Christmas--a Nugget of Meaning within the Madness of the Season

I’ve been accused of “not liking to celebrate” by some of my friends.  I am a certified Grinch when it comes to most holiday or seasonal traditions throughout the year:  Easter egg hunts, pumpkin carving, apple picking, visiting Santa, Elf on the Shelf, Valentine’s parties, and all the other obligatory activities that Facebook and Pinterest insist I complete in a calendar year.  My friend, Lauren, describes my problem as having a bias towards authenticity; she says I have issues with anything I perceive as contrived or pretentious.  

I come by it honestly.   My family didn’t indulge in photo ops and obligatory celebrations. If we picked apples, it was to eat them, not to take cute pictures.  If we saw Santa, it was to ask for that special gift that we knew our parents couldn’t afford to buy for us without a special occasion.  My father put it best when he gave me advice about training horses, “Linda, everything you do must have MEANING to the horse--and in life.”  He passed on his belief that anything worth my time must have an underlying meaning, a true authenticity, something that actually feeds the soul.  It is difficult to find that nugget of meaning within the trappings of our materialistic society.  When the stores blast “This Christmas” and scream about Black Friday sales, how do I find the grace of the incarnation of Christ?

The traditional nativity story is a big of a stumbling block to me. Most educated people realize that Jesus of Nazareth was most likely not born on December 25, in a stable, in a manger, attended by shepherds and wise men.  Most people realize that the birth narratives in the gospels are either missing or contradictory and that our traditional “Christmas story” is an amalgam of all the gospel stories, condensed in time, elaborated, and cleaned up into a lovely ideal of virgin birth in a sweet-smelling stable.  The mother is radiant, the baby doesn’t cry, and little boys come and play drum solos for him.  It’s beautiful, but even as a fiction, it is a little unbelivable.  I love Jesus but I am confused by the stories of his birth.  What does a fervent, but educated, Christian make out of all of this fantasy?

This year, I had the singular experience of giving birth to a baby during Advent.  I felt the agony of waiting, through days of early labor, feeling the birth pangs near and dear in my own womb.  As my own mind withdrew to the width and breadth of my swollen belly, turning inward towards the contractions, seeking the inevitable pain which brings great things to bear, I felt Advent acutely.  I felt the frustration of waiting and the fear of the effort to bring the glorious end to bear.  Whether Mary’s long journey to Bethlehem and birth in a stable was fact or fiction, that story had new meaning to me this year.

The effort of a woman about to deliver a child is a special mix of anxiety, longing, frustration, and fear.  I longed for release from pregnancy, worried over the timing of the birth (would I be ready, who would help me, who would watch my girls while we hurried to the hospital), and feared but longed for the inevitable pains and effort.  This was my third pregnancy, so I knew that it hurt, that it was work, that it was messy and scary and unpredictable.  Feeling all of this so closely, the nativity story began to take on a new light.  One way or another, Jesus Christ, the King, was born in the same way as every other baby.  Whether in a house, a cave, a stable, a hospital, all babies are born through the power of a woman’s body, the singular effort of a specific mother, shared by the nature of all women throughout all the world.  Every birth is at once specific and particular, and universal.  The King of Kings arrived in this world, naked, screaming, covered with amniotic fluid, attached to his mother by a cord, helpless and vulnerable, through the strength of his mother.

We often talk about how much God loved the world when he gave his only son.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much the world loved God.  Jesus came to the world as a baby, and babies need to be loved into being.  If a baby is not hugged, cuddled, and loved, that baby will not thrive, even if all his material needs are met.  Regardless of exactly how and where Jesus Christ was born, he grew up into a healthy young man.  Excuse me for being fanciful here, but if Jesus grew up into a grown man, I believe someone loved him as he grew.  Someone must have bounced him when he was colicky, sang him to sleep, kissed his boo-boos, educated him.  Just as God loved the world into being, when Christ was born in a particular, specific time and place, those particular, specific people loved him into being.  God so loved the world that he let the world love his son.

