Transition is like a trek into a wilderness. It seems equilibrium, balance, and pattern are all in question. This wandering is foolishness. What kind of a leader abandons the post and moves into the woods, away from the people she came to serve? There isn’t much to do out here but pay attention to myself and those who are willing to risk a visit. It is a frightening negotiation to pay such attention to myself, to raise the drawbridge against the onslaught of opinions and feelings in order to protect those sequestered close to me.
My friend Donna says that when you stop trying to win the fight by getting big, you can actually shrink your ego, dig a hole, climb out from under the fence and be on your way… away from the things that kept you penned in and scared. Care of the soul is such an important part of ministry, but who will care for mine? I suppose only I will be able to do that. I only wish it didn’t seem like I was doing it at the expense of caring for the souls of others.
So that is where frustration hardens into hatred, for myself as I seem to be running like a bandit from the scene of the crime, and for others who would cover me.
I usually hate (I was going to keep going with that sentence but maybe it should stop there for a moment and rest).
I usually hate.
But its time for something different and this is how I can tell.
There is this book.
It’s the kind I usually hate because of its polished look, bible bookstore styling and cloying, inefficient title. Not to mention the lengthy forward, far-reaching preachy “Praise for…” page, and prescriptive subheadings—even the title has one (apparently six words wasn’t enough)! But I also worry because it was written by someone who used to work for Willow Creek Community Church and still claims her work there in her author’s bio, like it’s a huge accomplishment, when really, I find it to be more like a warning. See, plenty of reasons to hate it, right? Of course. But I don’t.
Turns out you can’t judge a book by its cover… or by its title, subheadings, references, its author’s so-called credentials, or awful serif!
Turns out there are lots of good ideas in this book. Ideas about wilderness that came at just the right time for a lot of people I know and love, but especially me. Try this on: “Just as the physical law of gravity ensures that sediment swirling in a jar of muddy river water will eventually settle and the water will become clear, so the spiritual law of gravity ensures that the chaos of the human soul will settle if it sits still long enough.” Or this: “Some of us will wear ourselves out trying to change ourselves before we realize that it is not about fixing; it is about letting go—letting go of old patterns that no longer serve us.”
I freaked out yesterday. It was lunch time, which is such a wicked time for the unemployed. You know how Carson McCullers wrote in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter that 3 o’ clock is the worst time of day or night? Well, I think she must have been employed when she wrote that because clearly, were she unemployed she would have realized that lunchtime can happen at 3! So I think, logically, we should go with lunchtime, don’t you agree? Anyway, I am Hispanic and always have been, so it seems strange that I would burn myself making a quesadilla. But I did. And I blame it on Lunchtime being such an awful time to be cooking. I began cursing, and swearing (yes, they are two different things when I do them) and I accidentally turned the whole kitchen into quesadilla. Not a very domesticated way to do things, I know, because if there is one thing I know for sure: I am the kind of woman who is willing to entertain the notion that I am better behind at typing than making lunches.
I burned my arm. It’s going to leave a mark. I’ll have this scar for a while. A pink mark, in the spot where my friends have tattoos, I have this reminder that the skin I’m in is fragile.
I have such self-loathing when I end up acting like a real domestic. For example the laundry piles up and I consider it evidence that I must be getting the writing done instead of the wash. When I’m in a good mood that means I am busy doing important things; when I’m in a bad mood that means I’m busy with trivial things. I hate it piling, but I really don’t appreciate doing the laundry alone these days. It just seems so responsible of me, and that seems disingenuous. I do like going to the Laundromat, I like the smell of clean laundry, I like the sorting and folding but this week I feel like it’s too house-wifeish a task for someone like me.
This shouldn’t bother me because I have such respect for women who run the household while the men are behind desks or hammers. These brave women are the domestic technicians, efficiency experts and nurturing whizzes. I admire their ability to self-motivate, micromanage or see the big picture and then conduct with aplomb the speeding bullet train of family life. I am not angry with them for doing all these things with such grace and dignity, I just get angry with myself for participating as though I know how to do these things—as though I am one of them. It feels like such fakery.
I hate how I must have been such a let-down as a domestic partner. How I missed the mark because I couldn’t pull it all off perfectly anymore. Moreover, I hate that I tried so hard. and I hate knowing that, in the end, I handed over the housekey, even though I’ll be responsible for the mortgage if something goes wrong. What is more I’ll be paying for that house and all that went on inside of it (and inside of me when I was there) for many years. And it is now impossible to go to the office and hide behind work.
