...yes, for those of you who were paying attention, that was the original title of Ellen.
It also refers to the exciting premiere of a brand-new show starring two church friends who sing in my choir. I'm thinking, after seeing this, every choir director in the world is going to wish they had such creative souls to work with!
Thanks, guys. :-) Fantastic!
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Deliver us
I feel like Miriam today.A variety of forces have been at work on me this week, bringing me through a difficult season and into a new peace. It culminated this morning at church: my choir outdid themselves; our larger community baptized Owen into the faith; we celebrated our graduates. We sang "Come, Lord Jesus--send us your Spirit; renew the face of the earth" and "Jesus loves me: this I know." And Wonderful Colleague drenched us (homiletically speaking) with great, dripping buckets of grace. He quoted two other wise souls, in so doing:
The arc of history is bent toward justice. --Martin Luther King, Jr.
The arc of the gospel is bent toward inclusion. --Walter Brueggemann
The arc of the gospel is bent toward inclusion. --Walter Brueggemann
And so, it was a strange time for this phrase to jump out and smack me on the forehead while we prayed:
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Deliver us. Whatever it takes. Whether or not we know how much we need it.
Deliverance sometimes comes in a pillar of fire or a parting of the waves. More often, though, it's a messy, protracted business--often arriving just as we are truly tiring of the company of its advance party, Mssrs. Discomfort and Doubt.
Deliverance can be as sensational as a near-drowning, or as mundane as our pesky brother Moses continually clearing his throat in the corner of the room. But one thing is constant: it's born of a truth that insists on being heard, whether we really want to deal with it or--most likely-- not.
Deliverance comes when we muster the courage to bear witness to deep truth: by telling, by hearing, by doing. By not bowing down to our assumptions, especially when they exist to keep other people safely classifiable and under our control.
Like many of you, I've been blessed and privileged to bear witness to Cecilia's journey over the last year or so. This extraordinary woman has had a big week, coming out to her congregation and basically everyone she knows. And now she has been delivered from the burden of secrecy and some fear of the unknown, born into a new understanding of God's love and her own courage. Her congregation has likewise been delivered (whether or not they all know it yet) as she has invited them to a take another look at her, and at what they truly believe about the core meaning of life in the body of Christ.
In the last week, I, too, have been delivered from an aspect of anger and fear. It hasn't been as dramatic as Cecilia's story, but hey, any true deliverance is gracious and powerful. God kept on gently (and finally, more firmly...like Professor Dumbledore's mugs of butterbeer knocking at the Dursley's heads when they rudely refused his hospitality) prodding me to take a deeper look at a couple of challenging situations in my life. It was uncomfortable. Some repentance was required of me. That's well and good. Because I, too, have been just a little bit more fully delivered now, having inched farther along the arc of justice and inclusion in my own life. It isn't dramatic. It's incremental and incomplete, but it's real.
I often ask my choir, as I did today, to make arcs of melody that have an origin, a sweep, a peak and a falling away...arcs that sometimes intersect and hold the music aloft like this. The sweep and swoosh of the arcs are moments of fullest life: of awareness and, sometimes, of deliverance--whether you're the singer or the listener.
I'm awed.
I'm grateful to God for the unending canticle of deliverance, and pray that we may all continue to listen for it, and to try, as much as we can, to sing it in tune.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Warmth on a REALLY cold day
The thermometer by our kitchen window currently reads -14 fahrenheit. No matter. My friend Diane did a sweet thing, and it warmed me up. She sent me this blogging friends award.It's funny--I hear about how we're all getting sucked into the vortex of the internet, cutting off our social circles and developing eyestrain. But what I've found is a really lovely circle of people. They take an interest in each other's lives across a lot of miles, and reach out to one another in real friendship.
I've been fortunate enough to meet Diane, as well as Magdalene and Rachel. I also feel like I've got to know Fran, Ruth, Songbird, Catherine and Jan. I know I'm supposed to stop at eight, but Peg got me into this whole blogging business, and I'd love to have a beer with Shalom some time. All of them fit this description well:
"These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers. Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award."
Thanks, friends.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Come to the table
My friend Daniel is a composer. I've sung--and programmed-- several of his works, with my congregation and with three different choirs. My favorite of those works is a hymn he wrote, which is part of my personal canon of hymns; it could easily have been included in my post of a few weeks ago (in fact, several of you did just that in your response to my question!). For those of you who haven't heard it, the words are
There's a persistence in this text--I think it does a really good job of painting God's utterly open invitation to all comers. I like that it puts that invitation in our mouths. I like that it acknowledges our burdens, our need for mercy. I like the combination of plural and singular pronouns that sets a context of "us," instead of only "me" (and yet, it feels personal to sing it). I like that it assures that mercy and grace are available for the asking. Most of all, I like that it helps us to sing our way into a love that's so much bigger than we are, it can't help but spill over the rim of any cup that tries to contain it.
Perhaps inevitably, as a member of the GLBT community, I care about that. Not for the sake of using a hymn to promote "diversity," but because it's authentically healing. Beloved and I chose it for our wedding; a lesbian friend later told us that it moved her to tears with its radical welcome at a time when her own recently-former church community had made her decidedly unwelcome. This hymn has offered the same message to many other people who have felt themselves outside the embrace of God and community, whatever their reasons.
It's robust, bountiful.
Musically, it sings with the ease of a hymn, in four parts...and yet, there's a harmonic and melodic freshness that accomplishes what so many don't--it bridges styles to the point at which style is no longer a question. It's eminently singable and, well, just appealing.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day, and we'll go to my sister's house, to her welcome table. Today, I woke up before the alarm (thanks to Linus's paw on my nose) with this hymn playing in my head. In the half hour or so before the beeping began, I started compiling my "I'm thankful for..." list. It's a long list. Afterward, I popped out of bed, humming "Come to the Table."
