was corrupt and abusive. We splintered out of discord... do we really want to all be one again?

"Give us a reverence for the Earth as your own creation." Okay, that first part is nice. It goes on: "that we may use its resources rightly in the service of others, and to your honor and glory." I don't think so. I think what we may really mean is: we want all the fossil fuels that are left on the planet under our control, so we can continue to drive our comfortable SUVs wherever we want and still maintain low prices at the pumps.

Form V: "For the poor, the sick and all who suffer, for refugees, prisoners and all who are in danger, that they may be relieved and protected." Right. No wonder so many priests use the concluding collect: "O Lord, accept the fervent prayers of your people..." Perhaps it's a disclaimer, a code to God that He can just disregard the unfervent prayers?

The confession, at least, is honest: "We have sinned against you by what we have done and not done, in thought, word and deed." In the supplemental liturgy the confession goes even further: "We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf." That confession will not let anyone off the hook. We are confessing that we are responsible for what others do to preserve our interests. "He's not my president." won't work with this all-to-painfully honest admission of guilt. In her book The Practice of Prayer, Margaret Guenther explains the purpose of prayer: "It's not to make you feel better. It's to give us an awareness of our own complicity of/in the power to hurt."

In our conversations with God, this awareness is perhaps the most difficult piece of the dialog. We want to be comforted. Life is tough, life is scary and overwhelming and painful. If God is on our side, we want to feel it, no matter what words we use or how imperfect our requests may be. But to stay honest in the conversation we have to attempt the words ourselves and we have to mean what we say. Be careful what you pray for... you just might get it.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day is significant as the day to honor the men and women who lost their lives in the service of our country. It used to be a huge observance... with parades, flag ceremonies, graveyard visits, poppies in lapels... not so much now.

For one thing, the most recent "wars" where these men and women have been killed, have been bitterly contested. Viet Nam was the first war to show all the gory details on TV every night. Intelligent people began asking: Why? Why were we sending our brave children overseas to do battle in a tiny country they'd never even heard of? Of course, the enemy then was "Communism." Enemies change. Arbitrary lines on maps change. Agendas change. And we've outgrown some of our valiant naivete in matters political. Or at least that's the spin.

As a child I remember Memorial Day more for the rules and regulations... no white shoes before the date, and always make a trip (the week before) out to the graveyard to paint the urn and plant red geraniums. But in 1991 this holiday took on a new personal significance for me.

I had been away for the weekend, actually only overnight on Sunday, but I hadn't checked in on my mom since Saturday afternoon. I arrived at her apartment Sunday around lunch time and let myself in. She was asleep on the couch. I'd taken to checking her breathing every time I found her asleep, since by then she'd had at least three minor strokes. All was well. She was breathing, so I didn't wake her. I cleaned up the accumulation of dishes in her kitchen and made her some lunch.

When I brought it in, she still hadn't heard me puttering around in the kitchen, so I patted her shoulder to wake her up. Nothing. I shook her. It was then I realized she was stiff as a board. Her eyes were open, she was breathing, but nothing else was going on. It took me some time to process this information. I talked it through out loud with her.

"Mom, something's wrong. Wake up. You aren't waking up. I guess you don't want this lunch I made. I'm going to go call the doctor now. You wait here. Well of course, you will. You're not moving. Okay, I'm just going into the other room to call now. I'll be back."

The ambulance came and she went to the hospital. She never woke up. She died a week later.

For me it's not the date. The date changes every year. That year Memorial Day was much later, because she died on June 6th. It's the holiday I remember.

The Holy Trinity, One God

Our celebrant reminded us this morning that Trinity Sunday, unlike other major feasts, is not so much a celebration of specific events in the Life of Jesus (or his mother, or the angels, or any of the various saints we celebrate...) but a tribute to to a theological idea. As she said, the concepts that under gird our faith don't necessarily provide the impetus to get up every morning to do what Christ commanded us to do.

While the concept of Trinity may be one we grapple with from time to time, the commandment to "love God and our neighbor" tends to take up most of our energy. (That's certainly true for me.)

She went on to point out, though, that in today's Old Testament Lesson, (Genesis 1:1-2:4) the story of the dawn of creation and our part in it, points to humankind as a creative tension between two worlds: we are definitely cast as part of the process, creatures that God made, yet we have a unique distinction: we are made in God's image.

She saw the Trinity itself as a creative tension in the way God reveals himself (herself) in so many ways... the concept of trinity/unity/One God tries to make sense of all the manifestations. And what about the Holy Spirit? from a mystical perspective, the Holy Spirit is the energy, the Love, that flows through and between... the glue that provides the Unity.

She admitted this was all still "head stuff" and gave examples of the human experience of this flow: the dance. In her case, it was the physical interaction of training her horse that provided the image: two separate beings becoming one, together yet separate... in harmony as they executed a maneuver they had both been training each other to achieve.

I thought of other examples, but the image of the Dance resonated the strongest... I could picture ballroom dancers sweeping across the floor in such smooth precision they seemed like one body. My friend Pat writes about dancing all the time. I thought of her too. And then in the midst of (one of) my favorite hymns came the line: "I bind unto myself today, the power of God to hold and lead..." aha! God does want to dance with us. I knew it.

The Oregon Trail: Intercessory Prayer I

The following is from my notes on the second address I gave at Mount Angel Abbey on prayer:

Frederick Buechner speaks about prayer in The Final Beast. He relates a story about his meeting with a faith healer, Agnes Sanford, and their conversation.

She gave Buechner an image of Jesus standing in the midst of all the Sunday church services... all over the world... with his hands tied behind his back. He wasn't able to do any of the mighty works we hear about in the Bible because the ministers and priests who led the services either didn't expect him to, or didn't dare ask him to do them out of fear— fear that if he couldn't or wouldn't, the faith of their congregations would be threatened — indeed, that their own faith would be threatened. I can relate to that. People ask me to pray for them or with them all the time. Sometimes I have a chance to listen to their story, and as I've been taught, I try to listen as much to what they don't say as to what they do.

A few weeks ago I was at a reception for a representative from GAIA, (Global AIDS Interfaith Alliance). The speaker was a Roman Catholic nun who was also the Project Director for a nursing program in Malawi. There was a young woman there who'd literally been hauled off the street by the host of the event, who had been waiting outside the church to direct his guests to the proper entrance. She had stopped by the church to pray, but it was already after 6:00 and the front doors were locked. He invited her to the reception and she came, and dutifully and politely sat through the presentation. When it was over and I was getting ready to leave, she stopped me and asked if I would pray with her.