For me, this Christmas, that is the nugget of meaning.  As my newborn baby cries during the nights, as my three-year-old needs me to wipe her runny nose, as my six-year-old needs my help with her Legos, I have the gift of loving these children into being.  For me, the love doesn’t come in the form of Elves on Shelves, or elaborate Christmas cookies.  For me, the love comes singing Christmas hymns as my children drift off to sleep, in the quiet night-time bed checks, in the sticky-fingered hugs, and the lop-sided home-made gifts.  Those little moments pull me out of my frustration at commercialism, at my lack of funds to provide the newest, fanciest toys, at my impatience and my weariness.  Those little moments remind me that my job is to love the world, because the world loved God.

How do you find ways to love the world this Christmas season?  Where is your nugget of meaning?

Living in the Servant Kingdom

This is the text of a sermon I gave today, during Morning Prayer, at St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church.

Today is Christ the King Sunday and we’re supposed to make something of all this kingly imagery.  

We hear about how Jesus was given dominion over all the earth and sits on the throne of heaven.  

We hear about how he will come again from the clouds, how he always was, he is, and he will be the king and deliverer of the earth.  

We wear fancy robes and carry a golden cross and kiss a golden book and make fancy gestures.  We kneel and genuflect to the king.  

We pray, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.”

Personally, I long for a God of power, that will set things right.

A God that will heal my hurts, punish the guilty, save the refugees, dismantle institutional racism, make the village support our resale shop, and balance our budget.  

I long for a King, and what I get is that guy--the one hanging from the cross, hanging in disgrace, his arms outstretched in love, praying to forgive his murderers because “they know not what they do”.  

We get Christ the King.

Christ Jesus, who, when questioned by Pilate, answers him with sarcasm.  

When Pilate accuses Jesus of calling himself the King of the Jews, a statement that is clearly sedition and treason to Rome, Jesus answers, “Is this what you think?  Or did others tell you this?”  It’s like he’s checking his sources.

Pilate dodges the question, answering, “I’m not a Jew, so how would I know?”  Jesus continues in a sarcastic tone, “If I were a King, don’t you think someone would be here defending me?”  It’s as if he’s saying, “Dude, if you think I’m a king, I am no king like you’ve ever seen.  I mean, can you even imagine a king allowing himself to be treated this way?”  

And, Pilate can’t imagine it.  He can’t understand what Jesus means, how could his Kingdom not be in this world, why is he not defending himself?  

Pilate cannot conceive of a servant king, he cannot conceive of the true power of Jesus--the power of sacrifice and love.  

We are all a little bit like Pilate sometimes.

Robert Farrar Capon, one of my all-time favorite theologians, talks of Luther’s idea of Jesus’s left-handed power, the power of sacrifice and love.  

Pilate (and the rest of the world, then and now) thinks of power as straight-line power, the power to make things happen, to make people do your will.  

Straight-line power works well on things and on impersonal systems, but it falls short pretty quickly with people.  

I can force someone to obey me, but I cannot force someone to love me.  

Jesus knew this; Jesus used left-handed power, relational power, power that, instead of subduing others by force, took a beating itself.

Jesus died, forgiving his killers, and immense power was in that forgiveness, but it was a power the world had never seen and still struggles to understand.

Today we hear the story of a kingdom, not of this world’s straight-line power, of oppression and violence, but of left-handed power, of service, of love.  

This is the kind of kingdom we get with Jesus.

We get the God who showed up as a helpless baby to poor, displaced, refugee parents.  

We get the God who washed the feet of lepers, Samaritans, women, and prostitutes.  

We get the God who resisted the devil’s temptation to power, the God who fed and served the poor, the God who came to save the sinner, and the God who died a disgraced prisoner in a painful, shameful death and then rose to defeat even death by his surrender.  

What does it mean to be citizens of that kingdom?  

What does it mean to use relational, left-handed power, rather than dominating, straight-line power to accomplish our work?  

When faced with this question, I feel about as dense as Pilate was.  

Although I have Jesus Christ and thousands of years of Christian theology, liturgy, and saints to guide me, I struggle with it.  

