Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Has Christianity changed me?

I don’t like change.  I get nervous when my husband moves furniture in my house, or rearranges our junk drawers.  I love my routine: my same breakfast, my same bedtime, my same snacks.  For a person terrified of change, though, I’ve had my share of it recently.  Within the last eight years, I have lost my father, earned a master’s degree, changed careers, had two children, and become a Christian.  Sometimes I think my younger self might not even recognize me now.

Given all the changes in my life, returning to church was one of the most difficult. I avoided it for months; listening to hymns in the car and googling sermons on Sundays.  In the midst of my longing, I stayed out of church.  I was afraid--afraid that admitting that I was a Christian would change me.   There weren’t many “church people” in my life, and some of my friends and family were a little worried, too.  Worried that I would become a holier-than-thou holy-roller, that I would quit drinking, dancing, and doing anything fun, that I would tell my friends they were on the road to hell, all of those things.  It may not make any sense, but I was a little afraid--deep, deep down.

After months of “closet Christianity”, I faced the fear and walked through the church doors.  I wasn’t sure it would stick; I expected to run back to my "spiritual but not religious" world within a month or so.  I questioned the priest, early and often, about all of my “deal-breakers”.  Would someone tell me that women should submit to men?  Would someone preach that homosexuality was a sin? Would someone tell me I had to be “saved” or I was going to hell?  Which one of those things was going to send me running for the door?  None of them happened and I am still there, more and more invested every week.

After a few years of prayer, Bible study, and communion, have I changed?  Well, I still like my beer, I still have a smart mouth, and I still swear like the proverbial truck driver when provoked.  I didn’t think my friends who happen to be lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender are sinners for their “lifestyle” before I went to church, and I sure don't think it now.  I still believe that Jesus meant to save everyone, all of us, by grace and not by our works.  I still want to escape if someone asks me, “Have you taken Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”   I am still cranky, still prone to minor temper tantrums, still dreadfully addicted to coffee. Wow, my church must not be working very well, if I haven’t changed at all.  Someone better talk to my priest!

Has Christianity changed me?  I don’t wear a cross and there is no Jesus fish on my car.  I hope the change is more noticeable and more lasting than jewelry or bumper stickers.
  • I have felt peace, so I can be peaceful.  In the midst of anger, frustration, and impatience, I can turn to Christ.  I can take a deep breath and pray, “Have mercy on me, a sinner.”  I can weigh my words before I speak and consider my actions before I react.  And, when I fail, I can pray again, and forgive (myself) again.
  • I have been accepted, so I can learn to accept.  Not only the people who look like me, or work like me, or vote like me, but others.  The others, the poor, the rich, the educated, the ignorant, the liberals, the conservatives, I can learn to meet them and treat them like people.  I can learn to relate to people, to listen, to respect, to value their inherent worth, as I have been valued by God.
  •   I have been forgiven, so I can forgive.  It’s not easy, and it requires prayer, but I work on it.  At least, I pray for the ability to forgive.  I’ve learned that if you honestly want to forgive, God grants those wishes.  Jesus takes the hurts I used to hoard like precious jewels, like armor, like ammunition, and he heals them.  After that, I don’t need armor and ammunition anymore.  After that, I am free
  • I have been loved, so I can love.  I can see love in unusual places, in small gestures, in the mundane.  I can recognize love in chores completed and return it in patient listening. In the middle of the daily insanity of exuberant, unruly kids, barking dogs, messy houses, and tired spouses, I can love this crazy, ordinary life and all those involved in it.
As much as Christianity changed me, it is not a self-improvement plan.  I didn’t find forgiveness, grace, acceptance, and love through hard work, meditation, centering myself, or communing with nature.  I didn't accomplish any of it myself; the grace and love of God was always there, always waiting to be noticed.  Worship just allows me to wallow in grace and marinate in love, until it seeps into my pores.  You can’t help but be changed by that.