It was good timing. I volunteer at that parish once a week and I had a key to my office. I took her there. She was a bright young woman, a student working on her Masters degree to be a teacher, trying to make ends meet in New York City, holding down a part time job at Starbucks and barely paying her rent on time. Personally she was in a place of overwhelm. Yet she'd just sat through a presentation about an entire population of people living with AIDS, thousands of orphans, not enough food or medicine or professional health care workers...

On the one hand was her own life, and she clearly needed some help and encouragement. On the other hand was the conflict over her obvious position of privilege in a world where most everyone has way less than she does. She was both confused and embarrassed, yet she was brave enough to ask.

She told me "I know I should be feeling grateful, and I do feel that. So many people are so much worse off than I am... I know that. But... but everything seems just so hard right now."

But...

So we prayed. Or rather, I prayed. I can't tell you exactly what I said, I can never remember what comes out of my mouth when I pray. God knows. God knows, too, both what she needed to hear— and what she actually needed. And those are not always the same thing, are they?

So, here's my first point about prayer:

1. You have to ask anyway. In that same conversation with Buechner, Agnes Sanford described prayer as a game. And we are to play the game. Why? Because Jesus told us to, and of all the ridiculous games we already play, most of them are not nearly as helpful.
   The second point is equally important:
2. Expect to receive. This one can be harder, and I think it's at the very center of why our prayers seem so hollow sometimes.

You read the Bible. You know the miracle stories of healing—where time and time again Jesus says, "Go in peace. Your faith has made you well." Your faith... not my power...

It's a game and it's a bargain. In places where Jesus was distrusted or misunderstood the healing works were few and far between.

So it is in our technologically advanced culture. We bet our lives on chemotherapy while we pray for mercy that it will kill the cancer without killing us in the process.

In this game of prayer, the voice of prayer competes with the voices of doubt. And those voices are devious indeed, drowning out our prayers even as we say them. But as Agnes Sanford advised Buechner, we are to pray down those voices for all we're worth.

The Celts called a certain kind of prayer "Calling Down the Power." It was not a request. It was a demand. Demanding God to act in the name of the Risen Christ, in the name of the Trinity, in the name of all that was Holy. They were on to something.

We, on the other hand, couch our prayers in very polite language most of the time... I know I do. I use words like if it be your will, or for the highest good. I can rationalize that those words are used so as not to place limits on God (as if I could) but are they not to carefully package whatever the results might be... so any blame for lack of results goes to God, and not my prayer? That helps no one. And it's not the game. It's a way to avoid the game.
So the rules of the game (as I see it) are this:

1. You have to play. (Ask.)
2. You have to expect to win. (Faith)

But here's a problem: we get suckered into the assumption that God is the opponent, rather than the Advocate... that our will is somehow pitted against God's will, and like in any game of chance, sometimes we can beat the odds.

I think there's something else at work. I think God is on our side, if we're playing poker, our ace in the hole. The opponent is that shadowy figure, we, first of all don't understand, and much of the time don't really believe exists. You can name the opponent; death, sin, corruption, the dark side... all equally adequate titles for an entity, a force, that lies to us about the true nature of God, the Universe and ourselves. Why? Perhaps because he (or she or it) is the opponent.

I have conjecture, speculation, opinions... and those help me make some sense of it, but I won't really know until I'm dead. Until I've gone back to the heart of my creator. But not knowing why has never stopped us before, and it shouldn't stop us now. A liability to be sure, but maybe it's just one of the idiosyncrasies of the game.

I've had people tell me (and I've said it myself) "I prayed and prayed and prayed and God didn't answer. Back in the early nineties I was adrift. I had a history of two failed marriages—both for different reasons—yet failed nonetheless. I was in between careers, holding down a few part-time jobs, barely making it. I had a feeling something was about to happen, but I didn't know what. Here's one of the things I wanted (the things I prayed for):

• A Boyfriend.
  
• And not just any boyfriend. I had recently come back to the church after a thirteen year marriage to a cynic. He thought the institution of religion was a farce, and some days he wouldn't have been wrong. But for me, God—and the various institutions that represent Him— are not the same thing. I was tired of debate, of constantly having to defend my belief. I wanted a boyfriend who believed in God.
  
• And not just believed in God, but one who actually enjoyed church and church activities. I wanted a boyfriend to worship with. In all my prayers I never used the word "husband". I was done with husbands. So I prayed and prayed: "God, send me a boyfriend... and not just any boyfriend... and not just a boyfriend who believes in you... (You get the picture.)

No Answer.

In 1995 I moved to New York City. My Florida friends though I'd gone off the deep end, but it was a good move. I found a new church, one that had a strong homeless outreach. I started working in the shelter. Then one Lent I decided to take on the Sunday Breakfast Feeding program as a Lenten discipline. Easter came and went but I stayed on. And it was there I met THE NEW BOYFRIEND. He believed in God. He liked church, and was involved in a lot of church activities. We worshipped together. The answer to my prayers... I was ecstatic, right?

Wrong. Now that I'd finally met the guy I'd been praying for, I figured we should get married. I had received exactly what I'd asked for and I wasn't satisfied. So Point 3 in this game of prayer would have to be: Be careful what you ask for.

The irony of that situation was not lost on me. And I realized that even in my moments of strength, I had been conditioned to believe I was not whole unless I had a man in my life to complete me. Even when it came down to worshipping and serving God, I never even considered I could do it alone, or that there would be fulfillment in doing it alone.

Well, I didn't run off to the convent right away... that took awhile longer. But that tiny crack of understanding in my psyche let enough light for me to begin to question whether this particular rule from my childhood was valid: did I really need a man in my life to love and serve God?

So is there another point in all of this? Perhaps. Perhaps the game of prayer is like Uncle Wiggly, a meandering board game, that travels, not in a straight line, but in seemingly out-of-the-way directions. Our journeys on this twisty-turny-road gives us time. Time... to check the road signs, to change course, to enjoy the scenery, to ask ourselves: Is the destination I'm seeking really the destination I want? And is it really what's best for me?

It certainly doesn't hurt to ask for help. Ask God directly... but look around for the answers. Prayer is always answered. Sometimes the answer is "Not right now." Sometimes the answer is No." And sometimes the answer is "Yes! yes! yes!" but because it's smack dab in front of us... we can't see it.

