moving right along...

The conference is interesting, inspiring, the scenery lovely and the weather perfect. The food is delicious and there's lots of it. But each day I realize I am just tired. Taking on additional spiritual and intellectual information is not easy and I'm cutting out on lots of things, losing interest in some of the ones I chose initially to do.

Last night I attended a session on "being still." It was one of those situations where Murphy's Law was running rampant and the facilitator, although outwardly calm, was juggling his presentation internally. Ceiling fans with only one setting—high—kept blowing out the candle. Originally twenty people had signed up, and the perfect circle of chairs kept expanding in uneven lumps as more and more gate-crashers arrived (me among them) on the spur of the moment. The sound system kept picking up intermittent drumming from another building and the controls had to be located and shut down. A cel phone rang. We were in the middle of a deep meditation when he had to bring us back to the room for an announcement... "is so and so in the group?" an emergency message, as the Kanuga staff tried to locate the individual.

Metaphors for life, we call these instances. A specific session on being still is bombarded with outward distractions... some of them annoying, some necessary... but not now. So it is in life. At the breakfast table this morning we were congratulating the facilitator on his equanimity when a woman mentioned that this was what had happened to Jesus. He'd take hmself off to a quiet place to pray, only to be followed, stopped on the way, interrupted. His ministry was in those interruptions. Another important concept to ponder when I am not so tired...

getting grounded... not.

Stone ground grits and eggs... sausage biscuits... bacon, all you can eat. Have I died and gone to heaven? Even the coffee here is excellent. I am finding that the word "vacation" for me always seems to equate to "food." Oh well. Simple pleasures. Our Eucharist this morning was from the service used on Iona. Beautiful. The Celts definitely know how to worship.

in the garden

I'm in Hendersonville, North Carolina... at Kanuga, an Episcopal Conference Center. I drove up with two dear friends from Jacksonville yesterday morning for a week of "Gardens and Grace". It's beautiful here, so far the weather has been delightful... slept with the window open under a lazy ceiling fan last night... awoke to birdsong early this morning.

It was an uneventful flight to Jacksonville, although I cut it pretty close at the airport. I say uneventful... that's in the general sense: no flight delays, not long waits in security lines, no lost baggage.

However, this trip has had nothing but unexpected events.

I heard music on the plane. I actually looked around to see if someone had a CD player going somewhere, but no, it was "in my head." Tintinnitus is a new development attached to my aging process. Some days I keep hearing our doorbell ring when it's not ringing, but I've never heard music before. It was amazing... a bit like electronic music in its vibratory nature, but a distinct series of four harmonic chords that repeated themselves three times and then the progression changed to a new line with five chords. Then it started over again. I tried to hum along with what I was hearing and when I did, a profound sense of peace tinged with some vague awareness suffused my body. Cool! Very cool! And then I saw them. (Music from twilight zone: doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo)

What I "saw" outside the window were little speckles of light darting about in random patterns... like fireflies only teensy weensy, much smaller, much faster. Cosmic little beings that I shouldn't have been aware of, yet was. Okee dokee, now not only do I hear things that are not there, but I see them. Nice going, Claire Joy. Maybe they were figments of my imagination, just like the music, but they were pretty wonderful. They looked... happy.

When I arrived in Jacksonville, my friend picked me up from the airport,and we headed for the beach, just long enough to have a quick lunch and for me to dunk my toes into the ocean for a moment. She understands my need for this ritual. I am saying hi to my mother, whose ashes were scattered in that very same ocean fifteen years ago. Any ocean will do, since they are all connected, but this one is where she went in, so to speak, so it is special. Memorial Day weekend is also when I found her after her final stroke, so the weekend itself is laden with memory. Next we stopped by the nursing home to see my friend's mother-in-law.

I've known Adelaide for several years. She's been in a nursing home for much of that time, and I always like to take time to visit if I can. Last year was the first year she didn't know me. Over the past year she's lost more and more of her faculties, and when I saw her Saturday afternoon I knew it was for the last time. The call came at 5:30 Sunday morning.

Would we cancel the trip to Kanuga? No, we would keep to our plans, but with some delay. The family, me and the parish priest gathered at 9:00 for prayers for the dead. A small chime had been brought and was struck gently at the conclusion of our prayers.

As we stood there in silence, I fidgeted... the note had vibrated something loose inside me and a song of praise and entreaty came to my lips: "Open the gates O God! Your daughter is returning. Come out to meet her, O Christ! Your sister has come home! Open your arms O saints and angels! One of your flock has been restored." I wanted to sing it... shout it... wail it to heaven. But of course, being a well-behaved nun (on vacation) I couldn't do any of that. So I took the little hammer and struck the chime three more times repeating the prayer in my head as I did.