Monday, April 21, 2014

The Long View

Churches are declining, some say even dying.  It’s all over the blogosphere, if you don’t believe me, google it.  Churches are outdated, and they need to change the way they do things.  Churches should just accept the idea that they will be small, or else "sell-out" to consumerism in order to grow.  Many people identify as “nones”, those with no pervasive religious beliefs, or as “spiritual but not religious”.  This is the future and lots of people are concerned about it.  Just take a tour around the Christian blogs and you will see the worry and the doom.  People are not getting what they need at church--except for those of us who are.  Here I am, young (at least young enough that people at church consider me "young"), progressive, liberal, free-thinking, and I am back at church, a mainline church, a high-liturgy, smells-and-bells, small-town Episcopal church.  

There is something I need that I can only get at church.  There is something that no other community can deliver, some connection that no other place can make for me.  It’s not the theology.  Don’t get me wrong, there is wonderful theology at church.  My priest, a PhD, and a great speaker, leads lively discussions in adult formation about liturgy, the trinity, the nature of God in suffering, all kinds of meaty stuff.  But, I can get great theology at home, on my own schedule and for less trouble.  On my shelf, I’ve got C.S. Lewis, Robert Capon, Mark McIntosh, Dan Edwards, Nadia Bolz-Weber, Marcus Borg, and St. Augustine.  I’ve even read a few of them.  I can find podcasts, blogs, sermons, discussion groups, all sorts of enriching educational opportunities from the comfort of my own home.  Give me the Book of Common Prayer and a daily devotional, and I’ve got church on the go.

It’s not community service.  Again, I’m proud of the service my church does in our town.  It’s important to me to live by the Christian principles of caring for the least of these, and putting others first.  But, I can serve the community at food banks, homeless shelters, mentoring organizations, scouts, and 4-H.  I don’t need to show up on Sundays to worship and support a church to serve my community.

There’s something deeper that drove me through those red doors two years ago--connection to something bigger than me.  See, I’m a typical product of post-modern, freely mobile times.  Neither my husband nor myself live close to where we grew up; we live 40 miles from his childhood home and 400 miles from mine.  We have family, extended family, great neighbors, and close friends.  But, we live in a town and work in towns where we have no real history.  This is typical for people my age, but I didn’t grow up this way. I lived in the same house my entire young life, a 150 year old farmhouse.  The farm used to be part of my ancestors’ family farm; my grandmother attended slumber parties on the front porch.  We had a history there.

In my hometown, we attended church where my mother and grandmother were both baptized and married.  We all sat in the same pew, the second from the back on the right side, in front of the Jabergs and behind the Pfisters, for generations.  My family, and many other families, remember when that church was founded, and we remember all the trauma, strife, and exultation in its history.  People came and we welcomed them, and they left and we mourned their leaving.  We took the good with the bad, we struggled, we persevered, we celebrated, we rejoiced.   We took the long view of things.

These days, life is full of ambition, change, freedom, and immediacy. Work, homes, friends, are all transient in this post-modern world.  Those of us with enough means have a multitude of opportunities; we are no longer held prisoner by our family’s expectations, our family’s businesses, the family pew in church.  I do not believe we should return to those days of forced stability. My husband and I chose our home for the property values and the school system; we have fulfilling jobs, and great friends.  But, there are no ancestors buried in the cemeteries, no local traditions dating back for generations, and no one asks me, “Aren’t you John's and Florence’s granddaughter?”  No one takes the long view--except at church.

At church, I may be new to the place, but I’m part of a long-hallowed community.  I worship with people who know their baptismal day in 1941, whose parents and grandparents were married in that community, who sit in the same pew with four generations of their family.  They welcome the newcomers as if they are opening their home to us; actually, they are.  They listen to our ideas, offer advice on our plans, complete projects; all the time holding the history of the people and place in their hearts.  Some of us are new, brash, and full of ideas.  Some have the mortar of that building in their bones, the liturgy and tradition in their blood.  Some are full of ideas and change and things that need to get done right away, and some take the long, long view.