So... Ask. Expect.

Another Birthday Boy!

My younger son celebrates his 37th birthday today. (He was born on Mother's Day... awwww) so of course he has an extra gold star for that. Both he and his older brother are the loves of my life, as different as night and day, sweet and sour, black and white, polar opposites on every possible spectrum you could use to measure... and as such, on the razor's edge of being exactly alike. It's just another one of those mysteries.

John, my son,
I'm sending you lots of love and best wishes for a happy day and a happy year ahead.
Happy Birthday!
love,
Mom

The Oregon Trail: Update

I haven't written about my trip to Oregon yet, and I want to do that. It was my first "Associates" retreat, my first time to lead a silent retreat. Even with the normal stress of traveling, sleeping in new beds, being with new people, the entire week was an amazing experience!

Oregon is beautiful; it is also blooming this time of year... grasses, trees, ragweed... pollen abounds. I arrived late in the afternoon on Thursday and by Friday noon I was popping the Allegra. My hay fever continued all weekend until we left for Klamath Falls (high desert). There I could breathe again. A slip on gravel-over-rock sent me down hard and something jarred in my chest. At first I figured I'd just had the wind knocked out of me. Then I was thinking I might be having a heart attack... then I guessed a heart attack doesn't last three days or more. Whatever happened in that slip is still with me. It hurts to bend over, cough, hiccup, burp... I had a chest x-ray yesterday. No news is good news I guess. Anyway, I have some halfway decent pain killers at my disposal now, and though they don't exactly do the job, they at least take the edge off.

My first evening at Mount Angel Abbey Retreat Center was one for introductions, hugs all around from Sr. Mary Christabel and my opening address. I talked a little about my religious name... why I chose it, what it meant to me. I told them I believed God has a sense of humor and hoped I'd be able to give them a few examples over the weekend, and then I told them to take a good look at me... in official uniform, because the next day I would be wearing a red dress. (Okay, this may not sound like such a big deal to most people, but as individual sisters, we've been wearing street clothes for three years now. Yet the folks in Oregon have never seen us in anything but habit.) I was breaking them in.

The meat of my first talk was the concept of Sabbath time. Since this was a silent retreat, it would be an opportunity for them to give themselves a break from the unrelenting pace of our Western culture... not just to rest from the busyness of their normal lives, but to rest from measuring everything.

• "How am I doing?"
  
• "Am I getting it right?"
• "If I have to practice Sabbath time I may as well be good at it."

The whole idea of Sabbath as NOT doing, rather than doing is part of the mystery of the grace of it. We carry with us a whole list of unconscious assumptions about life. These become our reality without us realizing it. Things like:

1. Busyness is a virtue and a sign of importance.
   
2. Time spent waiting is wasted time.
3. Empty space must be filled.
4. Multi-tasking is a spiritual gift, and more...

So I asked them to spend their time... not necessarily wisely, but to spend every moment. Spend is a verb, and I also happen to believe that God is a verb, not a noun. Little envelopes were passed around containing verbs. So what's with all those verbs if we're supposed to be not doing anyway? But that, too, was part of the mystery of spending the grace... and since my next two addresses would be focusing on prayer (another verb) it made sense to me.

We ended the evening with Compline and their silence began... All were in my prayers that night for a blessed retreat.

Home soon...

Home soon... tomorrow afternoon.
Long trip. Good retreat (I think) in Oregon... new friends, new ties to the west coast.

It strikes me as odd that I've not had "the need" to post while I've been away. For one, not much opportunity (until I reached my son's house) and for two... I'm now on what's known in the convent as family time. Not rest and retreat, (our equivalent of vacation) because as everyone knows, family time is not a retreat, neither is it restful. Those exact words from another nun were perplexing to me at first, although I laughed at the time. But now I get her drift. Life in the convent is different enough to make life in the outside world seem pretty weird.

It's been a weird visit. I'm sure some of it's the nun-thing, some the time difference (3 hours), some the fact that even though both my son and daughter-in-law took vacation time to be off, my son still pretty much sticks to his night shift schedule, and my daughter-in-law spends a lot of her time online while watching TV. That's not a problem. I don't need to be entertained. I have my knitting and my son gave me a good book to read. It's something else.

Nobody wants to make a decision about what we should do, where we should go, what TV we should watch... and once a decision is somewhat made, then there's a whole lot of resistance and/or argument about it. I'm so used to stating my position on an issue and then going with the consensus, that I have no understanding of the nuances of "I don't care what we do" to mean "I don't want to do that." Or... "I will make you pay if we do that." It's disorienting. I'm bouncing along thinking everything is just fine and then notice somebody's unhappy. Or so it seems.

These kids snap at each other. I have no doubt there's true affection between them, I've seen that as well, but the whole kindness for its own sake thing has eluded them. It's been so long since I've been in a relationship with just one other person, I can't remember if I was the same way. Probably... the apple doesn't fall far.

The dog seems to like me better this time.

leavin' on a jet plane

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go... NOT!!!

But I'm getting there. I have a to-do list to keep me focused and on track. It took longer to write some of the things than to actually do them, but that's okay. I have little piles laid out next to the suitcase: copies of our brochure, AweWakenings, the Service for the Reception of an Associate. This is, afterall, a working trip.

I've posted my itinerary and contact numbers on our travel board; the sisters can reach me if they need to. It's a bittersweet experience to be leaving... we have sisters in their eighties. Every time I leave, I worry.

I have a friend who keeps a "Things to Pack" list in her suitcase. It's a great idea, even if I don't have need for most of the things she commonly forgets: cel phone charger, laptop cords. I'm not sure about my own laptop this time. Usually it's a standard item when I travel, but mine is getting old and ricketty and crashes a lot, so I'd rather leave it behind than risk its total demise.

The camera is another story. I can't decide. When I take it I don't use it, when I don't take it, I wish I had it. (The batteries are charging just in case.) Clothes for work, clothes for play... because the final days will be rest time with my son and his wife. Books, papers, granola, sweet n low, deodorant… I'm almost there.

Easter V: Show us the Father

"Show us the father and we shall be satisfied." This time it's Phillip who chimes in with Thomas.

Poor Jesus... once again confronted with the fact that his disciples, as much as they loved, respected, and trusted him, were absolutely clueless. These men lived with Jesus. They were privy to all his intimate/personal teachings. Unlike you or me who must do with a handful of stories and a smattering of sayings that are still being argued over and twisted in their original meaning... yet they still weren't quite sure of Who he was or what he was really talking about.