So Laurita has come in and saved me once again. Even though she is all the way out in Gulu learning about reconciliation between murderers and rape victims she is unabashed to reconcile me to myself when I just don't know what to do about this new rhythm of life. I feel a little lazy for not working but so exhausted by the idea of working because I have so much to do that has nothing to do with parish ministry and even less to do with house keeping. In fact, the things I have to do have more to do with cleaning out my little brain, rather than the kitchen sink or organizing my gentler thoughts instead of organizing Sunday school volunteers.
I know this is getting a little sickening but don’t you dare stop reading now because I’m trying to tell you something really important: I’m trying to tell you that it is okay to take some time to think this sort of thing. In fact its so important that if you don’t stop and think about why you hate what you hate or love what you love you’ll go crazy. Or you’ll have to quit your job too. You won’t be you if you don’t take time to think about yourself, for yourself, in between driving your kids (either in the car or crazy), reading theological texts (Calvin! Hobbes! Even Calvin and Hobbes), paying rent, convincing your boss to give you a raise so you can pay your rent, shaving your armpits, flossing your teeth, planting perennials and rearranging furniture. Find time, make time and do it goddamnit.
So here is what Laurita and I came up with: Grace.
But not your average, cheap, two for a dollar, gravelly turn-out, moss-covered, pasteurized prepared cheese product grace. She has it figured out like there is a certain kind of grace offered to renegade women like us who don’t have a soul connection to what composes everybody’s everyday dishes and wishes and washing. What I mean is that there are plenty of women out there who found a way to see the divine in doing the chores—I’m just not there yet.
And I will never get there by forcing myself.
Laurita said to tie on a bandanna and consider myself a kind of renegade partner… you know, more like somebody who’d ride the dusty trail with you, cook over an open flame and risk the burn. We are the grace-rustling, hope-hustling, grin-toting few and we’ve been riding all day. We’re more likely to break the dishes than wash them, tickle the babies or encourage them to wail it out—this life is rough! We’re prone to running after buses, pouring cocktails out on mean men, and, well, we dance like we mean it and don’t care who knows it. We even stop them dead in their tracks. We even stop ourselves as we ramble on… we brake mid-sentence and decide to shut up, whenever we tire of nagging our partners, or over-explaining things to little ones. We are the William Wallaces of womanhood, making ourselves up with blusher and mascara like war-paint, embellishing, but never covering up these good eyes God granted, with which we survey the terrain and spot the target of our affection. We raise our fists and spears and then we wisely shout, “Hold!” And we know this requires its own brand of wisdom and grace.
So we offer ourselves grace, the expensive kind, that is so hard to find. And lots of it. I’m sure it’s the same quality of grace that the classic forms of wifehood and motherhood require, because it comes from the same source. It is the grace that we know as a result of giving in to what we have discerned to best for ourselves and those we love, right now.
And that means I’m holding, still, and in a way I never have been before: the way a woman knows how to wait and watch even when there are dirty dishes in the sink and dust on the window ledge. So thank you to Ruth Haley Barton. I’m sorry I judged you so harshly at first but you won me over because you seem to be one of us. If you don’t want to be associated with us I apologize. And for superimposing the image of renegade, I apologize—I may have misread your pages. But I will say this: ever since you nearly crashed into a fellow employee as you ran down the office hall, cell phone stuck to your ear, checking on your sick child as you rush toward a meeting—ever since that is what it took to make you realize the importance of holding still—you are one of us. So welcome: welcome to my affection and admiration, welcome to the renegade band.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
is this a... what day is this?
i have a habit of falling asleep to the The Big Lebowski... the morning afters are one of the best reasons for why I do this. See, my computer allows me to clap it shut and fall asleep so
when I wake up and open it in the morning the movie starts playing again. Its like a jump start to the day without all the commitment of taking a shower.
So this morning I woke up, made coffee while I did the dishes and sat down to get some writing done only to open my computer and there he was
Jeff Bridges, The Dude, His Dudeness, dressed in an old hoodie, shorts, dirty white V neck and jelly shoes. He is seated on the receiving end of a giant, antique, F*&# you! desk and he leans in to address well, me, I guess and says, "Employed?" and laughs. The fat, white suit on the other side of the desk lectures him about going out on a weekday to look for a job, dressed like that and the Dude answers, "Is this a... what day is this?"
yeah, I am living the dream.
when I wake up and open it in the morning the movie starts playing again. Its like a jump start to the day without all the commitment of taking a shower.