I am a human being and I want things to go my way--I want to win.  

I don’t want the God who forgives his tormentors; I want the God who rains down destruction upon my enemies.  

Human beings don’t like to give up our power, so we make structures to protect it.

In the church as well, we make structures to protect our power.  

We set up plans, committees, congregations, deaneries, dioceses.  

We ordain deacons, priests, and bishops, so we know there is someone in charge.  

We have been hearing the story of a servant kingdom and the healing power of love over fear for 2000 years;

But, we still cling to our hierarchical power structures.  

Structures aren’t all bad, of course; we need some sort of structure to get things done.  

Even Jesus had some sort of structure with the disciples; the early Christians had some sort of structure to their organization.  

How can we do this structure without grabbing on to the power for dear life?  

How should our leaders lead us into submitting to God’s will, rather than imposing our own?  

Well, my best answer is, “We do it together.”

My friends, we are not here by chance; we are called and carried into this place and into this work.  

The kingdom of Jesus is not of the earth; it does not dictate, threaten, or force us into action.   The Holy Spirit called me to St. Ignatius a few years ago, through the books I read, the signs I saw, and the websites I found.  

Jesus called me into a relationship with him and a relationship with the people here.  

But the call didn’t end there.  

Fr. Tim called me into leadership, and my fellow parishioners carried me forward.  

Here I stand before you, a lay-leader, called and carried into this moment, asked by our ordained priest to speak to you.  

What is the difference between Morning Prayer with a lay-person and the Eucharist with a priest?  

Really what is the difference between ordained people and all the rest of us?

Here on Christ the King Sunday, where we are living in the servant kingdom, why do we set our leaders apart?  

Honestly, at first I had no earthly idea how to answer that question.

Being a good Episcopalian, I looked to the BCP, to the Rite of Ordination of a Priest, and I found this line, “In all things, you are to nourish Christ’s people from the riches of his grace.”  

A priest is set apart in order to nourish the people.  

An ordained priest is a vessel for the Holy Spirit.  

An ordained priest is the sacramental image of the Holy Spirit working within us all.  

Just as the bread and the wine in the Eucharist is a sacrament for the grace that fills us at all times,

just as the water of baptism is a sacrament for the grace that fills us at all times,

the ordained priest is a sacrament for the priesthood that fills us at all times.  

A concentrated sacrament that brings us a visible focus--a re-presentation--of the presence of grace already within us.

The priest shines a sacramental spotlight on our own priesthood--calls us and carries us forward.

An ordained priest is a sacrament of the Grace of God within all of us, the grace that cultivates our hidden strengths, challenges us in moments of weakness, supports us in our doubts, and rejoices in our joyfulness.

A priest isn’t better than others, more holier, or closer to God, he just has a slightly different role in the kingdom.

Through the grace of God, an ordained priest calls us and carries us and empowers us to call and carry each other.

In the servant kingdom, the collaborative kingdom, the abundant kingdom, we are carried forward by each other through the grace of God.  

When we fear that we don’t have enough supplies, people, and money to pull off Vacation Bible School, Joanne Kriens steps forward with a generous donation and we all come together to make magic for the kids.  

When we fear that our new Grab a Slab event will fail, the entire church steps forward with donations of baskets, time, and money, and carry the event into success.  

When we fear that we can’t make the anti-racism training work, the Diocese, the Lutherans, the school systems, and our own parishioners step up to carry us forward into a transformational experience.  

When we fear that the village will shut down our resale shop, more than 30 people show up to support our ministry and carry us forward into success.  

Our Lord Jesus Christ calls us into faith.  Our priest--the vessel and sacrament of the grace within each of us--calls us into action.  

That grace spills out upon all of our people (friends, parishioners, community members), who carry us forward with purpose.

It’s no wonder that Pilate didn’t understand Jesus’s kingdom; it is a holy mystery.

Wrapped up in the image of glory, encrusted with triumph and dominion, right at the heart of power, is the heart of sacrifice and love.

The King we worship washes his followers feet.  

The King we worship loves the sinners.

The King we worship forgives us.  