I cannot think of another place in my life that connects me to the past, present, and future of my community the way my parish does.  I cannot think of another place where people care for my children as if they are their own grandchildren, where I engage in meaningful discussion with people 30 years younger than me and 30 years old than me. Beyond the theology, prayer and service, my church gives me more.  My church gives me a connection to my town, more meaningful than service organizations, neighbors, or friends.  My church gives my family roots, continuity, and a place to take the long view.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Easter Grinch No More

I am usually an Easter Grinch;  I complain about the entire celebration. I love church during Holy Week, especially the solemn grief of Good Friday.  I also love church on Easter morning, with the church draped in white while we sing Christ the Lord is Risen Today.  But, all the secular stuff we do for Easter, especially with little kids, really annoys me.  It’s silly, and a lot of work, and very little pay-off, since I don’t want to eat all the candy and gain 100 lbs.  I mean, how ridiculous is the Easter bunny?  I guess it’s some sort of homage to pagan religions, and the eggs symbolize life, or resurrection or something.  But, it’s contrived and just silly--why is a bunny delivering eggs?  Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with pagan holidays.  Give me a good May Day or Midsummer party and I’m thrilled.  Bonfires, May poles, drinking, dancing, all bring back fun times from my 20s.  If Easter were just about parties, food and fun, without all the prep-work, I would be all in.

But, why some silly bunny delivering eggs, which I don’t like to eat and which I then have to hide?  That’s another problem, I HATE looking for things.  I refuse to look for things, except the most essential things, like my cell phone, car keys, the book I’m currently reading, and those two little kids who follow me around.  Other than that, if I lose something, I just go on without it, rather than spend energy searching for it.  In my experience, it usually turns up eventually.  Once, my brother-in-law found our t.v. remote, which had been missing for about six months.  It was on the top of the microwave.  Oh well--we had managed without it in the meantime. Looking for things seems like punishment for me, even looking for plastic eggs filled with candy.  So, Easter is annoying, with making baskets of candy I shouldn’t eat, coloring eggs that I wouldn’t eat, hiding them places that I wouldn’t find them.  I mean, come on!

For some reason, though, this year, I’m not as grinchy as usual.  I’m not dreading the mess of coloring eggs, I’ve already got my Easter baskets ready, and I’m taking the girls to meet the Easter Bunny.  (They will probably be terrified.)  My perspective has changed and I’m not sure why.  Maybe the silly, unrelated, secular extravaganza of Easter does mean something.  Let’s think about the actual, unreasonable, reason for the celebration for Christians.  The idea that a Jewish rabbi, teacher, and worker for social justice died the death of a traitor is tragic.  We live that again on Good Friday.  That is reasonable and understandable.  Then, three days later, he walks out of the tomb and says, “Hey guys, it’s me!  Glad to see you!”  That is unbelievable.  So, we figure that he is what he said he was; he is the Son of God, the portion of the Holy Trinity that became wholly human, that died and rose again, defeating death for everyone, for all eternity.  That is crazy!  That is unreasonable!   It is just as hard to understand as a giant bunny that delivers colored eggs to children in pastel baskets.  I mean, if you’re going to believe that the Son of God sacrificed himself out of love for a bunch of regular people, sinners each and all, then you might as well put on a bunny costume and hand out candy to children.  If Easter means we are all saved by God’s grace, no matter how rotten we are, then why hold back?  Bring on the bunnies, the candy, the pastel hats with flowers, the whole shebang!  This year, my grinch is silent, and I’m ready to embrace the ridiculous extravaganza that is Easter.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Lessons from Unitarian Universalists

The world is a better place because of Unitarian Universalists.  I love them, generally and specifically.  In my spiritual journey from Christianity, through atheism, humanism, Buddhism, and back to Christianity, I spent four wonderful years embraced by a Unitarian Universalist congregation. They tended the sick and the dying, fed the homeless and the hungry, and offered a place of loving acceptance to those who couldn’t find it elsewhere.  UUs really mean it when they sing, “We’ll build a land where we bind up the broken.  We’ll build a land where the captives go free.  Where the oil of gladness dissolves all mourning…”  They really mean it, and they put their words, actions and money to work to accomplish it.  