So this morning I woke up, made coffee while I did the dishes and sat down to get some writing done only to open my computer and there he was
Jeff Bridges, The Dude, His Dudeness, dressed in an old hoodie, shorts, dirty white V neck and jelly shoes. He is seated on the receiving end of a giant, antique, F*&# you! desk and he leans in to address well, me, I guess and says, "Employed?" and laughs. The fat, white suit on the other side of the desk lectures him about going out on a weekday to look for a job, dressed like that and the Dude answers, "Is this a... what day is this?"
yeah, I am living the dream.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
fame?, us?, here?
I think I like the idea that you can google "liturgy locatedness" and the skinnytree appears as an option. So you don't have to go back to the old skinnytree, which is formatted all crazy now, I'm re-posting this here, where it is exponentially easier to view.
But that isn't the only reason for re-posting and re-reading. There is also this: Laurita Mia is so far away and I'm really trying hard not to worry about her. I keep asking myself, "Why does she have to go all the way to Uganda? Why there? and so it has been comforting to re read my own answer to the location question... you know, it keeps my hypocritical tendencies under control.
so, without further ado...
A Strategy for Local Theology
But why here?
I’m going to plant a tree here. I live here, I work here and though I know the soil in California better than I know the soil here, though I respect the California native Banana slugs, though I have delighted in Californian riparian woodlands encroaching or shading over Bouganveillias in my home town, though I was willing to fight back the blackberries and Vinca Minor there in ways I have been unwilling to do so here, I am beginning to trust the way the rain will come when Seattle grass begins to brown and cedars go to seed. This is where I am right now, and I know trees will grow here.
So I’m going to plant a tree. Here.
The theology that is just a branch, just the beginning of an idea, I clipped from another time and another place is ready to put down roots. My ideas about God and God’s people are ready to be grounded in this location. My theology is daily changing and being changed by the people and problems of this time and place. It seems to me that my little branch of theology needs the nourishment offered by questions posed here and now.
I will have to dig a hole for my little tree, the way they dig for a building’s foundation: find a spot and dig deeper than anyone expected. Maybe even put up a temporary barrier to protect the hole, and those who come around to look down in it. On the friendlier days we have talked to each other. They usually ask, “why are you doing this in Seattle? What was wrong with California—you know people there.”
And I respond as transparently as I can, “I just fit in better here. I am more readily accepted here. They understand my love of children and are more community oriented. They are like a city but also like a small town. I think it is a good place to try new things. It is good for me to be rained on and greyed in and I am learning to appreciate sun, the water and the trees in new ways. I think I could be here a good long time. Besides, it wasn’t until I got here that I decided to stop wandering around and put down roots and there is no way of knowing exactly when and where to start digging—sometimes you just have to start.”
“How long do you think you will be in Seattle? Would you ever go back to California?”
“Sure, I would. But I want to put down roots so badly and this is where I am right now. I want to invest here, to reach down and grab up and give back in this place and the only way to do that is to be here now, fearlessly and graciously. I want to contribute, to say something meaningful and that won’t happen unless I discover the local currency. I don’t worry about getting out or back to Cali, this is good soil.”
So I resume digging. I dig a deep hole and sort out the rocks of hardened hearts from the fertile soil, dark with nourishing elements like curiosity and mystery. I never had to do that in California; I wasn’t ready to do the work of local theology there. Now I look down, bow down, to the differences, respect them enough to sort them, carefully and with love. I will have to or my theology will never put roots down deep enough. I decide which of the hard parts and hardened hearts to deal with now or leave in place knowing that the roots of my local theology will navigate around them.
I get down on my hands and knees, not with a shovel, but with my fingers and tenderly grapple with the hard parts of the people close to me. I know some of the fears and habits of the local people: the way they are afraid to tell their children “no”, wonder what will happen if they don’t recycle every can and bottle. I see the way their hearts and money are spent on their dogs and boats and second homes in Island County. These, the stony bits mixed in with the fertile soil, are not a loss, but neither are they to be ignored. They must be turned over and looked under. I will have to make judgments about those hard hearts and stony faces I am sorting through, I will have to take them into consideration as I plan to set a theology into this place. I will mourn, surely, if I can’t find their beauty. Sometimes it seems there are more rocks than soil but those times are so far few and far between.