The King we worship calls us into service and love, and the citizens of that Kingdom carry us into glory--to serve the “least of these” and therein see the face of our Lord and King.

Amen.

The Weight of a Cross

This cross around my neck is heavy sometimes.  I know that Jesus tells us that his yoke is light, but sometimes it is difficult to believe.  I bought the little silver cross necklace for myself in July, as a birthday gift.  After three years as a dedicated Christian and member of an Episcopal church, I wanted to represent the faith somehow.  The necklace is pretty, and I wear it often.  Sometimes, though, it weighs a little heavy around my neck.

During Sunday School last week, my adult study class discussed the meaning of the cross.  We examined a few theological viewpoints on atonement and sacrifice, which were nuanced and fascinating.   I enjoyed the complicated discussion, but that’s not what makes my cross heavy.  My cross is heavy because of all the baggage that goes with it, all the symbolism, the expectation, and the classification that might happen when someone sees it.  The cross is a means of bloody and torturous execution of an oppressed people.  If Jesus had been executed in a different time period, we could be wearing hanging trees, or genuflecting to electric chairs, or making the sign of a lethal injection.  The cross stands for pain and suffering inflicted on the powerless by those with power.  As a white, middle-class person in (arguably) the most powerful country in the world, I have more in common with the crucifiers than I have with the crucified.  This cross reminds me of the sins of power and privilege.  This cross weighs heavy on my pride.

The cross, as much as it may mean to me in my church, on Good Friday mass, or during the confession, has been used and abused in many, many ways.  When Imperial Rome took on the Christian mantle, the cross became a symbol of the empire.  The swastika was originally designed from a cross.  The KKK burns crosses as a symbol of terror.  The symbol of surrender and forgiveness has been hijacked by hateful aggressors.  Do people think of that when they see it around my neck?  Do they expect me to be judgmental, holier-than-thou, hypocritical, and hateful, like some of those cross-bearers appear to be?  Or, do they see the cross around my neck and hold me to a higher standard, expecting me to be more peaceful, more patient, and more forgiving than my actions show?  What am I wearing when I put the silver chain around my neck?  Maybe the symbolism is too much, and I should hide it away.

Friends, let me tell you, I am a Christian because I NEED forgiveness, not because I am perfect.  I am a Christian because I can finally believe that God loves my selfish, petty, angry little soul, and I pray that he loves me enough not to leave me quite so selfish, petty, and angry. God loves me in my brokenness and his love heals the cracks in my soul.  The cross is where Jesus, the son of God himself, cried out in despair, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”  The cross is where God’s heart broke and, when my heart is breaking, I need that reminder.  When I call out to my God that I can’t do any better, that I can’t fix myself, that I am desperate, the cross reminds me that Christ was there, too.  The God who descended into hell itself can find me in the depths of my own despair.  I am not alone; I dwell in love--God’s love and the love of my brothers and sisters.

The cross is a mystery, a stumbling block, one that bangs your shin and leaves a bruise.  The little silver cross bears a great weight, but it also carries the weight of my community.   It reminds me that I am a part of something bigger, something that I cannot truly understand, but I cannot help but love, something that supports me, challenges me, and changes me.  The cross means that I am a part of a community who loves me into a better person, not through my own actions and endeavors, but through the shared commitment, collaboration, and compromise of people who sacrifice for each other.  The cross reminds me that the impossible is possible and that through the darkest moments, we are not alone.  My friends, how much does your cross weigh?

Guns don't kill people #2

“Attention Staff and Students, we are now going into full-building lock-down.”  And now we hide, in a lock-down drill at my place of work. I hide in the blind corner of my workspace and stay very quiet, hoping that the armed intruder won’t know anyone is there.  If someone does enter my room, I am supposed to use anything at hand as a weapon to distract the person with a gun, so I can escape, or help those with me escape. I don't work in some high-security, military job, defending dangerous criminals or priceless valuables. I teach middle school.  These procedures are a regular practice in the lives of American school children and no one seems to realize how appalling it is.  Appalling that the last mass murder of innocent students is just one more incident in a long string of gun deaths in this country.  Appalling that it is becoming common-place, becoming routine.