Thankfulness is powerful. I think it's helpful that a day is set aside for it on the American calendar this week, in the midst of so much anxiety about the economy and many other, very real boogeymen of this period in history. Because thankfulness is an antidote to anxiety: it grounds us in our giftedness; it locates us in relationship to God and to one another; and on this particular day, it plunks us down at a table of comparative plenty to receive again the gifts of the land and the fruits of our (and many others') labors. We finally take a moment to notice the people and the things that make our lives meaningful...that make them possible. And while our eyes are fixed on those gifts, we turn away from the fears that cow and shrink us. We live large, inside the promise of goodness to come...of goodness that has already come.
It's a holy communion table.
And so, friends, my hope for you on this holiday is that you come as you are to the table, remembering who--and whose--you are.
Thanks be to God.
Come to the table; come as you are.
Come as you're able; see whose child you are.
There is room at the table of the Lord.
Bring your burdens and your cares;
take them to the Lord in prayer.
In our weakness God is there; can't you see?
Come to the table; come as you are.
Come as you're able; see whose child you are.
There is room at the table of the Lord.
In the mercy that abounds,
and accepting love we've found,
by the blessed tie we're bound as family.
Won't you come to the table, come as you are,
come as you're able--see whose child you are.
There is room at the table of the Lord.
Come as you're able; see whose child you are.
There is room at the table of the Lord.
Bring your burdens and your cares;
take them to the Lord in prayer.
In our weakness God is there; can't you see?
Come to the table; come as you are.
Come as you're able; see whose child you are.
There is room at the table of the Lord.
In the mercy that abounds,
and accepting love we've found,
by the blessed tie we're bound as family.
Won't you come to the table, come as you are,
come as you're able--see whose child you are.
There is room at the table of the Lord.
(c) Daniel L. Pederson
There's a persistence in this text--I think it does a really good job of painting God's utterly open invitation to all comers. I like that it puts that invitation in our mouths. I like that it acknowledges our burdens, our need for mercy. I like the combination of plural and singular pronouns that sets a context of "us," instead of only "me" (and yet, it feels personal to sing it). I like that it assures that mercy and grace are available for the asking. Most of all, I like that it helps us to sing our way into a love that's so much bigger than we are, it can't help but spill over the rim of any cup that tries to contain it.
Perhaps inevitably, as a member of the GLBT community, I care about that. Not for the sake of using a hymn to promote "diversity," but because it's authentically healing. Beloved and I chose it for our wedding; a lesbian friend later told us that it moved her to tears with its radical welcome at a time when her own recently-former church community had made her decidedly unwelcome. This hymn has offered the same message to many other people who have felt themselves outside the embrace of God and community, whatever their reasons.
It's robust, bountiful.
Musically, it sings with the ease of a hymn, in four parts...and yet, there's a harmonic and melodic freshness that accomplishes what so many don't--it bridges styles to the point at which style is no longer a question. It's eminently singable and, well, just appealing.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day, and we'll go to my sister's house, to her welcome table. Today, I woke up before the alarm (thanks to Linus's paw on my nose) with this hymn playing in my head. In the half hour or so before the beeping began, I started compiling my "I'm thankful for..." list. It's a long list. Afterward, I popped out of bed, humming "Come to the Table."
Thankfulness is powerful. I think it's helpful that a day is set aside for it on the American calendar this week, in the midst of so much anxiety about the economy and many other, very real boogeymen of this period in history. Because thankfulness is an antidote to anxiety: it grounds us in our giftedness; it locates us in relationship to God and to one another; and on this particular day, it plunks us down at a table of comparative plenty to receive again the gifts of the land and the fruits of our (and many others') labors. We finally take a moment to notice the people and the things that make our lives meaningful...that make them possible. And while our eyes are fixed on those gifts, we turn away from the fears that cow and shrink us. We live large, inside the promise of goodness to come...of goodness that has already come.
It's a holy communion table.
And so, friends, my hope for you on this holiday is that you come as you are to the table, remembering who--and whose--you are.
Thanks be to God.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Spiritual generosity
It was my birthday last week. Among the many lovelinesses offered by dear ones, one of them really got me thinking. My friend G is a writer, a poet, a tender and generous soul. She also happens not to believe in God, at least in a "traditional" sense. No big, bearded guy in the sky for G. (Or, actually, for me...but that's another post.)
What she does believe in is generosity. In sharing whatever she's eating. In taking care of each other and giving voice to the voiceless. Or, as that Jesus guy said, in "loving your neighbor as yourself."
She tells me that I'm the only "churchy" person she's ever known well. She regards the Church with suspicion, not having grown up in one, and having heard mostly exclusionary, judgmental messages from our loudest voices.
But G is a writer, and thus has a gift for observation. She "gets" me on a surprisingly deep level for someone I've known only a year. So, among several presents that made me grin, I found this book.
"I saw it on the shelf and knew right away that you'd love it. I had to get it even though I'd already bought your present," mused G.
Understand, please, that the content doesn't set her heart on fire or anything. But she knew that it would do so for mine.
It got me thinking about a couple of things:
So, G--thanks for the gift. And for the Gift. :-)
What she does believe in is generosity. In sharing whatever she's eating. In taking care of each other and giving voice to the voiceless. Or, as that Jesus guy said, in "loving your neighbor as yourself."
She tells me that I'm the only "churchy" person she's ever known well. She regards the Church with suspicion, not having grown up in one, and having heard mostly exclusionary, judgmental messages from our loudest voices.
But G is a writer, and thus has a gift for observation. She "gets" me on a surprisingly deep level for someone I've known only a year. So, among several presents that made me grin, I found this book.
"I saw it on the shelf and knew right away that you'd love it. I had to get it even though I'd already bought your present," mused G.Understand, please, that the content doesn't set her heart on fire or anything. But she knew that it would do so for mine.
It got me thinking about a couple of things:
- It's a gift to be truly seen and to be loved as the person you are. I think that's what our relationship with our Creator is, most fundamentally. It's warts-and-all acceptance, coupled with the desire for the loved one to keep right on becoming.
