Friday five: but how, then, shall we live?

Sally of the RevGals writes:

This has been a good week for British Methodism, The Annual Conference has discussed and debated many things and not shied away from some difficult stuff. New Ministers have been Ordained and received into Full Connexion. Add to that the fact that two amazing ladies; Alison Tomlin and Eunice Attwood have taken up their posts as President and Vice-President for 2010/2011–and that they have both inspired us in their speeches and preaching , and you begin to get the picture. In the Vice-President's Address Eunice gave an inspiring account of the type of church she wants to be a part of:

I want to be part of a church that is prayer-filled -
A church that is resourced and sustained by the Bible,
A church that can offer hope even in a credit crunch,
A church that can live well with difference and diversity.

I want to be part of a church that welcomes the wealthy, those who have power and influence -
A church that knows how to party and celebrate life,
A church that acknowledges death and speaks boldly of resurrection,
A church that doesn’t pretend to have all the answers but encourages all the questions.

I want to be part of a church that throws parties for prostitutes -
A church that welcomes those who seek asylum,
A church that longs and yearns for justice,
A church that listens to those no-one else wants to listen to.

I want to be part of a church that believes in transformation not preservation -
A church where all who are lost can be found,
A church where people can discover friendship,
A church where every person takes responsibility in sharing the good news.

I want to be part of a church whose hope is placed securely and confidently in the transforming love of God -
A church that engages faith in its communities,
A church that makes and nurtures disciples of Jesus.

A church where the story of God’s love is at the centre.
I want to be part of a church that offers outrageous grace, reckless generosity, transforming love and engaging faith.
This is God’s story Transforming Love: Engaging Faith.

My prayer is that by the power of the Spirit of God at work amongst us, it will increasingly be our story.

I want to be part of that church too, and at the danger of trying to add to such a wonderful litany of dreams/ visions and prayers I wonder which five things would you echo from or add to this. What kind of church do you want to be a part of in the 21st Century?

Bonus: Is there a hymn or a Bible passage that you would make your inspiration?

Well. That's a thinker, isn't it? Here's my answer:

I want to be part of a church that is

1. humble–that can find a different standard of belonging than dogmatic “right” and “wrong.” That can be fully in conversation with people and institutions whose ideas, strengths, commitments are different from its own, for the betterment of all. That can admit when it’s wrong by its own standards, repent and do better next time. That cares less about its image in the world than its effectiveness in the relief of suffering and of spreading (or, at the very least, not impeding) the love of God. Talk with me about babies and bathwater all you want; I’m pretty sure that genuine love is the fulfillment of the Law. I want a church that isn’t so comfortable that it has all the right answers; that’s a kind of living death. I want a church that will recognize its own “-olatries” and work to tear them down. And could we maybe even (dare I say it) laugh at ourselves sometimes?
2. engaged in a positive way–that truly sees the suffering/injustice within its walls, down the street, and around the world (which will require a good dose of characteristic #1, particularly in first-world environments) and wants to provide that cold drink of water to a child more than it wants to preserve itself. That seeks out the gifts of its body and brings them to bear on the problems it finds. However, the church should act within the political system of its country more as a voice of conscience than as a political power in its own right; it should be about raising questions about how we are to live together, instead of seeking power for its own sake. And–hear me now–its methods are every bit as important as its results. Scapegoating and scaring people into thinking they’re losing their grip on everything they hold dear so that they’ll support a particular political engine is hypocritical, reprehensible and, in the end, counter-productive. Witness the treatment of GLBT folks in the last twenty years as just one of many examples. We should be about tikkun olam.
3. awake to the unfolding beauty of the world–that observes, listens, ponders and responds creatively. Where beauty is taken seriously as a characteristic of the Divine. Where the planet is celebrated and protected as our astonishing home. Where spirits open in song, art, dance and story, in response to the unbelievable gift of being alive and together under the sun, in God’s gaze, as part of the ongoing story of God’s people. Where, as the hymn says, “through the church the song goes on.”
4. un-self-conscious about holding love of God and neighbor as its highest values. Period. Worship is vibrant, fresh, the central practice/equipment to the life of faith for all people–and I do mean ALL people–so that they may be sent out to love all the world. Not to convert them, just to love them. It must be extravagantly welcoming to everyone, as if love really does cast out fear. Doctrinal agreement and social conformity are not defining characteristics of this community; for once, it’s more about “us” than about “me.” And–don’t get me wrong–I’m not talking about a squishy “we are the world” sentiment here; I’m talking about honest, vigorous, creative, brave, get-your-hands-dirty love. Not onstage; in the trenches. And sometimes, we are the ones in need of help and teaching. Two-way relationships.
5. hopeful, faithful, confident and patient enough to pour itself out as Christ did.