Then we got on the road. I'm here. But I'm not quite grounded. I keep thinking of the music on the plane, the little quark-like fireflies, the song to heaven that shook loose in me when the chime sounded. I can't put it together, even though I understand intuitively it is all connected. Maybe in the garden I will be able to make some sense of it all.

Interesting quiz

Thanks to Jules I stumbled onto this interesting quiz. I actually met Jerry Uelsmann (I think when he taught at UF, Gainesville) And I do like much of his work, although I'm told he made his students do a lot of the compositing for him. And oddly enough, I do a whole lot of compositing in my artwork. I just use photoshop... much easier.

Which famous photographer are you? Jerry Uelsmann: Known for multiple imagery and surrealism "I think of my photographs as being obviously symbolic, but not symbolically obvious.”

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

more along those same lines...

As I've mentioned before, I've been re-thinking the concept of friendship as it relates to the virtual community I have grown into over the past couple of years of blogging. Re-thinking and re-understanding have mostly been causes for excitement and joy in my life. Some folks find those activities stressful. I don't, don't ask me why.

I also realize that my Life is in transition again. I generally experience this after the fact, rarely as I go through the process, so to realize it mid-stream is quite wonderful. But transition in and of itself is not a gentle thing. My own community of sisters is experiencing its own transitional trauma as fewer of us are capable of handling the day-in-day-out responsibilities of running a convent. There are fewer of us to cook, clean, answer the door, and attend to the various jobs that were once spread over several sisters. With weariness comes irritation and shorter tempers. We do our best to curb the tendency to take it out on each other, but at some point something has to give. We have already moved up Compline to right after supper clean-up, so sisters can retire earlier. That's been helpful for all of us, not just the elderly. What else could we do to streamline our life? I personally feel we need to re-think the Office Book... make it easier to follow. If page two came after page one, maybe more of us could keep track of what day it is and what hymn we're supposed to sing. But revising fifty years of lovely tradition is no easy task, and since nobody has the time nor the energy to tackle it, we muddle through.

I digress. I am still thinking about the Feast of the Ascension, my irreverence for that holiest of days, (in that all I could muster was a sense of resentment and abandonment). I'd pass it off as pre-Memorial Day blues... anniversary of the weekend I found my mother in a coma from which she never recovered... but I figure it's more than that. And... it's not the kind of thing you open a conversation with..."Hey, I really don't care much for Christ's ascending. What do you think?"

Yet a bloggy friend posted a beautiful vision here and through her expression I could approach the event in a new way. What are friends for? Exactly.

Another friend recently posted about cleaning house and giving things up. He said "I think this is about giving up those things of the world that you have attachment to, but really have no purpose whatsoever except to waste your time and kill your soul." You can read the whole post here. How many things am I clinging to that waste my time and kill my soul?

I guess my point is simply this: the Holy Spirit (as much as I like to give that bird bad press) is alive and well on the blogosphere. The Word I need to hear is being posted every day and I'm reading those words and re-thinking, re-understanding. I'm in transition again... Hallelujah. I think.

searching for meaning

Dream: I am at a huge party, a housewarming. At one point it seems to be for the community because a woman kneels down and asks to receive communion. I explain that we are just having a dinner party, not a Eucharist.

Then it seems to be a housewarming for my ex-husband and me. I am welcoming guests, who are looking around in disbelief... everything is spotless and all the clutter is gone. You can see the furniture and bare floors. There are lots of people milling around everywhere... out in the yard, on the porch, crowding into the kitchen. I see some new people, friends from my time in community and I ask them to stay. Supper will be ready soon, and there's plenty.

As I walk into the kitchen, one of my husband's ex-wives (he's had a few) is hacking away at a giant slab of salmon. She looks up and smiles. She is "tenderizing" it. I walk by without comment. If she wants to tenderize the salmon, I'm not going to interfere. Another woman is trying to help my husband with the lentil soup... but the bowl is too small for all the ingredients. Apparently I have prepared everything in advance and have put it in the freezer, but nobody has remembered to thaw it out. There are no large pots or bowls to serve it in. I am irritated that the soup is still frozen, irritated that there are no large bowls. Oh... I took all the large bowls when we divorced, I think. My fault.

I send my husband on a fool's errand... to find a large enough container for the gallons of frozen soup. What about a large roasting pan? Do you have one of those? He returns with a giant covered grill hot off the fire pit. Will this work? He sets it down on the table. I lift the lid and there are about twenty blackened cornished game hens inside... left over from some long ago barbecue. The pan is burned and full of dirt. I lose my temper, fly off the handle and yell at him. I wake up.