- In order to truly give something, you have to empty yourself. This gift was not about G. Many people I know (and certainly I'm one of them sometimes) would be more likely to offer something that's meaningful to them, in the hope that it will be meaningful to the recipient. And I think there's often a lovely impulse behind that, as well. But the conscious choice to offer a gift with no agenda other than the joy and growth of the recipient...that's powerful stuff.
- What if we just met people where they are, with all the love we can muster?
- What if we stopped treating our Christian story as something that needs defense and protection from the unbeliever (or the "wrongbeliever") and started acting in the confidence the love of God is so strong, it can't be constrained?
- What if we found a way to truly see the stranger, and respond in love to her/his full humanity--the pain, the growth, the joy, the brokenness?
- What if we could act from a position of equality, instead of one of "I have something you need," or (worse) "I know how you should be living?" Just as fellow human beings on the same level--as friends.
- What if my churchless friend G has a clearer understanding of what it is to be Church than we on the "inside" do?
- What if we listened to her and learned from her example?
So, G--thanks for the gift. And for the Gift. :-)
Friday, May 16, 2008
Friday five: where in the world is Choralgirl Sandiego?
The RevGals are all about location, location, location this week, in honor of the fact that many are meeting up in Minneapolis next week for the Festival of Homiletics--fun!
Today's challenge: name five places that fall into the following categories:
1) Favorite Destination -- someplace you've visited once or often and would gladly go again
The hammock at S&J's cabin in WI, to hear the lapping of the waves and watch the birds as I drink iced tea and read an absorbing book, or cuddle with Beloved. We were there on our honeymoon.
2) Unfavorite Destination -- someplace you wish you had never been (and why)
While on a National Lutheran Choir tour some years ago, we stayed at a truly dreadful, roach-infested motel in South Carolina...don't need to go there again (though I'm sure it's not representative of the whole state).
3) Fantasy Destination -- someplace to visit if cost and/or time did not matter
How many picks do I get?
Well, I have a couple of vacation photos of me, Beloved, M and B at street signs for "Dyke Avenue" and "Dyke Street" (in different towns). (see also: Lesbos)
Chortle.
Today's challenge: name five places that fall into the following categories:
1) Favorite Destination -- someplace you've visited once or often and would gladly go again
The hammock at S&J's cabin in WI, to hear the lapping of the waves and watch the birds as I drink iced tea and read an absorbing book, or cuddle with Beloved. We were there on our honeymoon.
2) Unfavorite Destination -- someplace you wish you had never been (and why)
While on a National Lutheran Choir tour some years ago, we stayed at a truly dreadful, roach-infested motel in South Carolina...don't need to go there again (though I'm sure it's not representative of the whole state).
3) Fantasy Destination -- someplace to visit if cost and/or time did not matter
How many picks do I get?
- hey, after yesterday--maybe San Francisco, to get LEGALLY married!
- find my relatives in Norway & see the fjords
- hike and eat my way through Tuscany...actually, through most of Europe. :-)
- seeing the Cathedral at Chartres, as well as some of European choral festivals and opera houses would be nice
- two cruises: one to Alaska (before the glaciers melt) and one to the Greek isles (including Lesbos, despite the fact that several of its residents are trying to belatedly reclaim the word "lesbian" as their own; pretty sure that horse has already left the barn)
- I would SO love to have access to a Holodeck, like they did in Star Trek TNG!!
- Hogwarts wouldn't be bad, either; I'd like to have a cuppa with Minerva and shake Harry, Ron & Hermione's hands.
Well, I have a couple of vacation photos of me, Beloved, M and B at street signs for "Dyke Avenue" and "Dyke Street" (in different towns). (see also: Lesbos)
Chortle.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Poetic women and muscular birds
I think joy and sweetness and affection are a spiritual path. We're here to know God, to love and serve God, and to be blown away by the beauty and miracle of nature. You just have to get rid of so much baggage to be light enough to dance, to sing, to play. You don't have time to carry grudges; you don't have time to cling to the need to be right.
--Anne Lamott
It snowed last night. It was the wet stuff, the kind that perches on anything that will stand still, making doilies out of the trees: the perfect backdrop for the cardinals at Beloved's feeder. What a gift to discover that scene as I peered over my yogurt this morning, especially since I'm a little bit anxious at present. I'm in a situation that has abraded some emotional scar tissue...hearing an echo of my heart at its most broken, reminded of a time in the not-so-distant past when I was most decidedly Not At My Best.
The difference, this time, is that I am older, wiser and less invested in my own need to be right. I'm better at taking care of myself, this time around; though this is a stressful situation, I'm finding that I'm not unhinged by it as I was last time. I truly am hearing an echo, instead of experiencing the pain afresh. That's helpful. That little cardinal this morning was able to give some of my baggage a good shove, too; he was surprisingly strong. :-)
I think Anne Lamott is right, and most of the time it's reasonably easy for me to keep track of the beauty in my life; it is abundant, and I'm richly blessed. And yet...sometimes it just isn't possible or appropriate to dance. One of my dear ones is in that place right now. She's been in a chronically painful situation for some months, and though she's moved out of harm's way, there is substantial grief, anger and loss with which she must grapple on her way back to the dance. And the best the rest of us can do is to say, "Talk, and we'll listen. Cry, and we'll hold your hand. Wait for this to pass, and just keep breathing in and out, because the music is still playing. You'll be able to enjoy it again, once that roaring in your ears stops."
My friend is not religious, but we seem to just get one another anyway. The part of me that lives in theological language lives poetically in her, and she has a lovely, honest, artistic spirit that inspires and enriches me. Further, she is a deeply kind and generous soul, whom I know to be resilient. She has faced down larger beasts than this one and survived...flourished.
She reminds me of another wise woman/poet to whom I got to listen last week: Maya Angelou appeared at Orchestra Hall, and Beloved and I went to hear her. She told a number of her own stories, read from her work, and best of all, she sang to us. It went straight to my church musician's heart that the thematic thread tying the evening together was her repeated refrain of "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine." She told us about the little bits of other people's light that have illumined her own darknesses. She called out the light in each of us and reminded us of our imperative as human beings to blow on those sparks, for all our sakes.