If I see another post on my Facebook feed that says, “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people”, I am going to throw up, or at least throw something.  Yes, people do kill people--with GUNS!  Of course we have a problem with violence in this country.  Of course guns are not the only weapons and, of course, a person bent on murder will find a way to kill.  My friends, guns are the issue right now, not bombs, or knives.  The weapon of choice for the last mass-murder in the news was a gun, not an “assault spoon” or a rock.

People die of many causes, some violent, some not.  Let me pose a question: if I mention a relative who was killed in a car crash by a drunk driver, does my conversation partner point out all the other ways that people die?  Do they say, “Yes, but people also die from train wrecks, texting while driving, falling asleep at the wheel, it’s a problem of poor driving in this country, don’t blame the cars.”  Do people minimize the issue, saying, “Well, yes, it’s sad that some people are irresponsible about driving under the influence, but there are lots of good, safe drivers out there.  There is no point in regulating driving, because only the law-abiding drivers will be punished.”  NO, when we deal with auto deaths, we work to make things safer for all drivers through regulation, safer cars, patrols, and enforcement.  We examine the circumstances and we make them safer. We don't throw up our hands in defeat and we don't outlaw automobiles.  

Many of my friends own guns for hunting, sport, target shooting, and other pursuits.  Some of them have conceal and carry permits.  For all I know, they may be armed every time I am with them.  They have followed the rules to purchase their guns.  They have taken classes.  They keep them locked up when they’re not using them.  I don’t want to take their guns away, even though the fact that they have them doesn’t make me feel any safer.  I don’t honestly believe that a good man with a gun is what we need in a crisis.  But they are law-abiding citizens who have a right to protect themselves.  Good for them!  I repeat, I do NOT want to take guns away from regular people.  It is time, however, to stop spouting useless rhetoric (on both sides) and actually have a conversation.

We need to have a real conversation about how to keep our children, our teachers, our innocent victims safe from violence.  We have to discuss how to make the guns in circulation safer, how to limit access to firearms, how to regulate gun purchases.  We have to give teachers a plan to save our lives and those of our students.  As a middle school teacher, I am told to sit quiet and hide, unless my room is breached.  Then, I should fight. I should be prepared to turn my textbook, my projector, my desk into a weapon to block an armed intruder.  I’m sorry, but that is honestly ridiculous.  I have a master’s degree in special education, not military training, not law enforcement training, not a black belt in martial arts.  I was trained well for my job and I execute it with excellence, but I am not a trained bodyguard.  Why do I need to learn how to protect my students from threats while our lawmakers and citizens spout pointless rhetoric across an impermeable wall? Why can't we treat this problem like it IS a problem, and begin to discuss solutions?

I am sorry for the angry tone of this post.  My fingers are trembling with frustration as I type.  Please, please, someone tell me what to do.  Tell me who to write to, what to sign, where to march, who to call on the phone.  Tell me how to open a dialogue about this that will not inflame the issue, but will calm the fears on both sides and discuss possible answers.  Tell me how to find a middle ground between the personal right to protection and the right to teach school without lock-down drills.  Someone please, put down the tired rhetoric and guide me to a solution!  I am begging for it.

A Kindergarten Prayer

My oldest daughter started kindergarten a few weeks ago, and I am consumed with anxiety and worry. I know most parents worry; but, I wasn’t prepared for the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as she makes her way through the snarls of school social life.  Luckily, Mandi seems to be a typically-developing 5 year-old, with the right temperament to succeed in school.  She loves to draw and practice her letters, and “reads” books (by memory).  She has an average attention span and she never wants to be in trouble (except when she’s sassy to her mom).  As far as I can tell right now, she should be able to learn in a general classroom, which is a huge relief to me, as a special education teacher.  But, I worry about her social skills.

How can she navigate the myriad social situations in a school setting?  Who does she sit with at lunch?  Can she start a conversation or begin playing with other kids?  How will she react when someone inevitably hurts her feelings?  Will she hurt someone else’s feelings?  Will she be bullied?  Will she be a bully?  Will she ever, ever make a friend?  