I look at the clock. 6:03. I've overslept (again). I was awake at 4:30 but the window was open and the room chilly, and my neck stiff and painful. Too lazy to get up and close the window I burrowed deeper into the covers... to dream. What? Why? In dreams concerning my ex-husband I am always angry with him for something. I try to analyze the dream as I wash and dress and brush my teeth. What does it mean, Lord?

Feast of the Ascension

I'm not sure I'm all that happy about the feast of the Ascension.

I know I'm supposed to be ecstatic, because Jesus has gone back to God, where he came from in the first place, and the Holy Spirit will come around at some point to offer whatever it was that Jesus had (although the disciples weren't that clear about when that was going to happen.) Maybe just the spectacular way that Jesus left was enough for them. They witnessed it. I didn't.

So I sit here and keep thinking... you're leaving again!?! Damn.

Maybe it's because the few brushes I've had with the Holy Spirit have not been all that pleasant. I spoke in tongues a couple of times and that was embarrassing and out of control. I spent several months compelled to write Christian folk songs every night... verse after verse after verse... so many verses nobody in their right mind would want to hear the whole song. Do you know how many words rhyme with tree? Too many.

And whenever I sense the Spirit moving through a place, I tear up. My nose turns red, I can't speak without coughing. Of course it's usually when I'm in a group of people and someone always wants to know what's wrong? I was at an ordination a couple of weeks ago and one of the ordinands was so moved she sobbed through the whole ceremony. Uh oh. I can see it coming now... and the thought terrifies me.

someone else to remind you

John 14:23-29

"I have said these things to you while I'm still with you..." John's Gospel sets these words in the middle of the last supper... a long string of "if you love me, do this... and this... and this."

Yet we are reading these words a few days before the Ascension. It makes sense. Jesus could easily be preparing his disciples for his absence once again. When he tried that before they didn't get it. Will they get it this time? Probably not.

Think of the emotional roller coaster his followers have been riding over the last month: a triumphal entry into the Holy City... hoards screaming "hosanna!" only to be replaced by hoards screaming "crucify him!" The actual crucifixion, (which most of them did not witness) followed by news of a resurrection. Too much too soon. Now what? He's leaving AGAIN?

When someone we love has to leave us, no matter what the reason, there is a sense of loss. Stay! Don't go! When someone leaves that we expect to come back, and they don't, there is a sense of guilt. If only I had known, I'd have said goodbye. I'd have told them I loved them.

Jesus is specific about that. Okay... if you love me, here's what you do: you treat each other with the dignity you'd use if it were me. You'll be willing servants to each other. And while I won't be here to remind you, I'll send someone else to remind you... and you'll remember. You'll remember what I said, what I did, and if you love me, you'll do the same.

The advocate, the comforter, the Holy Spirit can take a variety of forms. She isn't going to look like a bird every time she appears. Just as we sometimes see Christ in the eyes of another human being, we also can feel the spirit moving through us to do what Jesus commanded.

Love, forgive, heal, feed, serve. It is God you serve, no matter who it is, no matter if they drive you crazy or annoy the hell out of you. "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives."

In other words, this peace, this gift, makes no common sense by the world's standards. In the midst of your daily grind, you'll easily forget. But God is sending someone else to remind you...

Assorted Musings on Mother's Day

My friend mentioned she doesn't like Mother's Day. She may post about why that is, and I'll probably agree with whatever she says. Her words always encourage me to think about things differently. For the record, I like it. (Thinking differently... and Mothers Day. Both.)

I remember when my kids were in grade school they'd come home on Friday with hand-made cards—class project. The greetings were generally as creative as the teacher involved, sometimes humorous. Drawings were big, question and answer sessions... I like my mother to cook: (fill in the blank) My mother is prettiest when: (fill in the blank) I love my mother because: (fill in the blank) I saved those cards for years... my sentimentality for them long exceeded my sentimentality for the macaroni Christmas ornaments they brought home.

I don't know who invented Mother's Day. I could have looked it up, and given you the history, but you can google it yourself. I do that (google information for my blog) sometimes... so I'll appear more intelligent than I really am. And I actually am pretty smart about some things. I have excellent reading comprehension, decent grammar, good spelling (if not typing) skills. I'm creative and productive, have most always been able to earn a living. My learning curve is suffering with old age, but I guess that's to be expected.

"Street smart" I have never been. Naive would be a better term... or gullible, perhaps. As a child, I was sheltered from violence, gang wars, drive-by shootings. I was not sheltered from child molestation, but neither was I traumatized by it. It left its scar, but one that was barely visible. I wonder about the scars (visible and otherwise) left on my children... how my neglect, insecurity, inability to set boundaries, and bad choices have affected them in ways they are still dealing with.