Tonight, I attended the memorial service for the minister of my former church.  Honestly, I can tell you, that if I can do one fraction of the good in my life that Georgette Wonders did in hers, I will count my life a success. Through her love and guidance, I found my own faith.  When I left the church, I told Georgette that without the open, nonjudgmental theology of Unitarian Universalism, I could never have walked back into a Christian church.  She laughed and said, “We were your gateway drug.”


As fulfilled and happy as I am in the Episcopal tradition, tonight I think of the lessons I learned from my UU friends.  I am sure there are other places to learn these lessons, but I learned them through chalice lightings, sharing of joys and sorrows, and singing Spirit of Life.  I learned them with the Unitarian Universalists.


  • People can worship, work, and love together, even if they disagree on fundamental truths.  Focus on the common threads and the work to be done.
  • There might not be an answer for everything.  Sometimes, asking the right question is as close as you can get.
  • Face your fears honestly and walk through them with the help of your friends, friends who will call you on your bullshit and keep loving you anyway.  Admit what you’re terrified of, and get real with it.
  • Stand on the side of love, no matter what.  And, stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves.
  • There are multiple truths to the universal question.  Honor other people’s perspectives.
  • Bad things happen, we are all a little broken, and we all need love.  
  • There is no need to explain “God’s plan” in the atrocities of the world.  Get to work helping people.
  • Life is a blessed mystery.  As Georgette used to say, “Whatever is going on here, it isn’t what it seems.”

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Grief and Good Friday

Bad things happen to good people.  Wonderful people, filled with love and light, who have so much to give to the rest of the world, die from disease or terrible accidents.  How can God let these things happen? Why?  I don't know, but I do know that God doesn’t manipulate people’s deaths, decide to kill or save, or move us as chess pieces in some mysterious “master plan”--at least the God I worship does not.  I have to believe that in the midst of pain, God is with us, surrounding us in love.


I learned this for the first time at 3:00 am on May 7, 2005, with my mother's night-time phone call. My father’s imminent death had come; the cancer that was galloping through his body finally won the battle.   After we spoke, I lay on the floor of our bedroom, sobbing and clutching my heart.  Palpable, painful grief racked my body as I cried, “It hurts!  It hurts!”  My husband held me silently.  My father should not have died of cancer three months shy of his 60th birthday.  Not the man who exercised every day and ate healthfully, not the man whose balanced, mindful spirituality was a model and inspiration for all who knew him, not the man who lived by his word, honestly, faithfully, and lovingly:  that man should not die--not ever, but certainly not before he was 60 years old.  


Recently, I learned of the death of a friend and mentor, a minister from my former church.  Once again, life is not fair; that fact smacks me in the face.  Once again, a person so filled with love and grace, so generous of spirit, so dedicated to good works, so pure of heart, is struck down in tragedy.  Once again, the grief…  I think that once you feel grief, real actual, knock-you-down grief, it comes back in pieces with every other loss you experience.  I’ve felt a portion of heart-rending pain with every subsequent loss since the death of my father:  aunts, grandfathers, beloved pets, friends, and now this most recent friend.  It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen her in two years, the shadow of pain still clutches my heart.  It’s only a testament to her loving soul that I am so sad, even after such a long time of separation.  She should not have died, not now, not so suddenly, not so tragically.  Still, should nots don’t matter much in life, though; life isn't fair, shit happens, and we go on.


Bad things happen to good people, there is no doubt about it.  I think that’s why Christians need Good Friday.  Jesus should not have died; not the man who healed the sick, not the man who gave sight to the blind, not the man who was supposed to liberate the Jews from their bondage.  Once again, it should not have happened, and, once again, we grieve.  We remember the grief, the loss, and the pain.  We need to live through the grief, because the love is buried there.  God didn’t create the pain, or manipulate the situation as part of his master plan, or allow it to happen to test us.  God came into our grief, to live through it with us, and with the living of it and the dying in it, to destroy it forever.  We still feel the pain, but all is well.  As Catholic mystic, Anthony de Mello says, “all is well, though things are a mess, all is well”.