The question of water and wind
This place and these people affect the growth of my theology. This place invites me to relinquish all that I know about God to the holy water and spirit wind here. I set it down and let weather, neighbors, dogs, babies and music come close to what I have hoarded so boldly. When it is time, I search out the right tree and get it in the soil. I know a lot about trees, and yet, it will never be enough because it is impossible for me to understand all the ways each branch interacts with the elements in this location. There is no formula to determine how the leaf buds shudder in the ruach of the local wind, or roots will soak in the waters from the local font.
I recently heard a story of a church that unearthed a giant baptismal font during renovation. The day of their first post-renovation worship service they baptized babies in that antique font but because it wouldn’t fit in the newly renovated sanctuary, they lugged it out onto the sidewalk and did the liturgy there. I want to ask the pastor of this Capitol Hill congregation how this reveals his theology of baptism that allows for naked babies to be dipped in a giant font on a busy sidewalk.
As for the congregation I serve, we have a small bowl-like font, a smallish metal trough and a giant, coffin-sized trough. They are all three employed with equal fervor and regularity. We exchange stories of our interactions with the font on a pretty regular basis. I like to tell a story of the night I tripped and nearly fell face first into the small, waist-high bowl. I heard one recently about two sixth graders washing their faces in it. The font is central to our theology, but also to our daily lives.
We all have stories about it interrupting our routines and tempting our children, calling them to dip a finger in and then lick it off, just to see if baptism tastes like they remember. The taller kids walk by and put a whole hand in, just to check if it might be good for swimming in, and then wipe the water all over their best dresses, their hair, or their baby brother. Parents hold their four year olds over it so they can stare down into it, hoping to glimpse fish or pennies or God. I have never seen any of these behaviors in other churches. I have never before seen theology worked out like this, around a font so tempting and present because of its location, its place, its central role among us.
Recently, I asked my pastor if I could use the giant font for a Vacation Bible School game. We both considered how this would affect the adults and children in our care. The children are ever increasingly familiar with the font. They have played in it before—during baptismal liturgies younger siblings often spend so much time enjoying the water that the whole family ends up soaked. But do they see an affirmation of baptism in the precious asperges as a soaked big sister runs to embrace a grandfather who flew in from Florida to attend? What would happen to their idea of baptismal sacrament were the font carried carefully onto the front lawn and filled with fully dressed children soaking, wiggling and cheering for their friends to run to the waters, and jump in? What kind of water is in this trough, in this place, that calls theology to be informed or adapted be a scene like this?
A sort of arborist
If we understand that theology comes to us locked in a seed, only to peek out after a blazing wildfire, we understand what growth will cost, how much energy it takes to respond to a harsh environment in constructive ways, what we must do to harden the outer bark just enough to protect xylem and phloem, veins and structures. I have landed in this place, these fonts, these winds, which will beat against my theology and I must let it happen.
Theologically grows stronger if I let the voices I know, both near and far ask questions about the varied fonts and Spirit they know personally. I become a sort of arborist, reading the details of the lives in my care, watching how the differing theologies grow near to each other or far apart and why. I look for signs of health, growth, disease or decay.
Theology grows, moves and gathers strength from the winds of change. It either shelters kindly or crashes down through the roof of the house if the roots are too shallow. Theology has branches and little bits at the tips that fall away at the end of the growing season. Theology bears sexy little blossoms, which wait patiently for the breeze and bees to disseminate its tiny totality.
If we learn to appreciate the variety of theologies like we appreciate the power of the seasons in a forest ecosystem, we will be better prepared to acknowledge substantial theological hardship as it comes and goes. We will see that certain trees suffocate in certain climates and dominate in others because of wind and water. Theology is the same way and happens according to the smallest components connecting, gathering fodder, and gaining strength by standing against indeterminate forces.
The problem with trees, is the same problem with theology: transplanting is difficult and not always in everyone’s best interest. Of course seeds transport well, with or without a human to carry them, seeds are fragile and hopeful but they are not the whole. The whole tree, the whole theology will not do well if it is dug up and moved too far and left alone. So it is best to prepare realistically and imaginatively, or come humbly with the seeds of a local theology and hold them loosely knowing that they are to be scattered and may not survive.
One part tree hugger and one part theologian, I am predisposed to the task of planting in the best of conditions, and nourishing the seedlings of theology, all the while knowing that I don’t have any say really in how well a thing will grow. Trinitarian theology grows best in conditions of heightened community. Rupture, and repair are to theology, as they are to the bark of a tree, evidence of growth. They are evidence that we are in the presence of salvific community, that we are gaining, changing, responding to outside forces like water and wind, that call us to be more ourselves, to put down deeper roots (reaching into the dark and unknown) and risk putting forth tender leaves and blossoms. There are choices to be made and freedoms to be exercised in order to grow a local theology. Doing local theology means extending roots and branches fully into the spaces we perceive between our location and God’s. It is in this reaching that we find how close God is.