It was a little bit of the bright Epiphany season, interpolated into somber Lent. Luminous. Powerful. Brimming with hope. And this piece of Maya's light is with me still:
Don't carry with you unforgiveness.
Refuse to pay its passage.
As soon as is possible, let it go.
And so I can say to my friend with some assurance that she will find her way through this particular wilderness, because I've been there, too--and my light did not die out. I can keep reminding her that the anger and sadness and screaming injustice she's experiencing at this moment will not define the rest of her days. I can point her toward the day, not too long from now, when she'll be able to offload that heavy cargo...when something as small and bright and fleet as a bird will help with the heavy lifting, bringing her back to the dance.
Emily Dickinson was right: hope is the thing with feathers.
--Anne Lamott
It snowed last night. It was the wet stuff, the kind that perches on anything that will stand still, making doilies out of the trees: the perfect backdrop for the cardinals at Beloved's feeder. What a gift to discover that scene as I peered over my yogurt this morning, especially since I'm a little bit anxious at present. I'm in a situation that has abraded some emotional scar tissue...hearing an echo of my heart at its most broken, reminded of a time in the not-so-distant past when I was most decidedly Not At My Best.
The difference, this time, is that I am older, wiser and less invested in my own need to be right. I'm better at taking care of myself, this time around; though this is a stressful situation, I'm finding that I'm not unhinged by it as I was last time. I truly am hearing an echo, instead of experiencing the pain afresh. That's helpful. That little cardinal this morning was able to give some of my baggage a good shove, too; he was surprisingly strong. :-)
I think Anne Lamott is right, and most of the time it's reasonably easy for me to keep track of the beauty in my life; it is abundant, and I'm richly blessed. And yet...sometimes it just isn't possible or appropriate to dance. One of my dear ones is in that place right now. She's been in a chronically painful situation for some months, and though she's moved out of harm's way, there is substantial grief, anger and loss with which she must grapple on her way back to the dance. And the best the rest of us can do is to say, "Talk, and we'll listen. Cry, and we'll hold your hand. Wait for this to pass, and just keep breathing in and out, because the music is still playing. You'll be able to enjoy it again, once that roaring in your ears stops."
My friend is not religious, but we seem to just get one another anyway. The part of me that lives in theological language lives poetically in her, and she has a lovely, honest, artistic spirit that inspires and enriches me. Further, she is a deeply kind and generous soul, whom I know to be resilient. She has faced down larger beasts than this one and survived...flourished.
She reminds me of another wise woman/poet to whom I got to listen last week: Maya Angelou appeared at Orchestra Hall, and Beloved and I went to hear her. She told a number of her own stories, read from her work, and best of all, she sang to us. It went straight to my church musician's heart that the thematic thread tying the evening together was her repeated refrain of "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine." She told us about the little bits of other people's light that have illumined her own darknesses. She called out the light in each of us and reminded us of our imperative as human beings to blow on those sparks, for all our sakes.
It was a little bit of the bright Epiphany season, interpolated into somber Lent. Luminous. Powerful. Brimming with hope. And this piece of Maya's light is with me still:
Don't carry with you unforgiveness.
Refuse to pay its passage.
As soon as is possible, let it go.
And so I can say to my friend with some assurance that she will find her way through this particular wilderness, because I've been there, too--and my light did not die out. I can keep reminding her that the anger and sadness and screaming injustice she's experiencing at this moment will not define the rest of her days. I can point her toward the day, not too long from now, when she'll be able to offload that heavy cargo...when something as small and bright and fleet as a bird will help with the heavy lifting, bringing her back to the dance.
Emily Dickinson was right: hope is the thing with feathers.
Monday, March 10, 2008
In the darkness
God, is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?
To be out of your sight?
If I climb to the sky, you're there!
If I go underground, you're there!
If I flew on morning's wings
to the far western horizon,
You'd find me in a minute--
you're already there waiting!
Then I said to myself, "Oh, he even sees me in the dark!
At night I'm immersed in the light!"
It's a fact: darkness isn't dark to you;
night and day, darkness and light, they're all the same to you.
--Psalm 139, vs. 7-12,
translated by Eugene Peterson in The Message
I've had two conversations in as many days with dear ones deep in despair. The triggers are different, but the root cause is the same: depression.
Damned depression. How I'd love to wipe out that disease. It drifts over competent, wonderful people like a toxic fog...like a dementor, in J.K. Rowling parlance (see above), and hisses in their ears (these bright, talented, loving people) that they are worthless and alone, and that it will never be any different for them. That their best efforts are simply not good enough. That no one will ever really love them. That they are powerless to change this. And, for good measure, that they'd better not bother anyone else with their problems, thereby reinforcing the "you're all alone" message. Damn and double damn.
That is the way, it seems to me, that evil works, too. Divide and conquer. Keep us off balance and alone and aching for relief and connection, and believing that we don't deserve goodness and life and love.
Do we deserve goodness? It's a fascinating question, actually-- and I mean fascinating in the sense of being gripped by a question with no answer, being held in thrall because you can't resist.
I can really only speak for myself here. On my best days, I still mess up countless times. I'm selfish, I'm an idolater and a liar and something of a glutton (at least where chocolate and my carbon footprint are concerned). I don't do particularly well at Sabbath-keeping, and what I don't know is a lot. For every flower I water, I've tromped on countless blades of grass to get there. But I'm also loving and funny and gifted and mostly well- intentioned, and willing to take seriously my relationships with God and my neighbors, to live deeply, and to try to find joy and share it.
In other words, I'm human...broken and beloved in the sight of God, here by God's good grace, cared for by the grace of other broken, beloved beings.
Do I deserve the goodness in my life? I think that's the wrong question--a distraction from the sheer gift we've been given. I try hard to participate in it, and to stay open to the beauty and pain that each day brings. Some days it works, some not so well, but always, always...life is a gift.
It's pretty hard to keep track of that with a dementor hissing in your ear, though. You can ask Harry Potter if you have any doubt.