I've listened to people (who distinguish themselves as "Believers") speak with contempt and pity about the people who actually met Jesus in his lifetime and couldn't recognize the Son of God. Personally I bet it's easier to imagine the Divine Countenance than to be faced with someone who looks just like everyone else.

Our preacher this morning pointed out one of the Divine Mysteries that we are always faced with... division vs. unity. In the Book of Acts, Stephen announces that he sees the heavens opened and the Risen Christ "standing at the right hand of the Father". This proclamation gets him stoned to death. So in Stephen's vision Christ was standing. That's not what we proclaim in our creed. We say he's sitting. (Maybe he got tired by the time Constantine called the Bishops together in Nicaea.) Either way, we express a division. God has not received His Son back into His Eternal Glory... they are still somehow separate.

We humans understand separateness only too well. I have always thought this sense of separateness (otherness) to be a condition of the physical matter that makes up our created world. The sub-atomic levels of our existence may blip in and out of being, but we are trapped within the physical form. A chair is a chair, not a table, and I am me, not my sister or my child. Neither am I God, although a certain longing tells me I once was part of God.

"The purpose of our human pilgrimage" said our celebrant this morning, "is to bring us into the presence of God." I don't doubt that, but neither do I understand it. Just like Phillip saying: "Show us!" I also want to "see". He went on to expand on this thought by saying that the way of Christianity is not just a way of life. It's not just another way of life, but the way to life. We also hear that the way to life is through death. (Another Divine Mystery.)

If I were to preach on the story of Stephen's stoning, I would no doubt gloss over the part about him seeing the heavens opened, and focus instead on his last words before his own death: Do not hold this sin against them. That tells me more about his understanding of Jesus than any vision of heaven. This was real. His last breath closed the divisions between heaven and hell, between matter and spirit. That was when the heavens truly opened.

Time is Your Friend

A week from today I'll be in the air. A week... it seems so short; it seems like an eternity. I love time. I love that it slips right by, that it stretches like a rubber band. I love that it structures my days, yet is forgiving when I seem to run out. In our Night Prayers we say "what has been done has been done. Let it be." A good thing to say ( and believe) at the end of a long day.

Yesterday was one of those very long days. We've lost our part-time cook. She graduated from the culinary institute last week, and while we are sad to see her go (for more reasons than her cooking) she is moving on to new adventures. She's interviewing for jobs on a private yacht or in a fancy executive retreat near Yellowstone. Either job will give her a chance to explore her gourmet skills... something the nuns could never fully appreciate. So those of us who like to cook have been doubling up. Yesterday was my turn. Plus I was doorbell queen, plus everyone else who can be considered "responsible" was gone off for one reason or another. It was a very long day.

I couldn't decide what I wanted to cook. I had a lot of ideas that were each fine on their own, (some even worked together) but the final plan never quite gelled. Plus I had decided to make lunch as well, since there was nothing much in the fridge and I'd been promising to use up some of our large supply of bulgar wheat. The morning time slipped away with the preparations for tabouli (or tabbouleh). I was constructing camel riders for lunch and tabouli is a prime ingredient. That worked out and then it was time to decide on supper. I still had no concrete plan.

That's a little how I'm feeling about the retreat next week. I have a lot of ideas, there's a thin thread of continuity that connects them, but as with supper last night, I was (am) still experimenting with the final outcome. As of four o'clock yesterday, I had only just decided what we were going to eat.

It worked out. Supper was pretty and tasted good (my two requisites for success) but I cook more often than I give retreats, and even with my expertise, I was worried all afternoon. What's with that? Old age? Maybe. But... (as Martha Stewart would say) time "is a good thing."

And I still have a week.

(sigh...)

serendipity

"Some of us have been reading your blog... to get to know you better."
(Oh dear)
"Well, I haven't been writing much lately because I've been focusing on the retreat."

Those words were said in the context of a conversation I was having with one of the Oregon conveners. Since I'll be leading an Associates' retreat there in just under two weeks, there were aspects of the schedule (and my responsibilities) that needed to be discussed. That's the easy part. What do I do? When do I do it? Where do I stand?

My own internal response to the fact that this is a huge responsibility and that time is ticking away, has been less manageable. I vacillate between humility and arrogance, fear and excitement, trusting completely that the Holy Spirit will give me the right words at the right time, and thinking that if I don't plan every single talk in specific detail I'll fall flat on my face and fail them. I have reason to be concerned. The Oregon associates are used to Sr. Lucia (one of their own) and more recently, Sr. Leslie, the Sister-in-charge of associates. They don't know me. I'm new. And not just new to them, new to the life. Is there anything I could say of any importance or interest to them?

My friend and mentor Barbara Crafton sits down, looks around at her audience, and starts talking. Or so it seems. She makes such things as meditations and homilies and retreat addresses look like child's play. She's done it a long time and can draw on a vast store of wisdom that I never feel I have.

Our celebrant this morning is another one who speaks without notes and just rattles it off, always astounding me with her deep understanding of the Gospel stories, always able to relate her message to something in my life, to this 21st century world. Amazing.

She spoke today about "another Shepherding Sunday, another comforting Sunday" and she asked the rhetorical question "Why do we need to be comforted? It's Easter!" I always rise to the bait and start answering the question for myself, when her words stop me midstream as she gives yet a deeper, more profound answer to her own question.

She also gave an interpretation of this specific Gospel lesson (John 10:1-10) that I can own and run with. These particular words of scripture have been used so many times to exclude people... those of other faiths, those who, though they profess Jesus Christ, aren't the right kind of Christian... words that can turn me off and leave me wondering which historical agenda was being hammered with them? Yet historical agendas aside, one of the profound beauties of the Word of God is that it lives.

So today's living and life-giving message was essentially this: Jesus says in today's Gospel: "I am the gate." Not the barrier gate that we immediately imagine, but the open gate, the pathway gate, the all-inclusive gate that makes crystal clear that the power of resurrection lies in the fact that everything is restored. And... the shepherd also had a shepherd. He was not alone.