I try not to overwhelm her with my questions:  How was your day?  What was your favorite part?  Who played with you today?  Did you talk to anyone new?  I know better than to ask, “Did anything hurt your feelings today?”  But, inevitably, I hear the stories, “My new friend, “so and so”, said we shouldn’t be friends today.  I was really sad.  I hope we can be friends tomorrow.”  I have to turn away so she doesn’t see the tears in my eyes.  I know this is just part of growing up, that girls can be friends and not play with each other all the time, that she will have to learn how to handle these things, that I cannot protect her from hurt feelings.  Still, I want to cry.  And pray a kindergarten prayer:

Dear God,

Please help my child to be kind and help others to be kind to her. 

 Please help her to know when to speak and when to listen, when to play and when to be calm, when to go along with a friend and when to go her own way.  

Help her to be strong but not hard, confident but not arrogant, sensitive but not weak.  

 Help her to know when to forgive and when to stand up for herself and others.  

Help her to bounce back from disappointment and failure.  

Help her to learn from her mistakes.  

Help her to grow up to be loving, happy, and wise.  

Dear God, protect my baby.

Amen.

Image: "Always" by Sharon Cummings. http://fineartamerica.com/featured/always-sharon-cummings.html

Unicorns and Mystery: Thoughts on Faith

The other day, I paid $12 to pet a unicorn--twice.  At a renaissance faire with my five-year-old daughter, the sign beckoning us to “Visit the Magickal Unicorn” was impossible to resist.  My daughter, like many other five-year-old girls, loves horses, and unicorns are the coolest horses ever.  I just had to fork over the money to see the mythical beast with her.  

The unicorn was a pretty, medium sized pony mare, white (grey) in color, very well-groomed, with flowing mane and feathers on her legs.  Her ample forelock split around her horn as it cascaded over her face.  As we stood outside the stall and stroked the soft, white fur of Nikki, the magical unicorn, I asked Mandi, “Is she real?”  She replied, “No, Mom.  It’s just a horse with a horse on it.”  My daughter has been around horses her whole life, so she should be able to recognize an ordinary Welsh pony.  She also is a bit sceptical, always looking for the man behind the mask, as much as she may want to believe in magic.   Even though she saw through the disguise, she didn’t seem disappointed.  She kept looking, with a certain light in her eyes, and stroking the hair.  After we left, she told her friends all about it, and even convinced me to take her into the tent again.  (Yes, we had to pay the entrance fee a second time.  Small price for the wonder of childhood, I suppose.)

This unicorn started me thinking about faith.  My daughter knew the unicorn wasn’t REALLY a unicorn, but she was still entranced by it.  Understanding that the horn was attached by human hands didn’t kill her faith in magic; she still wishes that unicorns are real every chance she gets.   I’m so grateful for this, because it’s the wonder in her eyes that is the true magic, the possibility she sees in the flowing white mane and the soft brown eyes of the unicorn, that just might be true, somewhere.  

Please don’t mistake me.  I am not comparing faith in the God of Jesus Christ to a mystical unicorn.  I am not saying that God is magic, or that unicorns are real, or that if unicorns are not real, then neither is God.  God is real, but we cannot touch him.  We hold the tension of rational thought and mysticism in our modern minds.  If we try to find God, pin God down and exhibit the mystery, we end up with a horse with a horn attached, not a unicorn.  When we try to explain the sacred mystery of the Eucharist, we are left with a bunch of academic language, and some bread and wine.  But here is the thing:  although we know that unicorns aren’t real, we still pay $12 to touch the mystery.  Although rationally all we have in the Eucharist is some bread and some wine and some fancy words, we still touch and taste the mystery.  God is in the desire for it.  God is what makes us long for unicorns, what makes us taste the body and blood of Christ, what makes us see Jesus Christ in our fellow every-day man, what makes us love each other in the midst of the pain and heartache of this broken world.