And if it's a matter of deserving goodness, aren't we sort of done before we start? Part of our American "consumer" consciousness is driven by the idea of getting what we "deserve" to have, but holy cats--what if that actually happened? I submit that a tally of our respective successes and failures as a basis for participation in God's purpose would be a disaster for every one of us.
Besides, that's not where Jesus would land: Jesus who hung out with the rabble, who chose ordinary dopes like me as his disciples and who died for us. That alone makes me and you and each of us a pearl bought at a great price.
So please don't talk to me about what we deserve and don't deserve. That's been asked and answered on the cross. We do the best that we can to be part of the Great Song of Life...to sing our part with beauty and intention, and to acknowledge that some days, the song starts as a wail. Especially at times of death...and at times of new life just being born.
I love my friends. I salute their courage in dealing with this sometimes-overwhelming feeling of despair. I know that brain chemistry is a crucial, world-altering factor here. And please, friends, please hear me when I say that you are not alone. Keep trying, keep working the treatment questions, and keep reaching for a hand to hold, no matter what. There are lots of us who will reach back, hold on, sit with you until the darkness passes, and give you a piece of chocolate, such as we have. And, darkness or light, God is there, can see you clearly, (even when you can't see or feel God), and loves you more than you can possibly imagine.
To be out of your sight?
If I climb to the sky, you're there!
If I go underground, you're there!
If I flew on morning's wings
to the far western horizon,
You'd find me in a minute--
you're already there waiting!
Then I said to myself, "Oh, he even sees me in the dark!
At night I'm immersed in the light!"
It's a fact: darkness isn't dark to you;
night and day, darkness and light, they're all the same to you.
--Psalm 139, vs. 7-12,
translated by Eugene Peterson in The Message
I've had two conversations in as many days with dear ones deep in despair. The triggers are different, but the root cause is the same: depression.
Damned depression. How I'd love to wipe out that disease. It drifts over competent, wonderful people like a toxic fog...like a dementor, in J.K. Rowling parlance (see above), and hisses in their ears (these bright, talented, loving people) that they are worthless and alone, and that it will never be any different for them. That their best efforts are simply not good enough. That no one will ever really love them. That they are powerless to change this. And, for good measure, that they'd better not bother anyone else with their problems, thereby reinforcing the "you're all alone" message. Damn and double damn.
That is the way, it seems to me, that evil works, too. Divide and conquer. Keep us off balance and alone and aching for relief and connection, and believing that we don't deserve goodness and life and love.
Do we deserve goodness? It's a fascinating question, actually-- and I mean fascinating in the sense of being gripped by a question with no answer, being held in thrall because you can't resist.
I can really only speak for myself here. On my best days, I still mess up countless times. I'm selfish, I'm an idolater and a liar and something of a glutton (at least where chocolate and my carbon footprint are concerned). I don't do particularly well at Sabbath-keeping, and what I don't know is a lot. For every flower I water, I've tromped on countless blades of grass to get there. But I'm also loving and funny and gifted and mostly well- intentioned, and willing to take seriously my relationships with God and my neighbors, to live deeply, and to try to find joy and share it.
In other words, I'm human...broken and beloved in the sight of God, here by God's good grace, cared for by the grace of other broken, beloved beings.
Do I deserve the goodness in my life? I think that's the wrong question--a distraction from the sheer gift we've been given. I try hard to participate in it, and to stay open to the beauty and pain that each day brings. Some days it works, some not so well, but always, always...life is a gift.
It's pretty hard to keep track of that with a dementor hissing in your ear, though. You can ask Harry Potter if you have any doubt.
And if it's a matter of deserving goodness, aren't we sort of done before we start? Part of our American "consumer" consciousness is driven by the idea of getting what we "deserve" to have, but holy cats--what if that actually happened? I submit that a tally of our respective successes and failures as a basis for participation in God's purpose would be a disaster for every one of us.
Besides, that's not where Jesus would land: Jesus who hung out with the rabble, who chose ordinary dopes like me as his disciples and who died for us. That alone makes me and you and each of us a pearl bought at a great price.
So please don't talk to me about what we deserve and don't deserve. That's been asked and answered on the cross. We do the best that we can to be part of the Great Song of Life...to sing our part with beauty and intention, and to acknowledge that some days, the song starts as a wail. Especially at times of death...and at times of new life just being born.
I love my friends. I salute their courage in dealing with this sometimes-overwhelming feeling of despair. I know that brain chemistry is a crucial, world-altering factor here. And please, friends, please hear me when I say that you are not alone. Keep trying, keep working the treatment questions, and keep reaching for a hand to hold, no matter what. There are lots of us who will reach back, hold on, sit with you until the darkness passes, and give you a piece of chocolate, such as we have. And, darkness or light, God is there, can see you clearly, (even when you can't see or feel God), and loves you more than you can possibly imagine.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Friday five: signs of hope
I'm a fan of the RevGalBlogPals, particularly LutheranChik (we lesbian Lutherans have to stick together!). Every Friday, they do a "Friday Five"--questions to think about a bit. I really like this week's theme, so I'm going to hop on their bandwagon and answer them, too.If you're reading this, consider yourself tagged.
Because anything that points us toward hope is good.
1. Sign of hope?
After years (decades?) of apathy, the American electorate has awakened, stretched, looked around, and decided that they do care, after all, about how the country's being run--and are NOT happy with its current direction. Better still, they're finding ways to make themselves heard. Alleluia.
2. A word of light in a dark place?
Can't help but hear the sopranos of my church choir, as we're working up Faure's Requiem for Holy Week, singing "Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine" (let your eternal light shine upon them, O Lord). Lovely, lovely moment in the Agnus Dei--go & listen to it, if you have a recording! It's a moment where the music turns on a dime, and their entrance is a musical shaft of light breaking through clouds of grief, like in the above photo. (After all, a requiem is a Mass for the dead). Mmmmm.
Also, the examples of several dear ones gracefully working through/waiting out various stages of grief with various causes is inspirational to me without fail. (See posting What You Get.)