Many, if not most of us, recite the 23rd Psalm in the old King James language. It's the way we learned it as children, and even though the actual words themselves may have made little or no sense at the time, it's still the most comforting version when we are in distress. It's said at funerals, and in our prayer book the burial rite uses the old language. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. David, the shepherd-king is attributed with these words. He had been a shepherd as a boy, but then he was anointed King. Not the kind of king who was set up to rule, but the kind who was enthroned to protect and defend his people. Huge difference. And yet we say... the Lord is our shepherd. It is He who defends us, protects us, looks after our best interests, whether we can know it or appreciate it or not. Serendipity? One of my retreat themes deals with this very thing... We have nothing to fear.

six weeks and more

Yesterday's Gospel reading was the story of the road to Emmaus, one more of the miraculous accounts of disciples seeing Jesus after his death. I heard a lecture a few years ago (I'm thinking it was James Robinson). He mentioned that there's no clear evidence that Emmaus was an actual place... that in fact it was a word that may have derived from the expression "no place left to go." That would probably have described those disciples pretty well. It doesn't matter. People saw Jesus. Not exactly (nor necessarily) with their eyes, but with the eyes of faith. I think that's important for us today.

Our celebrant said that she was so glad that Eastertide was six weeks long. She explained that clergy often are so wiped out by the end of Holy Week, that they move through Easter in a daze. She appreciated the time to catch up. I echo those sentiments in my own heart. I'm just beginning to feel "Eastery". It is in hearing these resurrection stories again and again that Easter becomes more real for me. It also helps to sing the Easter hymns for six weeks. One of yesterday's was #182 from the Hymnal: Christ is Alive! Often with hymns, some of the verses are optional, either because they fit a certain liturgical calendar or because the theology might be controversial. Verse 3 was one of the optional ones. I loved it:

Christ is alive! Not throned above,
Remotely high, untouched, unmoved by human pains,
But daily in the midst of life our Savior reigns.

The collect for the Third Sunday in Easter asks God to "open the eyes of our faith" to Christ's redeeming work in the world. Why? Because we aren't going to recognize him. We'll be like Mary in the garden, like the Cleopas on his way to Emmaus, we'll see somebody else... a gardener, a stranger with no grasp of current events. We'll miss the risen Christ in our midst because of our own blind expectations.

Eastertide is six weeks long. But for Resurrection Christians, it has to extend into the rest of the year. Only through the eyes of faith can we see Jesus in the stranger and in ourselves.

Happy Birthday!

Forty years ago I gave birth to my first son... How could that be? In my imagination I'm only a little over forty myself. (This birthday might be more traumatic for me than for him.)

He was born back in the dark ages in a small hospital in New Hampshire, where they tied the laboring woman to the bed rails and left her alone in a state called "twilight" sleep... which meant you weren't exactly asleep, but were dozing... until the next contraction hit like a train wreck. Then you were wide awake in a bewildering state of unexpected agony. Lovely way to enter the world... with your mommy screaming for somebody to do something! So they gassed me out. Last thing I remember was that mask and heavy hands holding me down. Fast forward a few hours later and I'm all alone in a strange bed, tucked in so tight I can barely move; there's a strip of bandage across my abdomen and I hurt all over. "Oh my God! I had a cesarean!" I thought. But no, it was just their way of doing things.

Finally a nurse walked by, and when I asked, she assured me I had, in fact, had a baby... a baby boy!

He turned out to be a screamer, a dreamer, a brilliant little smart guy who is, (along with his little brother) the love of my life. His wife says he doesn't want a fuss over his fortieth birthday. What!?! Could it be they switched my child in the nursery? No fuss?


But dear child, you are FORTY. It's a landmark year... you are officially over the hill. Now you can finally complain about your aches and pains for real. Bring out the black balloons, the black arm bands, the cop-turned-stripper, the surprise party and the cake with so many candles, that by the time you've lit the last one, the first has burned down to the frosting. And don't forget the fire extinguisher!

truth and consequences and balance

The longer I live, the more I understand there is no such thing as The Truth and there is no such thing as balance.

My post Monday was no doubt ill-advised.

Suffice it to say it was not well-received. I was specifically admonished because I am a nun, and folks expect better behavior from someone in my position. I get that. We are always righteously outraged when civic and spiritual leaders don't measure up. We expect a higher standard from them.

Unfortunately those expectations have rarely been met... all the way back to the very first disciples. I'd like to point out that the only truly holy One had his own bad days. (Consider the poor fig tree who was blasted for nothing less than doing its job.) But that's another story.

When I say there's no such thing as balance, I mean that both inside and out. Inside myself there exists a fragile tipping point, and, as I'm learning, (and have just learned on a much deeper level) it's easily upset by the energies that swirl around me. This past weekend provided an unexpected learning curve. It wasn't especially pleasant, and it's more unpleasant still, to examine the events, personalities, and myself in the context of all that occurred.

There was more than one disgruntled person on the weekend. One of them (like me) posted about her experience, naming names and giving vent to her own specific displeasure, just as I did. Her experience was her truth, and while some may feel she hurt the Cursillo movement by her anger, I still think she was entitled to express her thoughts.

I was called to task on my public comments (as I'm guessing she was) and my first reaction was defensive. Hey! I didn't mention anyone by name. I tried to be balanced in my assessment... blah, blah, blah.

But of course I was not balanced. I was tired and still annoyed about a lot of things. Any criticism is hard to hear, especially if it's taken personally. My comments were vague. The first reaction could easily be "Who is she talking about? I'm not needy. I'm certainly not inconsiderate. I put a lot of thought and hard work into this weekend. What did she do? Move a few candles around the altar?"

And that would be the truth. One truth. another truth.

So I did not have a "Mountain top" experience. Is that anybody's fault? No, it just is. I don't believe it detracts from other experiences which may have been magnificent. One of the favorable comments about the weekend was that it "ran like a well-oiled machine." Well-oiled machines do run well, but they are messy and greasy. When I examine my own motivations, I admit I was probably just slinging grease. (One of the side effects of working behind the scenes is that nobody knows you're working. I didn't need applause. I just needed some rest.

As I recover, my memory will soften and any annoyance will subside. As I also said in that post, (maybe not loudly enough) if I chunk it down, the weekend contained moments of grace, good information, inspiration and joy.

more wrinkles... damn.

I'm finding new wrinkles when I look in the mirror.

I don't especially mean the ones on my face, although they are definitely there... but the parts of my personality that have changed, are changing... it's scary. I've always known I was an introvert, but now the energy required to stay focused and present in a group setting wipes me out. Totally.