One tree or one branch
I know that in the process of doing local theology there will be erosion of the soil, bending of the trunk, pruning of branches and grief when an old growth theology falls hard. It is hard to determine if local theology is just one tree in a forest of theologies: biblical, covenantal, feminist, reformed, Muslim, etc. Perhaps these are just branches of one system. Either way, they work together, live together, move in the same wind and grow in the same sun, from the same soil.
There are certain things I do, as a budding theologian, that are part of formulating and living a theology that is self-aware, taking into consideration my locatedness, vocation, gifts and struggles. My coworkers help me to see how my style of relating informs the relationships that affect my theology most. Recently, a coworker’s wife shared with me her husband reports back to her when our pastor/boss and I occasionally experience mismeeting. He tells her these stories because it is in my struggle to be understood by other theologians that he recognizes his own.
For example, I have both loved and hated our weekly staff meetings because I am often invited to share my perspective. My perspective on ministry is colored by my expectations that I will work against oppression; that others will work against oppression; to hear and to use inclusive language; to be hopeful rather than condemning of the mistakes coworkers make; to think creatively about the future of what happens in the church building, and in this particular neighborhood, with an eye for those who are not already a part of our community; to deepen relationships, in order to deepen faith; and to take risks in order to create a safe place for other risk-takers to land should they be in danger—that is what I think it is to lead. Though these are not so different from my coworkers’ expectations, they have been formed by my very personal experiences of particular oppressors, my own mistakes, certain neighborhoods and specific relationships that my coworkers will never fully understand.
The Parish Administrator, our minister of outreach and lead Pastor are all highly sensitive to concerns like mine and I am learning from the way they voice their own concerns. They seem to have a relational style very different from my own, if not a theology that differs significantly. And yet, week after week, I am able to exegete, both the text and the congregation, in light of our locatedness, and explain myself in a way that builds bridges. The strategy here is to tell the truth as I see it, to listen humbly and be honest when I am too angry to do so.
When I offer the children’s word I try to tell the truth as I see it. I offer a thorough exegesis in a non-threatening tone. In age-appropriate language I offer them a taste of prayer-infused preaching so that rather than sum up the week’s lesson, which I am very much afraid to do, I simply choose to lead them in bowing heads and offering a question to a loving God. When I write Sunday school curriculum, I think first of the questions the students have already asked, problems they already face. Then, when we are together for the lesson, we begin the work of integrating their experience of God, what they have been taught about God, and what they hope to find out about God from me. As we work out our theologies, we ask a lot of questions and are intentional about leaving space for more.
The mini(s)tree
It is my hope that we will do the work of local theology together for the duration of my ministry. I plan to be ordained so that as the lives of my parishioners intersect with sacrament and struggles, I will be allowed by the larger church to preside and participate. But I am also aware that the ordination journey is as important to the local theology as is the ordination itself.
The ordination process is a process that affects the theology of all participants. Committee, candidate, sponsoring church, the candidate’s family and friends are all called to be honest and even angry at times but to always tell the truth in love, and ask difficult questions that will change the way we live theologically together. My call to be a ordained as a female minister of word and sacrament (whose particular interest is in the faith formation of children and families) is a call to action for those in my sphere of influence. Sometimes it elicits anger and highlights doctrinal differences. At other times it unites and validates those who have been othered over against hegemony.
I have chosen to move far from the Presbyterian congregation that is sponsoring my ordination. This geographical distance has called my home congregation to wonder how I will repay them for their support and how the distance between us will be bridged. How many and which trees will have to die in order that we may build a bridge of solid timbers? They have been curious about my motives and discernment processes. One woman in particular feels a heavy burden to be especially available by phone for me in ways she has never offered other candidates and admits that this very particular kind of connection to me has changed the way she is in relationship with me, with our church, and with God. The members of my sponsoring congregation are those who stand over the hole I am digging, the tree I am planting wondering what will come of all this digging, planting, questioning and hoping. They watch my theology change as a result of my surroundings and warn against certain influences and celebrate others.