3. A sign of spring?
The lilac bushes at the side of my driveway have BUDS on them, despite the fact that it's been below zero for a weirdly long time. Talk about perseverance in the face of adversity! :-) Oh, and it's 21 degrees right now, according to the thermometer on my garage. Just maybe, spring will come after all.
4. Challenging/surprising?
Dealing simultaneously with Beloved's family's issues with our Horrifying Gay Marriage and the recurrence of her mother's cancer is challenging. Prayers would be gratefully accepted here.
5. Share a hope for the coming week/month/year...
There are so many:
- health for many ailing loved ones
- healing for loved ones in grief
- progress in relationships with Beloved's family
- a completely new administration in the White House, headed by either our first woman or our first person of color...and progress on marriage rights for GLBT folk, at long last
- progress/healing around GLBT issues in The Church, in my own congregation and wherever they appear
- my weight loss goal (20 down, 40 to go!)
Too many to list, really, BUT anything by Earth, Wind and Fire or Aretha Franklin, or Stevie Wonder's "Sir Duke" will always get me bopping, as will African choral singing (or any other kind). Really, anything that's got beautiful poetry, well-crafted music and inspired singing will usually do the trick. See, I can't stop. New music is great, too--discovery is a joyful thing.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Letting go
My friend Peg introduced me to the music of Peter Mayer, a local singer/songwriter, last winter. I bought his Midwinter CD so that I could learn and sing one of the songs with her at our church during Advent worship. Every track is well-crafted, and they represent many different moods and ideas. Plus the music is creative and really well done. With a nod to Art Linkletter, who said something similar on the cover of my childhood Life game, I Heartily Endorse This CD. More on that in a bit.
I've been pondering a question in recent weeks (well, years really, but the wheel has turned again and this is back at the top). The question has to do with the souls who find themselves standing at the intersection of Faithful Dogma Avenue and Fresh Justice Road. In truth, as a partnered lesbian who remains in the Church, I've made a home at that intersection. Besides which, many people I care about a great deal seem to spend the majority of their time on one or the other of those streets, and they keep crashing into one another...and sometimes, into me.
I wonder if it's possible that we might learn to live together without so many of those painful collisions.
It's my experience (at least where GLBT issues are concerned) that most of the power seems to rest in the hands of the residents of Faithful Dogma Avenue, and most of the yearning seems to live on Fresh Justice Road. Because of that (as well as my personal location as both object and observer of some of the crashing), I will confess up front that my sympathies lie mostly with the Justice crowd. I can give lots of Biblical and theological justification for that position, but that's not my purpose today...besides which, neither group is free from prejudice and bad behavior toward the other.
What interests me today is whether or not all of us can learn to loosen our grip our own personal mythologies enough to reach out to one another in faith. We cling to our respective dogmas and desires so tightly that we often miss the opportunity to connect with one another. From an ELCA Lutheran lesbian's perspective, I'm a bit weary of being considered an Issue To Be Studied. But I do understand and appreciate the need to bring the Issue to a more dispassionate, reflective place for everyone's sake. And real connection across the divide is worth whatever road we must travel to get there. Those moments of connection are so full of grace that they take my breath away. And it's possible to remember, in those moments, that we are one Body of Christ; many parts, but one Body.
So.
I'd like to offer a simple framework by which life at the Intersection may be approached by all people of good will. I think that this is a time for all of us to step out in faith:
We could all stop labeling one another.
We could all admit that disparate, equally faithful Biblical interpretations are possible.
We could all quit singing about how the Sharks or the Jets are going to have their way tonight.
If you ask me, both sides could use a healthy dose of patient humility so that power can be shared, fear quieted and the Gospel advanced. What would happen if we all stopped shouting and tried to love God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength, and our neighbors as ourselves?
I'm just sayin'.
What if we could learn to trust and let go of that which is non-essential, in order to return to the Gospel center of our faith? Peter Mayer must have experienced it at some point; he sings it into existence for me every time I hear "God Is a River."
In the ever-shifting water of the river of this life
I was swimming, seeking comfort; I was wrestling waves to find
a boulder I could cling to, a stone to hold me fast
where I might let the fretful water of this river 'round me pass...
and so I found an anchor, a blessed resting place
a trusty rock I called my savior, for there I would be safe
from the river and its dangers, and I proclaimed my rock divine
and I prayed to it "protect me" and the rock replied:
God is a river, not just a stone
God is a wild, raging rapids and a slow, meandering flow
God is a deep and narrow passage and a peaceful, sandy shoal
God is the river, swimmer, so let go.
Still I clung to my rock tightly with conviction in my arms,
never looking at the stream to keep my mind from thoughts of harm
but the river kept on coming, kept on tugging at my legs,
'til at last my fingers faltered and I was swept away...
so I'm going with the flow now, these relentless twists and bends,
acclimating to the motion and a sense of being led
and this river's like my body now; it carries me along
through the ever-changing scenes and by the rocks that sing this song:
God is a river, not just a stone
God is a wild, raging rapids and a slow, meandering flow
God is a deep and narrow passage and a peaceful, sandy shoal
God is the river, swimmer, so let go.
God is the river, swimmer.
So let go.
Peace, friends.
I've been pondering a question in recent weeks (well, years really, but the wheel has turned again and this is back at the top). The question has to do with the souls who find themselves standing at the intersection of Faithful Dogma Avenue and Fresh Justice Road. In truth, as a partnered lesbian who remains in the Church, I've made a home at that intersection. Besides which, many people I care about a great deal seem to spend the majority of their time on one or the other of those streets, and they keep crashing into one another...and sometimes, into me.
I wonder if it's possible that we might learn to live together without so many of those painful collisions.
It's my experience (at least where GLBT issues are concerned) that most of the power seems to rest in the hands of the residents of Faithful Dogma Avenue, and most of the yearning seems to live on Fresh Justice Road. Because of that (as well as my personal location as both object and observer of some of the crashing), I will confess up front that my sympathies lie mostly with the Justice crowd. I can give lots of Biblical and theological justification for that position, but that's not my purpose today...besides which, neither group is free from prejudice and bad behavior toward the other.