I was away for three days on a Cursillo weekend renewal retreat. If I break it down into segments, little pieces, individual parts... it was okay: informative, fun, inspirational, a good time. If I try to describe it as a whole, it was a waste of my time, a drain on my energy, an annoying barrage of too many people, too many personalities, too many needy, inconsiderate, thoughtless bodies that I was just not up to contending or coping with. When I finally arrived back at the convent late Sunday afternoon, I couldn't wait to hug my sisters... I was so glad to be home! I could hardly wait to sleep in my own bed.

Geesh! Where did that all come from? The truth is I love to travel. I love to meet new people, to experience new ways of being in the world, to learn new information. Apparently living in a convent has stripped away my natural protective barriers, because another truth is also making itself apparent: I cannot stand crowds. This could be a real problem... good thing today was a rest day for me. I slept til 10:00 and took a nap at 3:00. I'm hitting the sack before 9:30 too. Wiped. Out.

Six words

Melissa tagged me to write a 6 word memoir. I looked at a few of the others... they all had such great ideas! Whaaaa whaaa whaaa. Then I got inspired ( another word for compulsive/obsessive) and wrote about fourteen before I came to my senses.

I'll just give you the first one (or three):

Live, love, laugh... or die trying.
No guts, no glory. (Often gory.)
It's all the same to me.

Rules:

1. Write your own six word memoir;
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like;
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere;
4. Tag at least five more blogs with links; and
5. Don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

I was tagged by Melissa. I'm tagging Pat, Jules, Natty, alto artist, and my daughter-in-law. Yes, I know Melissa already tagged her, but she's a born over-achiever so she should get to do two if she wants to. besides, she's MY daughter-in-law.

Alleluia!

waiting...

Jesus is laid in the tomb

This is the final image for my series Stations of the Cross. I started working on it several years ago when my church asked the artist's guild to create images for each of the fourteen stations. Mine was Station 11: Jesus is nailed to the cross. The scripture that accompanies this station specifically mentions that he was crucified between two thieves, and that was my focus for the artwork, an abstract that depicts the Christ only as a blur of red between two other colors.

It's taken me a long time to complete the series, and for now, at least, it is finished. You can view them all here. Scroll down and move back up to see it in sequence (if that's the way you like to do things.)

Good Friday

"Losing that job was the best thing that ever happened to me." "I'm not glad I got cancer, but it sure made me more appreciative of life in general." "It seemed like such a bad thing at the time, but in retrospect I'm glad it happened."

That's how we are brought up (as Christians) to believe in "Good" Friday. It was a horrible thing at the time, but the fact that it happened was good for us.

We recite a number of articles of faith in our religion... that Jesus was the son of God, the only one, born under peculiar and holy circumstances, that he suffered, died and was buried... that he rose from the dead and sits beside God, that he will come back... to judge whoever's left and those already dead.

But we go on to elaborate on these articles, (which were never part of what the disciples believed to begin with,) and we add more intent and presume a righteous understanding of who Jesus was, what he knew, and why he had to die for our salvation. We also presume that God wanted him dead for God's own purposes... whatever they might be.

Because of this righteous understanding of who God is and what God wants and how God works, we go on to draw conclusions that may or may not be true in the long haul. One in particular is that the New Covenant of Christ supersedes the Old Covenant that God made with Abraham, and later, Moses. If time is not linear to God then this cannot be possible. Christ made a new covenant with his disciples on the night before he died. He made it in the context of the Passover meal, in the context of the established covenant.

Jesus also shortened the ten commandments on two occasions: the first when he said, in answer to a question, "Love God, and love your neighbor." Ten distilled down to two. When he spoke to his disciples that night, he made it even simpler: "Love one another as I have loved you." Simpler maybe, but certainly not easier.

"Love one another as I have loved you." cannot possibly equate to kill the infidel, annihilate the heretics, burn, pillage and destroy. It cannot equate to judging people as believers vs. nonbelievers, Christians vs. Jews, Jews vs. Muslims, Catholic vs. Protestant, East vs. West, Democrat vs. Republican. (You get the picture.)

My guess is we have no idea what happened on that first Good Friday, nor why. We have background, a few "facts" as recorded by early historians. We have the stories told by his followers, and they will always contain some grain of the truth. Probably more important, we have the example of his disciples who afterwards, were willing to die the same awful deaths their Lord had died. They understood the new commandment.

I'm not sure we do in this generation.

Palm Sunday

I was brought up in the Protestant tradition where Palm Sunday was the day for marching bands, palm waving and hosannas. It was not to be confused with the events that occur just a few days later.

Imagine my horror the first time I experienced Palm Sunday in the Episcopal church... where the service starts out with a parade around the chancel, but then things get very ugly as the Passion narrative is read (or worse, acted out.) I was flabbergasted. "Give the man a few days to enjoy the ride," I thought. Betrayal and death will come soon enough.

I've had to endure many a Palm Sunday since that first one, and I have to admit the tradition has grown on me. Ask anyone who's life has changed in a matter of minutes. They will tell you that security is an illusion, that all we truly have is the moment we're living in.

For us to go from "Hosanna in the Highest!" to "Crucify him!" in less than fifteen minutes, then, is not so unlikely.

I have avoided crowds most of my life. They scare me. There is a crowd mentality that takes over and it can be nasty and unpredictable. In Jerusalem the crowd was swayed to blood lust. Those who would have been sickened by it probably stayed home. There were several Palm Sundays in the beginning of my life as an Episcopalian that I found one reason or another to stay home too. But showing up is important. Showing up and standing up for what we believe is probably one of the most important choices we can make. Even if it seems to make no difference at the time.

This Birthday Boy is Four!

My next-to-the-youngest grandson Gabriel celebrates his fourth birthday today. His first visit to New York City was with his family in December (for my life profession) and he stole the hearts of all my sisters.

When we went out to dinner afterwards, he and I got to sit together, and my friend snapped this picture of us. I've added a cake for him to blow out the candles. Wish I could be singing "happy birthday" to you, sweetheart, but I'll see you later this year.
love, Grandma

the secular world

Interesting day, today. One of the side effects of finally getting a New York driver's license was that my name and address were put back into the system. I was called for jury duty.

This hasn't happened since some time in the 90's when my electric bill targeted me, and I served four days on a personal injury case that settled the day we were to begin deliberations. It was kind of disappointing to hear all that testimony and then not get to even talk about it.