That is all in my past, I cannot change any of it. What I can do now, is love them with all my heart, let them know it in as many ways possible, and wish them well. Oddly enough it appears I've been given a second chance at mothering to some of our elderly sisters, who grow more child-like every day. They spill, break dishes, go out alone without telling anyone, lose their place in the Daily Office... lose their glasses, or cane. They ask a thousand questions... tell me the same story again and again... yet I take it in stride without much annoyance. I have more patience, more compassion with them than I did with my own kids. (Maybe growing old does that too.)

When I was little, everyone wore a carnation on Mother's Day. There was a code: if your mother was alive, you wore red or pink. If she was dead, you wore white. I never wore a white carnation because somewhere along the way that ritual was phased out. But flowers for Mother's Day have never phased out. I read that Mother's day actually surpasses Valentine's Day in flower deliveries, and that's a HUGE flower holiday.

I got flowers from my older son this year. Irises. Beautiful purple irises. The card read To My Mommy I loved that. Mommy. I only know one other adult who still calls her mother Mommy. And I do love flowers, too. Some folks think they are a waste of money because the shelf-life is so short. Nah. Jesus didn't think it was a waste of money when Mary cracked the jar of nard over his head. The perfume was exquisite and he loved her for it. It said "you're worth it." For me it's the same with flowers. In spite of everything, I'm worth it to my children.

I am blessed with two sons and they take turns surprising me. When I was younger (and way more cynical), I'd say "It's good to have two. You have a better chance of being remembered by at least one of them." This year it was flowers.

Imaginary Friends

I had a phone message on my machine from one of my bloggy friends. We had been in contact through her blog, (and mine) and we had exchanged a few emails, but I had never heard her voice. It somehow changed the dynamic to hear her speak. She actually sounded much as I would have imagined, only better, if that makes any sense.

She was telling me about a kindness another blog reader had extended to her, apparently through me, and wanted to thank me. I hadn't really done anything, other than mention her blog in one of my blogs and give a link to her site. That's it. Yet a connection was made and through that connection at least two more people have enriched each other's lives.

Some of my sisters (and plenty of people I imagine... maybe not you since you're actually reading this post) can't understand how virtual friends can be worth anything. The tendency is to think of them as "imaginary friends" and therefore not worthy of the same affection or effort that's involved in being a real flesh and blood friend. I bought that story for awhile because I thought I agreed. Now I'm not so sure.

If Jesus were alive today, would he blog? Would he find his disciples in the Yellow Pages or google the Web?

Today in Bible study we discussed the lesson from Luke where Jesus sends his disciples out to heal and teach. Take no money or extra clothes, and if someone welcomes you, stay awhile... how would that go over today? Not very well I bet. No, our culture and our technology require different tactics to achieve the same results... healing broken hearts, inspiring indifferent minds, converting people's everyday lives.

I have flesh and blood friends that I don't see often. They are in my heart, on my mind. I say prayers for them when I know they need them. But I do not experience them in the flesh except maybe once a month, in some cases, once a year. I have bloggy friends I have never met and probably never will. Yet because we have shared ourselves and our ideas through our writing, they are in my heart, on my mind, and I say prayers for them when I know they need them.

What's the difference?

Happy Birthday Dear One!

My younger son was born on Mother's Day. At least that's the way I remember it. (It's my story and I'm sticking to it.) Today he celebrates his thirty-sixth birthday. The fact that he was my second and I had a good idea of what to expect, that technology had improved in the three years since my first childbirth... both contributed to a much easier delivery... a much easier transition to the caring of a new baby. A nurse informed me that "the angels had kissed him on the way out." I wasn't sure how she knew this, had witnessed this, or if it was a line she gave all new mothers... but it was a comfort at the time.

And he was an angelic baby. From the beginning he was strong and independent, with a knack for entertaining himself without much supervision. That his older brother sometimes bullied him and got him into trouble didn't seem to faze him much. He liked to draw when he was small and I had occasional visions of another artist in the family.

But in addition to his innate sensitivity, he was also a macho guy... whether out of desire or self-defense I don't know. He took to body building-activities: mowing lawns in the summer. He pumped iron in high school and was a male cheerleader, lifting the (somewhat hefty) girls into the air.

He served his time in the Navy, and was determined to become a police officer. The police academy wasn't accepting new recruits, so he attended the junior college's police course. Of course the force wasn't hiring the junior college graduates either, so he took a job in Corrections, working at the county jail. That was when I knew he still valued the human element of compassion so important in positions of authority and physical power.

He told me about a young, very scared woman who had been arrested for forging an $18 check at a 7/11. She was in a holding tank with a crowd of hookers who were razzing her and scaring her to death. All he did was pull her sheet from the bottom of the stack and process her through first, to get her out of the pen. He did his job, but with mercy more than justice.

Less than a year later he was finally sworn in as an officer. He made sergeant in record time and then lieutenant. We are talking one determined and focused guy. he has told me more than once he'll be sheriff one day, and I believe him.