Not only has my home congregation been called to the struggle but also those who write me a pay check every month. My position in the Lutheran Church has called into question the ecumenical motives of the church as it employs someone who maintains a theology very different from theirs. They love me deeply and each one of them has adopted a different way of working out the meaning of our theological differences.
Both churches have ecumenically informed theologies with deep roots. Though these roots may mean that transplanting is impossible, it also means that these old trees will bear new leaves, if not heirloom fruit, faithfully and in turn. These theologies, though locally informed and reformed by my very participation, are reaching deeply down into the fertile soil of tradition. Those roots reach down deeper than their most recent political agendas and even deeper through the habits that have yet to stand the test of time. As a result, we are learning to form a theology that works for us and against us in different seasons, like wind and water against a tree, according to what we need. And we see that even a local theology will speak of God: the God we experience, the God that is One in the here and now and forever.
But that isn't the only reason for re-posting and re-reading. There is also this: Laurita Mia is so far away and I'm really trying hard not to worry about her. I keep asking myself, "Why does she have to go all the way to Uganda? Why there? and so it has been comforting to re read my own answer to the location question... you know, it keeps my hypocritical tendencies under control.
so, without further ado...
A Strategy for Local Theology
But why here?
I’m going to plant a tree here. I live here, I work here and though I know the soil in California better than I know the soil here, though I respect the California native Banana slugs, though I have delighted in Californian riparian woodlands encroaching or shading over Bouganveillias in my home town, though I was willing to fight back the blackberries and Vinca Minor there in ways I have been unwilling to do so here, I am beginning to trust the way the rain will come when Seattle grass begins to brown and cedars go to seed. This is where I am right now, and I know trees will grow here.
So I’m going to plant a tree. Here.
The theology that is just a branch, just the beginning of an idea, I clipped from another time and another place is ready to put down roots. My ideas about God and God’s people are ready to be grounded in this location. My theology is daily changing and being changed by the people and problems of this time and place. It seems to me that my little branch of theology needs the nourishment offered by questions posed here and now.
I will have to dig a hole for my little tree, the way they dig for a building’s foundation: find a spot and dig deeper than anyone expected. Maybe even put up a temporary barrier to protect the hole, and those who come around to look down in it. On the friendlier days we have talked to each other. They usually ask, “why are you doing this in Seattle? What was wrong with California—you know people there.”
And I respond as transparently as I can, “I just fit in better here. I am more readily accepted here. They understand my love of children and are more community oriented. They are like a city but also like a small town. I think it is a good place to try new things. It is good for me to be rained on and greyed in and I am learning to appreciate sun, the water and the trees in new ways. I think I could be here a good long time. Besides, it wasn’t until I got here that I decided to stop wandering around and put down roots and there is no way of knowing exactly when and where to start digging—sometimes you just have to start.”
“How long do you think you will be in Seattle? Would you ever go back to California?”
“Sure, I would. But I want to put down roots so badly and this is where I am right now. I want to invest here, to reach down and grab up and give back in this place and the only way to do that is to be here now, fearlessly and graciously. I want to contribute, to say something meaningful and that won’t happen unless I discover the local currency. I don’t worry about getting out or back to Cali, this is good soil.”
So I resume digging. I dig a deep hole and sort out the rocks of hardened hearts from the fertile soil, dark with nourishing elements like curiosity and mystery. I never had to do that in California; I wasn’t ready to do the work of local theology there. Now I look down, bow down, to the differences, respect them enough to sort them, carefully and with love. I will have to or my theology will never put roots down deep enough. I decide which of the hard parts and hardened hearts to deal with now or leave in place knowing that the roots of my local theology will navigate around them.
I get down on my hands and knees, not with a shovel, but with my fingers and tenderly grapple with the hard parts of the people close to me. I know some of the fears and habits of the local people: the way they are afraid to tell their children “no”, wonder what will happen if they don’t recycle every can and bottle. I see the way their hearts and money are spent on their dogs and boats and second homes in Island County. These, the stony bits mixed in with the fertile soil, are not a loss, but neither are they to be ignored. They must be turned over and looked under. I will have to make judgments about those hard hearts and stony faces I am sorting through, I will have to take them into consideration as I plan to set a theology into this place. I will mourn, surely, if I can’t find their beauty. Sometimes it seems there are more rocks than soil but those times are so far few and far between.