It was probably just as well. The final day of testimony had included a sobbing wife (ala Tammy Faye/mascara) explain in lurid detail how her sex life had been totally ruined by her husband's depression over his chronic back pain, which was, of course, caused by his fall from the scaffolding on a job site. Up until that tearful rendition, the plaintiff had had the jury in his pocket. We all just looked at each other, as if to say, "Me thinks she protests too much!" and the tide of opinion turned in that moment.

Well, I can't say that for sure. We didn't get to talk about it. But I rode the subway home after we were dismissed with another juror who felt the same way I did. Fast forward to today: another personal injury case. Only now I'm a nun in the secular world. You may think we'd be exempt from jury duty, but that's not the case. Hardly anybody is exempt anymore. Those of us called to this particular panel spent the entire day being questioned by two lawyers, plus a judge. They haven't finished. We must return tomorrow morning for more of the same. It's obvious many of us will be disqualified. But here's something I learned... never say "I don't know." They can't stand that; it makes them crazy.

I said it a few times. It was the truth. Boy do they get cranky when you say "I don't know."

Lazarus! Come out!

Today's Gospel was the Lazarus story. Our celebrant reminded us that it's probably the longest story (21 chapters) and contains the shortest verse (Jesus wept.) He went on to make an analogy with the ever-popular "books for dummies", in that the Gospel of John could easily be called "The Gospel for Dummies" because it includes everything we need to know about the nature of God and the nature of Jesus. He also noted that this central chapter, the raising of Lazarus, would probably qualify as one of the Top Ten Moments in Salvation History.

I've read a few commentaries this past week on the Lazarus story, in preparation for this, the 5th (and last) Sunday in Lent. Some writers have specifically commented on the part where Jesus is "deeply disturbed"... Always a popular theme... wondering why... speculating on all the various reasons that the Son of God might be disturbed.

Okay, I'm no different. I think we're all guilty at some point of looking to our sacred texts for justification of our own particular slant on the way life works, or ought to work. I'm in the camp of those who believe Jesus didn't always have all the answers, that he spoke off the cuff, ad libbed, and sometimes made it up as he went along.

I interpret the story of Lazarus this way: whether he planned to be so late or not, his delay caused a number of consequences. For one, sweet Mary and faithful Martha were both overcome with grief, and neither could help but add the dig "if you had been here..."

Knowing that his action (or inaction) had caused their grief was bad enough. But he was really late, and the body had already begun to decompose. How much physical reversal would be required for a body that had not had breath nor blood supply for four days? Of course he would be deeply disturbed. All his previous resurrection miracles had occurred prior to entombment. This would be very different. Still... Jesus went for it.

As I've noted before, the faith of those wishing to be healed, (or of others... friends or relatives) has been documented over and over as practically indispensable to the miracles that Jesus worked. Martha didn't disappoint him. "Yes, I believe that you are the Son of God..."

"Lazarus! Come out!" And the rest is history. Except there is no recorded history about the man who emerged from the tomb after four days of decomposition. Was he a mess? Did he have severe brain damage? Was he disappointed to be alive again after experiencing the mystery of the other side? Why is nothing ever mentioned about Lazarus again?

Be warned

As I mentioned before, I'm part of a Lenten Book Club with three other women of various Christian backgrounds. I'm probably the flaming liberal of the group and the others are at varying points on the conservative spectrum. Today we had a spirited discussion on the topic of BOREDOM. (Does that strike anyone as funny besides me?)

The title of today's reading was "See Boredom as a Warning", and Nouwen's opening premise was that "boredom is a sentiment of disconnectedness." I have only just realized he used the word sentiment. Throughout the whole discussion I was thinking symptom. (Both "s" words, right?) A symptom is often a warning; maybe that's what got me off track, but a sentiment is an emotion. When I am bored I don't feel much emotion at all. Certainly not enthusiasm nor passion. If I'm really bored I don't feel anger or resentment either. I feel emotionless.

From my own vast experience with boredom, I am totally in sync with the disconnected part. His second premise, however, (which threw many in our group for a loop) was that we can be both busy and bored. He went on to support this thought with the idea that it's when we think what we do has little or no meaning, and we keep doing it, we will be bored at the same time.

Nobody but me felt that was accurate. Some cited examples of how it might be true for non-Christians, or how it used to be true for them, before they became Christians, but I am the odd woman out who still believes it's absolutely true for me still.

So what conclusions do I draw from all this?

1. I'm not really Christian? (Alas, always a possibility, but not probable.)
2. I'm more honest than they are? (Nice try, but no cigar.)
3. They are deluding themselves?

No, actually I think this lesson has more levels than any of us have explored. And I don't find the possibility of exploring them the least bit boring. I'll let you know if I figure anything (of significance) out.

thoughts for today

The longer I live, the more clear it becomes, that the contradictions of life are part of the master plan... seemingly disparate, they connect and bind.

We cannot just be and do not understand. We just have to trust that this is so. We see in each other what we are blind to in ourselves, both the darkness and the light.

failure

Whew... you know what? Failure (in and of itself) takes the pressure off. Maybe I knew that, maybe I didn't. The challenge of the blog365 club was finally getting to me. I failed.

I didn't post on Sunday. I actually had something to say... about the Scriptures for the 4th Sunday in Lent... about how they all had to do with sight, and blindness, light and darkness, blah blah blah. But that's exactly how I felt about it. So what? Blah blah blah. I let the day slip by. And then I deliberately turned off the computer and went to bed. Yesterday (our day off) I slept late. I still had nothing to say. Then I got involved in another one of those Korean soap operas. They aren't exactly soap operas, (they are little mini-series stories) but with the improbable and totally schmaltzy plot lines, they are a lot like the stupid soap operas I could never stand to watch on American television.

So what's different about these that I have a minor addiction to them?

1. They are wholesome. No illicit sexual implications, how refreshing.
   
2. These young people are all kind hearted people. Even the villains have complicated reasons for the evil things they do...
3. Honor is always an issue, whether it is the cultural honor that pervades the Asian lifestyle, or the underlying sense of selfless love... for me, a very Christian concept.
   
4. The misunderstandings that propel the plot twists are so farfetched (from my Western point of view) that they play out like fairy tales... and I (still) have a childish fascination with fairy tales. I wanted to be Cinderella when I was little. If I can't be Cinderella, then maybe someone else can...