My friends, faith does not lie in the physical object, in the things we can prove.  Faith is the desire for the mystery, the longing for the transcendent, the insistent lure of something greater, something more beautiful, something like God.   Faith is what turns the ordinary into the sacred.  Faith is when we say, “It’s only bread and wine…” but we take and eat, and take and eat, and we are transformed in spite of ourselves.

The Church: Great and Small

Jesus called the children to him and said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” Luke 18: 16-17

While on vacation with family in Washington, D.C. I had a chance to tour the National Cathedral.  We squeezed it in at the end of a whirlwind tour of war memorials, monuments, and museums.  I expected some resistance from my husband and children, but I insisted on stopping to see it.  I’ve seen cathedrals in various American cities and in Europe, but now the grandeur had a personal connection.  Within the ornate stained glass, the arches, the sculptures, and the beauty that called to mind the immensity and power of God, I saw echoes of my home church in the structure, the colors, and the artwork.  Within the large and grandiose, I found the small and personal.  I thought my husband and daughters were just humoring me, until we found some of the small chapels on the side.

In those spaces, private, intimate enclosures within the monumental and majestic cathedral, my children lit up with smiles.  My cousin’s five year old daughter, Jillian (an Episcopalian from before her birth) led my girls up to kneel at the altars.  The three little blond girls knelt in the chapel and whispered quietly to each other.  They may not have known how to respond to the vaulted arches and the ornate stained glass, but they knew how to kneel and pray.  Tears grew in my eyes, as I saw my children react to the beauty of the place, as it brought the transcendent into the personal.  

In our lives, especially our lives in relation to God, we need the transcendent and the immanent, the immense and the tiny, the grandiose and the mundane, the global and the personal, the catholic and the local.  The Episcopal Church and St. Ignatius are an excellent example.

Recently, I have followed a few events at the National Convention through Facebook and blogs, and contacted members of the Diocese of Chicago for help with some projects.  I am impressed by the structure of the larger church, especially as delegates at the convention reportedly worked together with respect and collaboration to decide polarizing issues.  I am proud to be an Episcopalian when I read about the far-reaching efforts for social justice from our larger church.  I am grateful for the help from Diocesan staff on publicizing events and organizing important educational opportunities.  The larger church does a great deal of good, but it is easy for me to get lost in the mass of it and frustrated at the unwieldy structure. That is why I need my little chapel here at St. Ignatius.

My home parish, St. Ignatius, brings the transcendent into the personal for me.  Here, we put the ideals of social justice to work in our resale shop, in our work at the food pantry, in our support of the counseling center and the parish nurse.  For the last 100 years, people at St. Ignatius have had our boots on the ground, bringing to bear important events like helping Eagle Scouts build sheds, Vacation Bible School organizing fundraisers, craft fairs, and educating ourselves and our community.  Here we learn to love our neighbors as ourselves, in an everyday, personal, intimate way.  Here we put the grandiose ideas into mundane action.  I am like my children in the National Cathedral, a little bit lost in the big picture, but comfortable in the personal, kneeling down at the little altar to receive God’s grace.

Spooking me towards God

John Caputo writes that God is what spooks us.  In his excellent essay, "Proclaiming the year of the jubilee: Thoughts on a spectral life", he tells us, "God is what makes us say, “something spooky is going on here, which is both a promise and a threat… something thought-worthy, something spooky, something oddly, eerily there.” (Schendzielos 19) Whatever God is, God is the thing that haunts us, the thing that insists, the thing from which we cannot wholly rest.  Caputo proposes not an ontology, but a “hauntology”.   He proposes that God insists, spooks, haunts us into a relationship with God.

The idea of God haunting me is compelling.  It is too vivid to ignore, and too true to my visceral, physical reactions to the God-moments in my life.  God knocks me down, quickens my heart-beat, catches my breath.  God is the bump in the night and the shadow in the corner, the dark that illuminates my fear, and spooks me into action.  To spook can mean “1.  to frighten, unnerve, 2.  to take fright suddenly”  (Oxford Dictionary).  To take fright suddenly, as in a horse spooking.