I am so proud of him, of his beautiful family and his willingness to persevere. I'm not sure which genes he inherited from me, (probably not the perseverance) but I love him for who he is, and who he is becoming. Happy Birthday dear John!

Aging

Dream: I have missed my grandson's birthday (again) and I am trying to write a blog to apologize, to explain that my (once razor-sharp) memory keeps failing me. I begin the post with "I have too many grandchildren." ...as if that were a valid excuse for not remembering the youngest's first birthday. No, I cannot say that. It sounds judgmental, as if I were rebuking my son for having four children. As the dream continues I keep revising the text, trying not to whine, trying to sound appropriately contrite. I feel guilty, helpless, hopeless in this. I start again.

The truth is I'm having difficulty coping with the fact that I cannot remember things any more. I am having more difficulty with my irritation with others who forget key details. I now have no grounds for complaint (as if I ever did) but now the clarity is painful.

I begin again. I talk about the aging process, things my mother used to say when she was growing forgetful... when she no longer could do things on the spur of the moment or would become agitated when asked to change her plans. It took her two hours to get dressed in the morning. She needed to know ahead of time what to wear. I am not that bad, I say to myself. But I know secretly that it takes me longer to organize my day now too. I start again. "I have too many grandchildren." No, I can't say that. Now why can't I say that? I cannot remember. So I leave it for now, and hit "save as draft."

I wake up exhausted, slowly becoming aware I've dreamed the whole thing. I pray quietly in the early morning dimness. When was his birthday? I'm afraid to look at the little book where I keep all the dates... how late am I?

Later in the day I finally look at the book. I look at March, April... his name is not there. I look at May... hope springing up.. maybe I am not late? His name is not there. My son's name is there. I knew that. I have only two sons. I can remember two. June... there he is, June 24th! I am not late. Ah... but when June comes will I forget again? I sigh. And give thanks for my forgiving sons, my forgiving sisters, my forgiving God.

Beltane/Bealtaine/Holiday/Holy Day

There's only so much research you can do into the origin of words before the stories start going in circles. That's when the thinness of knowledge mixes with the kind of understanding you can only call knowing. It is the best of times, the most frustrating of times.

In our culture of calendars and watches, appointment books and blackberrys, tomorrow will be May 1st; therefore tonight is the eve of May 1st: May Day, Beltaine. It is a time of thinness, just as there are geographical places of thinness.

In the Celtic tradition, but specifically the Gaelic, Bealtaine marks the cross-quarter mid-point between the vernal equinox and the summer solstice... significant sun days for the world that revolved around agriculture. The herds would be sent to their summer pastures, and blessings would be invoked for fruitfulness of the land. This holiday would not have always fallen so conveniently on this date... it may have been celebrated at the full moon falling closest to the sun's day.

The word Beltane may come from the Old Irish Beltene which means bright fire, or from bale fire which also means white or shining. In any event, fire and bonfires were/are a major part of the celebration. From that one fire other fires would be rekindled. The rituals for blessing and purification were done in threes, a sacred number in practically every religion. Why is that? What is it about the number three that holds so much power and significance? You can do your own research. There are plenty of theories. I gravitate to the belief that it's a combination of the number one and the number two... the mystery that embraces both unity and duality... a concept we've been struggling with since Eden.

But back to the bonfires. Think of our own Easter vigil ritual... the light of the world is rekindled and from it all the candles in the church are lit. What we call resurrection was evident in the pagan world in spring's miraculous rebirth from winter. Just as Jesus told his parables in words using the Earth's terminology, so we echo the intuitive understanding of our forebears.

Just because I can google the morning away discovering how all these things fit together, does not make me any the wiser. I have never jumped three times over the fire like my Irish ancestors. Maybe I should just drag out the hibachi and give it a go.

My sheep hear my voice.

With three sisters out of town and one sick in bed, we were a very small group this morning. And we had a new celebrant to "break in", (not that our mass is different from other settings... that's one of the beauties of a standard prayer book.) Still, a new priest likes to walk through the service beforehand, to be made aware of small nuances, and every congregation has them.

She had done her homework. Her homily covered all three readings, the psalm, and the fact that if it were not Sunday, it would be the feast day of Catherine of Siena. As I've mentioned before, one of the benefits of community that I so appreciate, is hearing new voices proclaim the Gospel on Sunday morning. Sometimes I hang on every word; sometimes a hymn will reinforce what's just been said; sometimes a turn of phrase will interrupt time and my mind will wander.

In today's Gospel (John 10: 22-30) Jesus is asked (once again) to tell plainly if he is the Messiah. And once again, he says "I have told you and you do not believe." This time he goes on to say the reason you don't believe is because you aren't my sheep. "My sheep hear my voice."