In the image of Jesus’s final sacrifice for all of mankind, I see how those moments of grief, bound by love, are possible.  In the darkened sanctuary on Good Friday evening, surrounded by the quiet sounds of weeping, filled with the smells of incense, and the sounds of soft music, I feel it.  I feel my eyes tearing, my throat closing, and my heart breaking open.  I see a God-made-man dying a horrible death for the love of us all.  Most importantly, I see an image of the most powerful human being to ever walk the earth submitting to the evil of the world and experiencing excruciating pain, all the while with God holding him in the palm of his hand.  


And, I know that, although bad things happen, that life is radically unfair, that death is tragic, death is not the winner.  No matter the circumstances, God takes our grief into his, our pain into his, our loss into his, and he loves us through it all.  And, he wins.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Person-first Christianity

     As a middle-class, liberal, Christian, I want to make things better.  I want my church to make things better for our congregation, our community, our society.  I want to solve problems.  In his book, The Promise of Despair, Andrew Root says, “The church feeds the poor, gives shelter to the homeless and help to the ill, not because it naively imagines that it can in so doing make hunger, homelessness, and sickness disappear.  When the church acts in such a way, when it vigorously gives voice, feeds, shelters, and cares for those thrust into death by [society], it is living for the future of God that has not yet come, but is coming.”
When I read this, I thought, “That’s not enough.”  I want to help, to solve problems, to make a difference.  Isn’t that what we are supposed to do, already?  Isn’t that what the kingdom of God is about?  Taking care of the least of these and so on?   Is it really enough to trust that the kingdom will come around someday?  Don’t we need to get things done?  It reminds me a little of being a special education teacher.
Within the complex world of education, I want to help.  I desperately want to write good curriculum, to measure student progress, to increase reading scores, etc.  Sometimes I become so distracted by the big picture that I can’t see the trees for the forest.  My primary job, as a special education teacher, is to relate to my students as people, meet them where they are, support their needs and enhance their strengths.  My job is to speak for my special students within the wide world of education, to make sure they are recognized, counted, and valued, to make sure they have an opportunity to thrive.
One of the first things I learned in my Special Education master’s degree program was how to speak about my students.  They call it “person-first language”; it means to literally refer to people as “people first, condition second.”  For instance, we learned to not say “Down syndrome adult”, “learning-disabled student”, “autistic child”.  We learned to say, “person with Down syndrome”, “student with a learning disability”, or “child with autism”.  It seems clumsy and unimportant, but the way we speak of a person makes a vast difference in the way we regard a person.  Just the act of saying “person with…”, puts the emphasis on the human being, not the condition.  Rather than looking at my students as a problem to be solved, or a puzzle to be completed, I should look at them as a complex person with various strengths and needs.  I should value them as a person first.
Christianity is about relationship, relationship between person and God, and person and person.  It is about seeing people, loving people, treating people as people first, with respect, humility, and compassion, regardless of their condition.  Maybe my little church, or even any big church, or even the holy, catholic church, cannot solve the problem of the poor, or the problem of injustice, or the problem of racism.  But we can just treat people like human beings, and that is no small thing.  Maybe merely treating people with dignity, empathy, and love is the entire message of the kingdom. 
 When we treat the “other”, as a person, when we see the complex strengths and needs all wrapped up in the one we are trying to help, we become a little more human, and a little more connected to God.  After all, the Lord of all became a human; in person-first language, he was a “man who is also God”.  He treated everyone he met as a person, whether they were women, children, prostitutes, blind, or lepers.  When he hung dying on the cross, he saw the humanity in his persecutors and he prayed, “Father, forgive them.” He did not solve the problems of society; he transcended death and let grace pour down through his love for all the persons in the world.