And let me just say this; it’s easy to talk about it on this level. The hard part is when we try to answer the question, “But how, then, shall we live?” Because working all this out is messy. Feelings get hurt. Dignities are affronted. Turf is impinged upon. Scabs are pulled off. Put your helmets on, people; this is a contact sport. But if those things don’t happen, from where does the growth come? Truly, if we’re not changed by the experience, what are we doing? And this is where the good stuff always comes–where we can be surprised by grace, by joy, by love.

Oh, and my answer to the bonus question? Albert Bayly's wonderful hymn does it for me (sung to BEACH SPRING):

Lord, whose love in humble service bore the weight of human need;

who, upon the cross, forsaken, worked your mercy's perfect deed.

We, your servants, bring the worship not of voice alone, but heart;

consecrating to your purpose every gift that you impart.

Still your children wander homeless; still the hungry cry for bread;

still the captives long for freedom; still in grief we mourn our dead.

As you, Lord, in deep compassion, healed the sick and freed the soul,

by your Spirit send us power to your world to make it whole.

As we worship, grant us vision, till your love's redeeming light

in its height and depth and greatness dawns upon our quickened sight,

making known the needs and burdens your compassion bids us bear;

stirring us to ardent service, your abundant life to share.

Called by worship to your service, forth in your dear name we go,

to the child, the youth, the aged, love in living deeds to show;

hope and health, goodwill and comfort, counsel, aid and peace we give,

that your servants, Lord, in freedom may your mercy know and live.

Coloring outside the lines

I work, during the day, for Large Metropolitan Church (LMC)--large enough to have a full-time Communications Director. Much loveliness comes of this for LMC, including and especially seasonal devotional books. The over-arching Lenten theme at LMC is "coloring outside the lines."

"Interesting approach," mused my Internal Worship Planning Geek, when I first heard it. "Wonder how, exactly, that will play out."

One way is in a beautiful devotional. It contains original art by a member; meditations submitted by staff and members; a scripture reading and a prayer for each day; and--wait for it--a coloring page for each Sunday. And the book comes with a little box of six crayons.

Genius. An invitation to approach Lent in a very personal, creative and fresh way, if a body is willing. Staff and most members who've seen it have responded with delight. But yesterday, as our receptionist offered a book and crayons to a rather elderly member, I heard her say rather archly, "Well, I'd prefer to behave like an adult."

But she took them.

And I (goody for me) managed not to make a crack about needing to have the faith of a little child. Because faith takes us to all kinds of uncomfortable places. Some of them are deserts; some of them are moral crossroads; some of them are invitations to try something a tiny bit loose and silly and joyful.

My home congregation (both midwestern and Lutheran!) did just that on Transfiguration Sunday. Our opening song was the South African freedom song "We Are Marching in the Light of God." In subsequent verses, we are "dancing," "praying" and "singing in the light of God." Our drumming director worked out some simple dance moves for everyone to do while we sang and the drummers played. This sort of thing has been a bit lackluster in the past, (we're sort of self-conscious about all that movement and exuberance, don'cha know) but not this time. Almost everyone at both services, from age 3 to 83, was moving and singing and grinning. Maybe even transfigured, in a way.