Time stopped. My mind wandered... to an old Bonnie Rait song:
All at once I hear your voice, and time just slips away.
Nothing they can say can hold me here.
Take me where I only feel the wind across my face.
Let me know there's some place left for me.
Waiting there for me...

That chorus (taken out of its song context) speaks vividly of what it means to hear HIs voice. I used to get a catch in my throat every time I heard it... I would sing along with Bonnie, tears streaming down my face. I thought I was missing a human voice, maybe my dad or an old boyfriend, lover, husband... I could never quite put my finger on who it was. But the longing was real, the tears a tangible indication I was on to something bigger than I could imagine.

The other day a friend expressed his concern/opinion about my becoming a life-professed sister. He said something to the effect: "you could be doing so much more out in the world... the convent is too confining for someone with your creativity."

I was out in the world. I did plenty with my creativity. I still do, I think. The medium for creativity may take a different form now, but that form is as valid as the other forms were. It's part of the discernment process... to understand the differences and still find the unity within all the expressions. My decision will rest more with whether I hear the voice amidst all the other voices... the one that makes time just slip away.

uses and abuses

The class I attended was advertised as "Uses and Abuses of Sacred Scripture." It was a one-night stand, so to speak, an evening session that included a panel discussion between a Muslim (Arabic scholar) a Rabbi (Sanskrit expert) and a former Jesuit/now Episcopal priest.

I'm not sure what I expected, but at the time the discussion didn't seem to fulfill the theme. Apparently I wasn't the only attendee to feel disoriented; a comment from another classmate echoed the same thought. So what was I expecting? A handbook on how to abuse scripture? Or... a handbook on how to defend myself from individuals who use scripture to abuse me?

What we got was three variations on the theme: Sacred text, whether it be Torah, Gospel or Koran is the Living Word of God. I knew that. Didn't I? Maybe yes and maybe no.

Our Rabbi opened his remarks with the statement "The Bible says." and then went on to refute this all-too-common (I would say fundamentalist) attribution with: "The Bible doesn't say anything." He explained that what we understand the Bible to mean is a far cry from the Bible says. That rings true for me. I've been in too many dead-end arguments with "The Bible says it, I believe it, and that settles it" poster children. There's no where to go in a discussion with people who quote the Bible as the last word. He also pointed out the Bible should be the first word, not the last. In other words, an invitation to dialog... yet we know some folks just can't go there.

Our priest expanded with examples of selective screening... how we pick and choose the words to follow that suit our needs or our fancy. He used the example of Jesus telling the young man to sell everything and give it to the poor (one we sidestep) as opposed to the passage where Jesus tells Nicodemus he must be born again. We latched onto that one like white on rice.

Our Muslim scholar gave us an example from Arabic, which apparently uses no punctuation: woman without her man is nothing He asked us to punctuate it. We came up with two versions: Woman, without her, man is nothing. and Woman, without her man, is nothing. For me, neither variation was satisfactory, since both were bashing one gender or the other. Where was the neutral ground? How could this quotation have meaning that doesn't polarize us?

Now... I'm thinking that was the whole point of the evening. Any interpretation of sacred scripture that polarizes is a misinterpretation. It must have meant something else, either in the context of the culture, in a faulty translation from one language to another, or in our limited human comprehension. The Word of God may very well be inerrant, but our grasp of God will never be complete, our understanding always limited to what we either already know or have been taught.

Good to keep in mind if the dialog is ever to continue...

Comfort levels

I recently attended a Solemn Evensong at one of the more Anglo-Catholic churches in New York City. Whenever I'm in a "high-church" setting, I'm always reminded of the half-year I spent at the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a Roman Catholic parochial school in Portland, Maine. I was in the third grade.

My mother's reasons for sending me to that school had nothing to do with the religious education I inadvertently received... (I probably studied my catechism with much more zeal than was warranted, since I would never be receiving First Communion in a dainty white dress and veil like the other little girls in my class.) I was a protestant, an alien in a sea of Roman Catholics. Nobody seemed to mind, or if they did, they were not obnoxious about it. Perhaps it was felt there was still time to save my immortal soul, or perhaps the nuns simply followed Jesus' teaching to welcome the stranger.

As a class, we would attend the Stations of the Cross every Friday. I was transported to a foreign world. One whiff of the incense, the sight of all those flickering votive candles in their little red containers... the beautiful (somewhat gory) statues with their hearts exposed in their chests, tears like pearls glistening on their cheeks... something hushed and holy was present there in a way I'd never experienced in my Southern Baptist/Unitarian/Congregational checkered past.