The question of water and wind
This place and these people affect the growth of my theology. This place invites me to relinquish all that I know about God to the holy water and spirit wind here. I set it down and let weather, neighbors, dogs, babies and music come close to what I have hoarded so boldly. When it is time, I search out the right tree and get it in the soil. I know a lot about trees, and yet, it will never be enough because it is impossible for me to understand all the ways each branch interacts with the elements in this location. There is no formula to determine how the leaf buds shudder in the ruach of the local wind, or roots will soak in the waters from the local font.
I recently heard a story of a church that unearthed a giant baptismal font during renovation. The day of their first post-renovation worship service they baptized babies in that antique font but because it wouldn’t fit in the newly renovated sanctuary, they lugged it out onto the sidewalk and did the liturgy there. I want to ask the pastor of this Capitol Hill congregation how this reveals his theology of baptism that allows for naked babies to be dipped in a giant font on a busy sidewalk.
As for the congregation I serve, we have a small bowl-like font, a smallish metal trough and a giant, coffin-sized trough. They are all three employed with equal fervor and regularity. We exchange stories of our interactions with the font on a pretty regular basis. I like to tell a story of the night I tripped and nearly fell face first into the small, waist-high bowl. I heard one recently about two sixth graders washing their faces in it. The font is central to our theology, but also to our daily lives.
We all have stories about it interrupting our routines and tempting our children, calling them to dip a finger in and then lick it off, just to see if baptism tastes like they remember. The taller kids walk by and put a whole hand in, just to check if it might be good for swimming in, and then wipe the water all over their best dresses, their hair, or their baby brother. Parents hold their four year olds over it so they can stare down into it, hoping to glimpse fish or pennies or God. I have never seen any of these behaviors in other churches. I have never before seen theology worked out like this, around a font so tempting and present because of its location, its place, its central role among us.
Recently, I asked my pastor if I could use the giant font for a Vacation Bible School game. We both considered how this would affect the adults and children in our care. The children are ever increasingly familiar with the font. They have played in it before—during baptismal liturgies younger siblings often spend so much time enjoying the water that the whole family ends up soaked. But do they see an affirmation of baptism in the precious asperges as a soaked big sister runs to embrace a grandfather who flew in from Florida to attend? What would happen to their idea of baptismal sacrament were the font carried carefully onto the front lawn and filled with fully dressed children soaking, wiggling and cheering for their friends to run to the waters, and jump in? What kind of water is in this trough, in this place, that calls theology to be informed or adapted be a scene like this?
A sort of arborist
If we understand that theology comes to us locked in a seed, only to peek out after a blazing wildfire, we understand what growth will cost, how much energy it takes to respond to a harsh environment in constructive ways, what we must do to harden the outer bark just enough to protect xylem and phloem, veins and structures. I have landed in this place, these fonts, these winds, which will beat against my theology and I must let it happen.
Theologically grows stronger if I let the voices I know, both near and far ask questions about the varied fonts and Spirit they know personally. I become a sort of arborist, reading the details of the lives in my care, watching how the differing theologies grow near to each other or far apart and why. I look for signs of health, growth, disease or decay.
Theology grows, moves and gathers strength from the winds of change. It either shelters kindly or crashes down through the roof of the house if the roots are too shallow. Theology has branches and little bits at the tips that fall away at the end of the growing season. Theology bears sexy little blossoms, which wait patiently for the breeze and bees to disseminate its tiny totality.
If we learn to appreciate the variety of theologies like we appreciate the power of the seasons in a forest ecosystem, we will be better prepared to acknowledge substantial theological hardship as it comes and goes. We will see that certain trees suffocate in certain climates and dominate in others because of wind and water. Theology is the same way and happens according to the smallest components connecting, gathering fodder, and gaining strength by standing against indeterminate forces.
The problem with trees, is the same problem with theology: transplanting is difficult and not always in everyone’s best interest. Of course seeds transport well, with or without a human to carry them, seeds are fragile and hopeful but they are not the whole. The whole tree, the whole theology will not do well if it is dug up and moved too far and left alone. So it is best to prepare realistically and imaginatively, or come humbly with the seeds of a local theology and hold them loosely knowing that they are to be scattered and may not survive.
One part tree hugger and one part theologian, I am predisposed to the task of planting in the best of conditions, and nourishing the seedlings of theology, all the while knowing that I don’t have any say really in how well a thing will grow. Trinitarian theology grows best in conditions of heightened community. Rupture, and repair are to theology, as they are to the bark of a tree, evidence of growth. They are evidence that we are in the presence of salvific community, that we are gaining, changing, responding to outside forces like water and wind, that call us to be more ourselves, to put down deeper roots (reaching into the dark and unknown) and risk putting forth tender leaves and blossoms. There are choices to be made and freedoms to be exercised in order to grow a local theology. Doing local theology means extending roots and branches fully into the spaces we perceive between our location and God’s. It is in this reaching that we find how close God is.