The spook of a horse is familiar to me.  During the years when I made my living training horses, I sat many a spook.  Horses spook at all manner of things, plastic bags, umbrellas, loud noises, fast vehicles, shadows and tricks of the light.   A horse’s spook can disrupt a trail ride, ruin a competition round, and injure horse and rider.  But spooks have a purpose, and talented trainers use them.  A horse spooks to save its life, the same way we flinch at objects coming towards our face or jump at a sharp sound when walking down a deserted street.  The horse responds to its environment instinctively, the way a human being responds to God.

A good rider can manage a horse’s spooks during training and competition.  With correct position, feel, and confidence, she can maintain the horse’s attention through most distractions.  When faced with something unexpected, she can compel the horse to continue through his program, only rolling an eye and flicking an ear at the terrorizing McDonald’s bag or golf umbrella.  An effective horseman can insist that a horse ignore his spooks, just as most people ignore the spooks of God in everyday life.  We maintain our focus on the prize at hand, the job we need to accomplish, the schedule, the to-do list, the agenda.  We bury the butterflies of recognition deep down and persist on our path.  God spooks us, but the world has us well-trained to resist the temptation to respond.

An excellent trainer, however, will use a horse’s spooks for his benefit.  As the momentary flight reflex takes over, the horse takes in breath, coils his loins, and prepares to spin and run.  The life comes up in that 1200 pound animal, making him light as a feather and quick as the wind, as he whirls away from the danger.  An excellent trainer rides the spook, helps him get away, fans the life inside into a flame of brilliance.  Rather than shut down the reflex, an excellent trainer receives it, enhances it, and shapes it into a transcendent moment between horse and man.  

God spooks us for a reason, and we have a choice to respond or to ignore it. The "God-moments" in my life, the spooks, happened at various times, all out of the blue, all causing change. Perhaps I was in the throes of a crisis, paralyzed, utterly unclear which path to take, when the decision came and the words rose, unbidden, from my lips, as I made my choice. Perhaps I was wrought with anxiety, sobbing on the bathroom floor, unable to move forward, when something like a nudge lifted my head, when something like a hug enveloped my heart, and I found the strength to rise. Perhaps I was sitting on my couch reading, alone, at night, when the words on the page unexpectedly struck open the raw place in my heart. In those moments, I stopped trying to understand and I let my emotions react. I let God spook me from my path, change my perspective, and open my heart. I opened up my heart to my own failings and to God's immense love of me, in spite of all of them. Sitting alone, sobbing, I didn't analyze or intellectualize; I just felt the immense presence of God.  I just felt reality.  

Many things might have spooked me, my own fear, my own desperation, my own latent passions hidden within me.  I do not know for sure that it was God that lighted up my fear in order to change my mindset.  I do not know for sure, but I choose to believe that, perhaps, it was God.   I believe, perhaps, God is what sparked the spook, what ignited my deep-seated, but long ignored, desire for something deeper, my longing for a connection with the world, for a relationship with the eternal.  Perhaps God spooks us to jar us out of our daily existence, to fan the light of life within us, to quicken the pulse, to lighten the feet, to shorten the breath.  Perhaps God uses our spooks to shape us.  In the moments I’ve been spooked by the mystery hard enough to take notice, my defenses fail, my heart opens, and my perception clears.  In the breathless moment, I see with clarity and I respond.  As my heart-rate settles, I am not quite the same as before the spook.  I am just a little bit more alive, a little bit more transcendent.  

One of my good friends, a psychologist, told me that fear is the great motivator; we only make positive changes in our lives when we are too afraid NOT to make the change.  When God spooks me, I want to feel the fear, I want to let it change my path.  I want my flight reflex to kick in and lead me closer to the eternal.  Perhaps God is begging us, haunting us, spooking us into noticing him.  And, perhaps, when we allow ourselves to be spooked, perhaps, we find the God we didn’t know we were seeking.

Schendizielos, E.N. (Ed.). (2015).  It Spooks:  Living in Response to an unheard call.  Rapid City, SD:  Shelter50.