The incandescent Barbara Brown Taylor notes in "An Altar in the World" that

We need the practice of incarnation,

by which God saves the lives of those

whose intellectual assent has turned dry as dust,

who have run frighteningly low on the bread of life,

who are dying to know more God in their bodies.

Not more about God.

More God.

Sometimes when people ask me about my prayer life,

I describe hanging laundry on the line.

After a day of too much information about almost everything,

there is such blessed relief in the weight of wet clothes,

causing the wicker basket to creak as I carry it to the clothesline.

Every time I bend down to shake loose a piece of laundry,

I smell the grass.

I smell the sun.

Above all, I smell clean laundry.

Above all, I am happy for practices that bring me back to my body,

where the operative categories are not "bad" and "good"

but "dead" and "alive."

As hard as I have tried to be good all my life--

as hard as I try to be good even now--

my heart leans more and more toward that which gives life,

whether it is conventionally good or not.

There are times

when dancing on tables grants more life than kneeling in prayer.

More to the point,

there are times when dancing on tables

is the most authentic prayer in reach,

even if it pocks the table and clears the room.

And now I have a hopeful image in my head of my crusty friend at home alone, using those crayons and chuckling to herself. And my wish for you, gentle reader, is that you give it a try, too. Dance. Laugh. Sing. Remember that life is our first, best gift from our loving Creator. Don't you think it's God's hope for that life to be colorful and extravagantly vibrant?

Some deserts are of our own making. I'm just saying.

Peace, y'all.

What channel should I be watching?

In order to find advertising like this, I mean? Good grief, it's an art piece! Lovely.



Hat tip to Philip Copeland at ChoralNet.

Dark is the night

During my first semester of seminary a painting hung in the chapel, behind the altar. The painting was entitled "Incarnation," and it took a pretty good swipe at my theology on that topic. I wish I could post an image here, but I'll try to describe it.

First, it was about eight feet tall by three wide. The bottom third was mostly black, with some gravel embedded in the paint. The top section was varying shades of deep blue. From the top center down to the horizon, there was an straight-but-uneven, energetic swath of yellow and white varying from 4-8 inches wide, streaming directly and forcefully downward into the black earth, where it became an orange glow.

In other words, a field of deep darkness, through which came a stroke of glory so powerful that it turned the very earth to embers where it struck.

Sweet-smelling straw, gentle animals and smiling humans...not present. Just radiance and power.

It got me thinking. About the meeting of heaven and earth. About the story that I knew by heart, with the sentiment removed. About the starkness of the contrast between light and dark, despair and hope.

I couldn't form words around it for quite a while--not until I'd experienced some despair firsthand. A couple of years later, my personal ground was laid; I was at the lowest point of my life, and trying to re-energize myself at the St Olaf Conference on Worship, Theology and the Arts.

I had signed up for a hymnwriting workshop led by the wonderful Mel Bringle. On the first day of the workshop, we were supposed to write a text to go with a particular tune (Bill Rowan's STILL WATERS, to be precise). It could have been about anything, as long as the syllabic count and speech rhythms matched the line. This text flowed from my green felt-tip, almost of a piece. It was finished by day's end; the easiest writing I've ever done. It's about the world that so desperately needed (needs) that stroke of glory and light, which I'd come to understand as I hadn't at first view of the painting.

Dark is the night, quiet and cold;
all earth waits for Love's bright dawn.
Send us your light, promised of old:
oh, come, Lord Jesus, come!

Whisper of wind, blow through the trees:
heaven's breath, meet flesh and bone!
Stir us again, life-giving Breeze:
oh, come, Lord Jesus, come!

Rupture the night! Sing in the stars,
Radiant One, make us your home!
Bathe us in light; blaze in our hearts:
oh, come, Lord Jesus, come!