What interests me today is whether or not all of us can learn to loosen our grip our own personal mythologies enough to reach out to one another in faith. We cling to our respective dogmas and desires so tightly that we often miss the opportunity to connect with one another. From an ELCA Lutheran lesbian's perspective, I'm a bit weary of being considered an Issue To Be Studied. But I do understand and appreciate the need to bring the Issue to a more dispassionate, reflective place for everyone's sake. And real connection across the divide is worth whatever road we must travel to get there. Those moments of connection are so full of grace that they take my breath away. And it's possible to remember, in those moments, that we are one Body of Christ; many parts, but one Body.
So.
I'd like to offer a simple framework by which life at the Intersection may be approached by all people of good will. I think that this is a time for all of us to step out in faith:
- faith that God is with us always, even to the end of the age
- faith that we don't have to be right in order to deserve the love of God or one another
- faith that we as individuals don't have to (and usually can't) really understand the work of God, and
- faith in one another as fellow children of God, without the need to change each other's minds or to score points off of each other...just to allow each other space and time to grow as we (and God) will; in fact, to insist upon that space and time for one another.
We could all stop labeling one another.
We could all admit that disparate, equally faithful Biblical interpretations are possible.
We could all quit singing about how the Sharks or the Jets are going to have their way tonight.
If you ask me, both sides could use a healthy dose of patient humility so that power can be shared, fear quieted and the Gospel advanced. What would happen if we all stopped shouting and tried to love God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength, and our neighbors as ourselves?
I'm just sayin'.
What if we could learn to trust and let go of that which is non-essential, in order to return to the Gospel center of our faith? Peter Mayer must have experienced it at some point; he sings it into existence for me every time I hear "God Is a River."
In the ever-shifting water of the river of this life
I was swimming, seeking comfort; I was wrestling waves to find
a boulder I could cling to, a stone to hold me fast
where I might let the fretful water of this river 'round me pass...
and so I found an anchor, a blessed resting place
a trusty rock I called my savior, for there I would be safe
from the river and its dangers, and I proclaimed my rock divine
and I prayed to it "protect me" and the rock replied:
God is a river, not just a stone
God is a wild, raging rapids and a slow, meandering flow
God is a deep and narrow passage and a peaceful, sandy shoal
God is the river, swimmer, so let go.
Still I clung to my rock tightly with conviction in my arms,
never looking at the stream to keep my mind from thoughts of harm
but the river kept on coming, kept on tugging at my legs,
'til at last my fingers faltered and I was swept away...
so I'm going with the flow now, these relentless twists and bends,
acclimating to the motion and a sense of being led
and this river's like my body now; it carries me along
through the ever-changing scenes and by the rocks that sing this song:
God is a river, not just a stone
God is a wild, raging rapids and a slow, meandering flow
God is a deep and narrow passage and a peaceful, sandy shoal
God is the river, swimmer, so let go.
God is the river, swimmer.
So let go.
Peace, friends.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
A vision of grace, or poopy pants?
The only grace we can experience is the grace we can imagine.
--Toni Morrison, Beloved
Yep. I'll buy that. Though I believe I'm saved by grace through faith, there's another dimension to relationship with God in which my experience of that grace is dependent upon me. Which is a little bit of a problem today. Grumpy days, in my little world, diminish my vision in regard to the Big Picture and increase the likelihood that I'll either retreat to the corner to suck my thumb, or behave as if I have poopy pants. :-) I'm guessing that's true for other folks, too.
I wonder what God sees, looking at us. I mean, God would look through the eyes of love, right? (forgive me for the earworm potential there, any of you who lived through weddings in the '70s--ha ha ha) I imagine that God sees not just what we do, but what we intend, for better or worse. Loves us anyway, but there must be a number of dismayed forehead slaps involved, anthropomorphically speaking. "Jeez, kids, do you really have to learn this lesson again?"
It's easy to let God's love for us be a sentimental thing, as if each of us was God's firstborn 4-year-old dressed as a pumpkin in our first Thanksgiving pageant, but that's not what I mean. I think that God sees us in toto. God doesn't have the same egocentric position that we do, but rather can take in all angles of a situation instead of having to wed to one point of view. Some days, I really envy that perspective, 'cause the only one I can truly sustain is my own little one.
So...how to broaden the scope of our imaginations on the grumpy days? Gentle Reader, I open the floor to you...what works for you?
Namaste.
--Toni Morrison, Beloved
Yep. I'll buy that. Though I believe I'm saved by grace through faith, there's another dimension to relationship with God in which my experience of that grace is dependent upon me. Which is a little bit of a problem today. Grumpy days, in my little world, diminish my vision in regard to the Big Picture and increase the likelihood that I'll either retreat to the corner to suck my thumb, or behave as if I have poopy pants. :-) I'm guessing that's true for other folks, too.
I wonder what God sees, looking at us. I mean, God would look through the eyes of love, right? (forgive me for the earworm potential there, any of you who lived through weddings in the '70s--ha ha ha) I imagine that God sees not just what we do, but what we intend, for better or worse. Loves us anyway, but there must be a number of dismayed forehead slaps involved, anthropomorphically speaking. "Jeez, kids, do you really have to learn this lesson again?"
It's easy to let God's love for us be a sentimental thing, as if each of us was God's firstborn 4-year-old dressed as a pumpkin in our first Thanksgiving pageant, but that's not what I mean. I think that God sees us in toto. God doesn't have the same egocentric position that we do, but rather can take in all angles of a situation instead of having to wed to one point of view. Some days, I really envy that perspective, 'cause the only one I can truly sustain is my own little one.
So...how to broaden the scope of our imaginations on the grumpy days? Gentle Reader, I open the floor to you...what works for you?
Namaste.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Spent light
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
--John Milton
Someone I love is grieving tonight. She is an articulate soul, with
a wonderfully observant heart. And she mused that it seems that
even those closest to her seem uncomfortable with her grief.