Unlike the first one (Stained Glass) I found in the library several months ago, this second one ( Save the last dance for me) actually had a happy ending. That's it. Now I'll be one the lookout for the next one.

drivel

Yesterday... leap day... or whatever you call it, was a day off for the blog365 club. I took advantage of it, although I see others wrote anyway... some born over-achievers, and some who were saving their day for a different day, another occasion. Not that it says you can do that in the rules. Not that I would care a twit about the rules...

I think if I'm getting tired of writing every single damn day, then people who read my blog must be getting tired of it too. Drivel is all I can manage sometimes (like today) and while drivel is just fine for morning pages, I feel some kind of obligation to write something coherent for a public audience. "Morning pages" are from The Artist's Way, a sort of self-help workshop book for artists by Julia Cameron. It's not new. I first read it in 1994, but I think it had been out a couple of years before that.

The same friend who took me to k.d. lang turned me on to it. She was living in New York at the time; I was still semi-employed in Florida, trying to decide which way to go with my multiple careers. I was doing massage therapy and freelancing in audio visual production, not especially happy with my dwindling bank account, yet not exactly motivated to do anything about it.

I had been a computer animation artist, but I had also held one of the best jobs in town. The market was way off and those jobs were scarce; if I wanted to continue in that field I'd have to move to Atlanta or Orlando. Massage therapy, while lovely (and very healthy) was back-breaking work. I had already figured out I didn't have the physical stamina to do it enough to pay the bills.

So along came The Artist's Way. Within a few months I had written my first ever story about God, called "Another Christmas Story" and was packing up my stuff to move... lock, stock and barrel to New York City.

Timing is everything, right? (So if you read that book, Melissa... be very, very careful.)

a night to remember

My best friend took me to a concert tonight.

You aren't going to believe it... I sat in the 7th row in the Allen Room at the (relatively) new Jazz at Lincoln Center facility... soaking up the sounds of k.d. lang. It was the final night of her Lincoln Center debut as she promotes her new album Watershed. She sang every one of my favorites... Helpless by Neil Young, Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen, and (what else?) her best seller from the 90's Constant Craving.

She of course premiered songs from the new album and in general brought down the house. You can read about it here. I could say eat your heart out, but that would be rude. I cannot tell you how nice it is to have friends in high places. I am a very blessed girl.

Here's a You Tube sample of the amazing lady (again)

what honor?

I have a new hobby. Well, it's not exactly new, I've just taken it to a new level. Movie watching. Specifically all the movies I've wanted to see over the years, (many Academy Award nominees) but for one reason or another... just never saw. My son gave me one of those cute little portable DVD players a couple of Christmases ago and it's been one of my favorite toys.

It began with all the DVDs we actually have on the shelf here in the convent, which isn't many. Then I had a gift certificate to Blockbuster which was good for a few more, then I discovered paydirt... the library. Yes, I actually even borrow books from the library, but truth be told, I'm mostly after the DVDs. I started with whatever happened to be on the shelf that looked remotely interesting. In the past year I have seen more foreign films with subtitles than I ever saw in the year I actually took a class in foreign films. My favorite was an Indian film The Namesake, produced and directed by Mira Nair.

But when I found out recently that the library has an online search engine and you can type in things like Heath Ledger... a whole new level of opportunity opened up to me. I watched the entire series of ROAR, and have a few more of his movies on hold for when they become available.

I finally got to see Prizzi's Honor. I can't tell you how many people have told me what a great flick that was. Okay. I don't get it. It was billed as a comedy, yet it wasn't especially funny. And what honor is there in two people supposedly crazy about each other who don't mind killing each other? Maybe you had to be there.

four-eyes

I picked up my new glasses today. They will definitely take some getting used to...

The last pair I purchased had all the bells and whistles. (I think I was trying to use up my flex benefits at the end of that particular year.) I had trifocals, featherweights, and progressive lenses, plus the anti-scratch coating, the UV filter, and magnetic snap-on sunglasses. Those glasses were prime real-estate and I loved them. But they were six years old.

My ophthalmologist wanted to try a new prescription before launching me into cataract surgery. He thinks we can postpone it for a year. (Personally, I'd just as soon have had it now while I'm healthy, especially since there was the possibility I would actually not need glasses for distance once new lenses were implanted.) But I trust him, so I went for the new prescription.

These new glasses are not bad looking for a cheap frame, but the bifocal part is totally weird. The line between close -up and far-away is smack dab in the middle of my line of sight. As I was being fitted, the optician bent the lenses down a bit, and finally set the glasses slightly down on my nose. (They would have ended up there eventually as the temples loosened, but it didn't seem like a good sign that we were starting out from that position.)

I've had bifocals with the line in the past. In fact, my first pair were bifocals when I was seven years old. They called me "four-eyes". Bifocals with a line are no big deal, just not as attractive as invisible progressives. I don't need to be attractive, but I do need to see without tripping all over myself. I have a nasty suspicion these were made incorrectly... that the very generous discount offered to our community by this particular optical shop may not be worth it if I can't see with the glasses they provide. It's a quandry. I don't want to seem ungrateful or inordinately picky, but if I fall down the stairs I'm not going to be a happy camper.

in the nick of time

As I mentioned yesterday, the sermon touched on the theme that change for the sake of change is not necessarily such a grand idea. It was explored in the larger context of the difference between change from and change for. As our preacher was speaking, I made one of my tangential parallels between that and another concept: Be careful what you ask for, little girl.

You might think these have little in common. However, the first lesson (Exodus 17: 1-7) about the Hebrews serving God as the oppressed in Egypt versus serving God as free men in the barren wasteland, was not lost on me. In Egypt, Pharaoh was the oppressor and God the savior. In the desert, they forgot. (How convenient.) Just as I forgot that I knelt before God a couple of months ago and said "use me." (Be careful what you ask for, little girl.)

Because of course what I meant was use me, but don't let me feel used. Put me to service but I'll pick and choose the ones I serve.

The collect for the third week in Lent begins: Almighty God, you know that we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves; keep us both outwardly in our bodies and inwardly in our souls, that we may be defended from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul... That pretty much covers last week.

Adversities happen. Evil thoughts assault and hurt the soul. And yet again, I am brought up short by the understanding that I have no power in myself to help myself.

The assaults in my case were the judgmental thoughts, comparisons in my heart about what was fair and unfair, about who was really sick and who was maybe taking advantage. For me it's always intertwined, this connection between body and mind... when my body suffers and has little strength, then my capacity for charity is wiped out as well. That prayer didn't come any too soon... just in the nick of time, in fact.