But I was not thoroughly trained in those mysteries; I got just enough to be dangerous. I, too, learned the Act of Contrition and patiently waited to say my confession, only to be recognized and gently pulled out of line. "You aren't required to say confession, my dear."
"But I want to, I want to do a penance."
"Well then, why don't you sit over here and say the rosary. That is one of the penances."
But, even as a seven-year-old Catholic wannabe, I was a maverick, and a lazy one at that. I only said half of each Hail Mary, alternating between Hail Mary full of grace and Holy Mary mother of God, and finished in half the time. I lit ten votive candles and only added a nickel to the jar. I was definitely missing something key.

Only later would I rebel at the inconsistencies, the arbitrary rules, the church's massive wealth in the midst of poverty. I would eventually take the middle road to piety... a church with solid liturgy but not so many ways to be damned. I came to grips with what was important for me in all of the bowing and scraping before crosses and sacraments. I had to feel the reverence in my heart, or it meant nothing... to me, or to God.

Now, over-the-top pageantry will pull me out of reverence faster than a speeding bullet. And so it was the other evening... At the Eucharistic Exposition my mind wandered. I watched the solemnity with which the Holy Sacrament was transferred from the tabernacle to the monstrance, displayed in an arcing circle, then put back into its dark cabinet again. I stifled a giggle with great effort. All I could think of was
"You take the fish food out, you put the fish food in,
You parade it in a circle, then you put it back again.
You do the Hokey Pokey..."

I was a seven-year-old again, still definitely missing something key. I tried focusing on the Tantum ergo, the hymn sung during the censing... Therefore we before him bending, This great Sacrament revere; types and shadows have their ending, for the newer rite is here... I couldn't make the connection. What newer rite? This rite is about as old-fashioned as it gets... parading around a communion wafer for everybody to adore! It's embarrassing. I later mentioned my discomfort to one of my sisters and she said simply "It's just not your style." No kidding.

I've wrestled with my knee-jerk reaction to the Exposition ritual, and finally realized that (for me) the Blessed Sacrament is only blessed if you eat it. It may be the very presence of Christ, but not until it mingles with my presence and nourishes me in a tangible, sensory way. However, I also realized that Jesus was most likely not embarrassed. (by me or for me, maybe), but certainly not from the adoration of a full congregation of people, some who find great comfort in these old ways of worship... comfort they no longer feel in their own Roman Catholic parishes.

It comes down to this: worship must be comforting, even if it is not always comfortable. And... what brings comfort to one part of the Body may tickle (or irritate) another. (I'm thinking ticklish feet or armpits as opposed to kneecaps or shoulders.) As my sister said so succinctly, it's not my style.

But deeper than that... while I could not reverence the ritual itself, I can reverence the intention. I will try to keep that in mind the next time my seven-year old starts singing the Hokey Pokey.

Third Sunday in Eastertide

O God, whose blessed son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, One God, now and for ever,
—Collect for Easter III:

After reading the Gospel describing the disciples' beach breakfast with the risen Christ, our celebrant began his homily with: "All resurrection experiences are to those who need them. Be in touch with your need." He spoke quietly with some special authority. Perhaps it's an Anglican thing, (he was a guest in our house from the Church of England, and kindly agreed to fill in on a Sunday I hadn't been able to schedule a local priest.) He had me hooked.

I remembered the collect for today... how that turn of phrase connecting the sight of bread with the sight of Christ's redeeming work had poked my heart the way words sometimes do; I thought of all the people Jesus had not appeared to... Pontius Pilate, Caiaphas... how his appearances were always shrouded in mystery and misunderstanding until the eyes of faith were opened to the possibility that this stranger in their midst was indeed the risen Lord.

In today's Gospel, the disciples were all eating breakfast with Jesus, yet they were afraid to ask him who he was. Were they afraid he would somehow morph into somebody else if they dared to pose the question?

Holy encounters are sometimes best left unspoken, I think. For those of us enamored with words (as I am) it's difficult to shut up about mystical experiences. Yet the telling is never quite as wonderful as the event itself. Seeing Christ's redeeming work in the midst of holocaust, natural disaster or any tragedy is hard enough... trying to convey that vision to someone focused on the evil of it, is a fool's errand. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread... the opening lines of a Mercer song often quoted. Who really knows if angels fear anything? If perfect Love casts out fear, then where does that fear go when it is cast out? I have too many questions today and very few (if any) answers.

I believe we must be fools. That is some kind of an answer I guess. And I believe we can connect the bread, whether it be Communion bread or Wonder bread or low-fat, seven-grain bread... with the recognition of Christ in each face we encounter. Why else would Jesus keep telling Peter "feed my sheep"? Why else would he ask us to "Eat it in remembrance of me"?

And the winners are:

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I had been awarded one of those by bloggers/for bloggers awards: the Thinking Blogger Award, to be exact. You can stop laughing. ("I think, therefore I am") At the time, there was way too much other stuff going on for me to give my own bestowal of this award much critical thought... but I promised I would do a subsequent post.