I think it's true that most of us generally are uncomfortable with
genuine cries of pain, especially when they are the result of
circumstances over which we have no control. If we can hug it
away, or dispense some wisdom that will "improve" the situation,
or even write a check to some cause that tangentially addresses
the gulf of sadness/anger/hurt with which we are confronted, we
feel better...and can, by extension, be justified in becoming
impatient when the grieving person doesn't oblige our largess by
getting "fixed" when we want them to, for whatever kind or
selfish reasons. In the end, it comes down to this:
It's frightening to recognize that we don't totally control our lives.
The Milton poem I started with here is one that took me a long time to
appreciate. Stand and wait? What for? When we could be working the
problem?
I'm a do-er, you see. I try to reflect God's light (on bad days, I
forget about that in favor of generating my "own" light). I like to
feel that I've Made A Difference. Especially when someone I love is
in pain––man, I just hate that. But I think it's a bit naive to try
to save people from their lives; sometimes, all we can do is say,
"Yup, I see the monster, too," and stand quietly beside the one who's
facing it down. Or maybe to put a shoulder under our sister's yoke
and help her to bear it for a while.
Life really is bigger than we are. God is vast...which is sometimes
terrifying, but mostly comforting to me, depending upon where in God's
court I'm standing on a given day. Mostly, it's just good to know that
God's understanding and power and love are so much greater than mine.
We serve by standing and waiting, in the face of the abyss, for the
unfolding of God's purposes. We serve by not entwining someone else's
difficulties with our own discomfort on the edge of the chasm. We serve
by pulling up our socks and getting on with it...but also by sitting
next to the one who's waiting to get her breath back after being punched
in the solar plexus.
We also serve when we only stand and wait.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Syzygy
In case you're wondering, that's the word for when the sun, earth and moon lie in a straight line, as they did on Wednesday night with our beautiful lunar eclipse (shout-out to Guillermo Oyhenart, Patagonia, for the stunning photo). It's also a STUPENDOUS Scrabble word. :-)Sometimes, things align in a way that makes a person sit up and take notice.
My good friend Robin Bragge died two years ago today. I recognize that it's easy to idealize those who have gone on ahead to join the Great Cloud of Witnesses, but I'd like to take a minute today to remember what an exceptional person she was. Robin was one of those rare souls who managed to stay in touch with both raucous joy and gentle wisdom in the face of even the most difficult situations. She had a smile like a beacon; it drew all of us to her and lit up our dark places. She spent her life working on peace and understanding on both micro- and macro- levels. Robin was a fierce drummer (all hail CongaGal!), and her New Years' game parties are the stuff of legend. She was an absolute Scrabble FIEND (that's 27 points on a triple-word-score space).
Robin, we still miss you and love you. Thank you for your warm and sustaining friendship, and for the flock of fledgling peacemakers you left here. I really hope they have a djembe or a set of congas for you up there.
And remember...if you get to play Scrabble with the Big Guy: SYZYGY. 'Cause I think that, even in heaven, we can't help but hope that things will line up just right, even if we are in the dark about it for a little while.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
What you get
I just got Melissa Etheridge's new CD, "The Awakening." It's a very personal release for her, which chronicles her spiritual journey from young adulthood, through career-building and coming out and loving her family and surviving cancer...and comments a bit on the State of Things. I'm enjoying it very much, and was particularly struck by the track "Message to Myself."
It's funny how you find just what you seek
Love is what you get when love is what you speak
I made every choice along the way
Each day I spent in hell I chose to stay
It's funny what you fear can make you weak
And truth is what you get when truth is what you speak
I've had on my mind several dear ones who are in the midst of meeting large challenges in various ways: perseverance, honesty, risk...any of them could spend a lot of time in hell, given their circumstances, but not one of them so chooses. They hang on to the determination to be loving, brave, generous and truthful about their lives, and each of them has been transformed in really beautiful ways. Each of them inspires me, and each of them has (in her own way) bloomed in her reaching toward the light. It's an honor to bear witness to the struggle and the growth.
It gets me thinking about why some people seem so much better equipped than others to deal with the challenges life throws at them; in the midst of the fire, some turn to ash and some are refined. I think it must have some connection to humility--and by that I do NOT mean self-criticism, but rather the ability to understand and accept your own place on your journey, coupled with openness to what comes next. The ability to bend when others would break. Finding new, deeper springs of love and truth within yourself when the messages from the outside do not serve as such. Finally, connectedness to other pilgrims, which also makes the trip worth taking.
In the final analysis, (and here's Melissa again):
All we can really do is love one another
Friends, you know who you are. Thank you for speaking love and truth. You are fiercely beautiful.
It's funny how you find just what you seek
Love is what you get when love is what you speak
I made every choice along the way
Each day I spent in hell I chose to stay
It's funny what you fear can make you weak
And truth is what you get when truth is what you speak
I've had on my mind several dear ones who are in the midst of meeting large challenges in various ways: perseverance, honesty, risk...any of them could spend a lot of time in hell, given their circumstances, but not one of them so chooses. They hang on to the determination to be loving, brave, generous and truthful about their lives, and each of them has been transformed in really beautiful ways. Each of them inspires me, and each of them has (in her own way) bloomed in her reaching toward the light. It's an honor to bear witness to the struggle and the growth.
It gets me thinking about why some people seem so much better equipped than others to deal with the challenges life throws at them; in the midst of the fire, some turn to ash and some are refined. I think it must have some connection to humility--and by that I do NOT mean self-criticism, but rather the ability to understand and accept your own place on your journey, coupled with openness to what comes next. The ability to bend when others would break. Finding new, deeper springs of love and truth within yourself when the messages from the outside do not serve as such. Finally, connectedness to other pilgrims, which also makes the trip worth taking.
In the final analysis, (and here's Melissa again):
All we can really do is love one another
Friends, you know who you are. Thank you for speaking love and truth. You are fiercely beautiful.
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