Oh, come, Lord Jesus, come!

Blessed Advent, everyone.

On these shoulders

I saw an extraordinary play last night, with Beloved, Young Poet Friend and Seminarian Friend. It was part of August Wilson's Century Cycle, which also includes the Pulitzer-winning plays Fences and The Piano Lesson. Last evening's play was called Gem of the Ocean. Its depth and power were riveting, and each actor truly honored that wonderful script. A privilege to witness, and a thoroughly revelatory, wrenching experience. Local readers, get on the phone and get yourself a ticket--you won't be sorry!


At the center of the play was a rich and wonderful quilt by textile artist Cecile Margaret Lewis. It was the vessel of so many themes present in the text:

• the continuing effects of slavery and its aftermath on the black community (and, by extension, on the larger community)
  
• living and dying with honor and beauty, whatever your circumstances
  
• the fire in the hearts of the oppressed, and the power inherent in the ability to be subtly, humorously, defiantly true to yourself and your people (the ones who are yours through inheritance and/or simply through the bonds of love)
  
• the scarring and redemption present in every human life
  
• as is apparent in the poster art for the program, the idea that we stand on the shoulders of those who came before us...and that we have an obligation to honor their memory in both the living of our own lives and the nurture of the next generation

Which has me thinking today about all of the shoulders on which I stand--about the building, teaching, the suffering, the sacrifice and the generosity of:

• the generations of my family, whose DNA, culture, social system and ethics inform my whole existence in a most basic way
• the builders, maintainers and reformers of the Christian (Lutheran) faith
• the great thinkers and innovators of every age
  
• those who settled and led this country (in all those good and bad ways)
• the musicians, poets, writers, artists of all kind who have helped me to see and to hear
• my teachers (of all stripes)
• civil rights activists (of all stripes, but particularly GLBT) who have made my relatively open and fear-free existence possible
• those living examples in my life...Beloved, friends, loved ones, colleagues, community members--all who keep me growing.

I sat and tried to make a list, just first names, of all the people to whom I owe a debt of gratitude, and to whom I am therefore answerable on some level. I thought I might make a text cloud of those names and post them here. It quickly became evident that this was going to be an impractically long list...and that posting it isn't the point.

The remembering is the point. Honoring their gift to me by passing it on to others: THAT's the point. I'm going to try to live inside that idea for a while.

Who's on your list?

What are you going to do about it?

Just for the joy of it

I LOVE this idea from Scotland. What fun! :-)

Just proves to me that the shared joy of making music is not necessarily affected by the individual success of making music. How completely counter-cultural, in this, our "up by the rugged-individualist bootstraps" country. You don't have to be a professional musician to access the heart of the music. You don't even have to be good.

Now, before you freak out on me, I'm not suggesting that it's OK not to practice, not to really apply yourself. Improving your technique and respecting the music and your fellow musicians are critical groundwork; it is, at least, our job as musicians not to stand in the way of the music. But in the moment where the magic happens, something fleeting is at work that isn't about technique. It's about honesty and abandon and the aspirational delight of locating yourself in beauty...and locating beauty in yourself.

You just have to be willing, and a little bit brave.

Fantastic.

I also heard something inspiring this week. It's the story of Jeff Bauer, a local guy who saw a need on the other side of the world and tried to meet it through visual art. He started a foundation for kids who have survived the madness in Darfur, teaching them to make art as a step toward healing and growing back into their lives. Stop by and visit his website to find out more about (and support) The Beautiful Project.

Now, could we please fund arts education programs? I mean the ones in the public schools and the ones that spring up in communities. My choir is doing a benefit for one of the latter this Saturday. Y'all come, if you're in Minneapolis...and if you're not, it's still possible to support the program through their website. Let's provide opportunities for the next generation to find their way into colorful, musicky joy, huh? Or at least to help them access their inner beauty when there isn't much beauty around them.

Peace, friends--