I have thought about it. I read (and bookmark) lots of blogs and websites, but I've found that I only read one or two consistently every day. That has more to do with my available time than with any blog's merit. Most of the ones I read I play catch up with every few days. That seems to work. My five blogs of choice, to pay this homage forward, are listed below. I actually tried to list a few you may not be familiar with, rather than keep going round and round in a mutual admiration society. If you're not listed and you know I read your blog, don't think it's because I didn't deem you worthy. (I wouldn't be reading your stupid blog if I didn't deem you worthy!) However, If you are listed, you are eligible to do the following:

1. Write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.

2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.

3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't match your blog's color scheme.)

So here they are: my top five thinking blogs... or in some cases, websites, (not necessarily in any kind of order):

• Wandering Wonderings
Currently on the offensive in her third (I think) battle with cancer, Pat Denino, woman of wonder, ponders a myriad of questions about life, love, creativity and whatever else strikes her fancy... Here's how she introduces her blog: There are a lot of questions floating around the universe, waiting for someone to ask them. One of those people would be me... Please join me in dancing the questions. Oh, she is definitely big on dancing... and I'll be one of her dance partners any day.

• grace-full thoughts
Sr. Catherine Grace writes about the sacredness of creation, life in community, work on an organic farm, and how these all interrelate with her monastic vows. She's willing to tackle questions and issues with guts and gifted eloquence... and I'm not saying that just because she's my sister...

• A Peculiar Prophet
Now who would have though a Methodist Bishop from Birmingham, Alabama would be on my list? Just goes to show you that people who make you think come in all sizes, shapes and disguises. And a Southern Baptist friend was the one who gave me the link.

• This one is not exactly a blog per say. It's more of an art exhibit called Post Secret... but it has a blogspot address and certainly makes me think. Every Sunday a new batch of postcards are downloaded. These are anonymous, hand-made postcards, each describing a secret the sender needs to get off their chest. Amazing work.

• And last, but in a category all its own, Jesus and Mo is a cartoon strip that borders on the blasphemous, (those of you who are offended by religious slurs should probably not go there) yet in their own way these cartoons make me think outside the box and challenge my own narrow views about God and His/Her prophets. Here's a sample from a couple of days ago that seems a good way to end this post.

empty

One of the perks of living in community in New York City is the diverse group of celebrants who grace our altar. Unlike most parish situations, (where the congregation hears the same voice from the pulpit week in and week out) we get to hear a variety of voices, old and young, male and female. And they seem to take our small congregation so seriously: I've heard absolutely amazing sermons and homilies preached in our tiny chapel... thoughtful, inspiring, pointed and pertinent.

Today was no different. A million sermons will probably be preached today concerning St. Thomas and the differences between faith and doubt, seeing and not seeing, but our celebrant sidestepped all that rhetoric, and went straight to the core of the crucified Christ.

We humans have expectations when we shower love on one another... that the effort, the love, be recognized and appreciated. "Love deserves and requires a response," he said, describing a conversation he had had earlier in the week.

And yet... God did not say that and does not say that. It is certainly the enigma I find most distressing when I attempt to live my life in the way that Jesus lived, to follow his example. "No," our celebrant was reminded, "love is its own reward."

The cruelest part about loving another human being is the vulnerability it produces. Nobody I know likes that feeling... it's too raw, naked, too empty. So, to protect ourselves, we qualify our love. In the worst sense love becomes a legal transaction with clauses and penalties. Not much better is a polite tit for tat arrangement... I support you, you support me; I cut you slack, you do the same for me.

I was once given some wise words in a guided meditation: "Your vulnerability is the source of your strength." After all these years, I'm still discerning how deep those words penetrate the core of who I am. Pretty words. Pretty hard to swallow. Too raw, too naked, too empty.

Yet what Jesus did, in his total and complete act of self-giving, was empty himself. Nothing left. Not only did he take the form of a servant, not only did he relinquish his God-power, but he emptied himself of the God-spark that resides in every one of us.

No wonder he cried out "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!" He gave it all away.

We follow him. Some of us even try to emulate him... this source of no power. I don't understand it, even as I'm both drawn to and repelled by it... this belief that love is its own reward.

R.I.P.

These days it seems I am rarely in touch with what's going on in the "outside world". Yet this morning I stumbled onto a web obituary and learned that Kurt Vonnegut has just died.

Next to J.D. Salinger, Vonnegut was most responsible for shaping my reading preferences when I was an impressionable college student. His work was often equated with science fiction, but it was more than that. He was vulgar in a hilarious way, and over the years I read everything I could get my hands on, (even all the works published under other names.) He was 84. Rest in peace, Kurt.