One tree or one branch
I know that in the process of doing local theology there will be erosion of the soil, bending of the trunk, pruning of branches and grief when an old growth theology falls hard. It is hard to determine if local theology is just one tree in a forest of theologies: biblical, covenantal, feminist, reformed, Muslim, etc. Perhaps these are just branches of one system. Either way, they work together, live together, move in the same wind and grow in the same sun, from the same soil.
There are certain things I do, as a budding theologian, that are part of formulating and living a theology that is self-aware, taking into consideration my locatedness, vocation, gifts and struggles. My coworkers help me to see how my style of relating informs the relationships that affect my theology most. Recently, a coworker’s wife shared with me her husband reports back to her when our pastor/boss and I occasionally experience mismeeting. He tells her these stories because it is in my struggle to be understood by other theologians that he recognizes his own.
For example, I have both loved and hated our weekly staff meetings because I am often invited to share my perspective. My perspective on ministry is colored by my expectations that I will work against oppression; that others will work against oppression; to hear and to use inclusive language; to be hopeful rather than condemning of the mistakes coworkers make; to think creatively about the future of what happens in the church building, and in this particular neighborhood, with an eye for those who are not already a part of our community; to deepen relationships, in order to deepen faith; and to take risks in order to create a safe place for other risk-takers to land should they be in danger—that is what I think it is to lead. Though these are not so different from my coworkers’ expectations, they have been formed by my very personal experiences of particular oppressors, my own mistakes, certain neighborhoods and specific relationships that my coworkers will never fully understand.
The Parish Administrator, our minister of outreach and lead Pastor are all highly sensitive to concerns like mine and I am learning from the way they voice their own concerns. They seem to have a relational style very different from my own, if not a theology that differs significantly. And yet, week after week, I am able to exegete, both the text and the congregation, in light of our locatedness, and explain myself in a way that builds bridges. The strategy here is to tell the truth as I see it, to listen humbly and be honest when I am too angry to do so.
When I offer the children’s word I try to tell the truth as I see it. I offer a thorough exegesis in a non-threatening tone. In age-appropriate language I offer them a taste of prayer-infused preaching so that rather than sum up the week’s lesson, which I am very much afraid to do, I simply choose to lead them in bowing heads and offering a question to a loving God. When I write Sunday school curriculum, I think first of the questions the students have already asked, problems they already face. Then, when we are together for the lesson, we begin the work of integrating their experience of God, what they have been taught about God, and what they hope to find out about God from me. As we work out our theologies, we ask a lot of questions and are intentional about leaving space for more.
The mini(s)tree
It is my hope that we will do the work of local theology together for the duration of my ministry. I plan to be ordained so that as the lives of my parishioners intersect with sacrament and struggles, I will be allowed by the larger church to preside and participate. But I am also aware that the ordination journey is as important to the local theology as is the ordination itself.
The ordination process is a process that affects the theology of all participants. Committee, candidate, sponsoring church, the candidate’s family and friends are all called to be honest and even angry at times but to always tell the truth in love, and ask difficult questions that will change the way we live theologically together. My call to be a ordained as a female minister of word and sacrament (whose particular interest is in the faith formation of children and families) is a call to action for those in my sphere of influence. Sometimes it elicits anger and highlights doctrinal differences. At other times it unites and validates those who have been othered over against hegemony.
I have chosen to move far from the Presbyterian congregation that is sponsoring my ordination. This geographical distance has called my home congregation to wonder how I will repay them for their support and how the distance between us will be bridged. How many and which trees will have to die in order that we may build a bridge of solid timbers? They have been curious about my motives and discernment processes. One woman in particular feels a heavy burden to be especially available by phone for me in ways she has never offered other candidates and admits that this very particular kind of connection to me has changed the way she is in relationship with me, with our church, and with God. The members of my sponsoring congregation are those who stand over the hole I am digging, the tree I am planting wondering what will come of all this digging, planting, questioning and hoping. They watch my theology change as a result of my surroundings and warn against certain influences and celebrate others.
Not only has my home congregation been called to the struggle but also those who write me a pay check every month. My position in the Lutheran Church has called into question the ecumenical motives of the church as it employs someone who maintains a theology very different from theirs. They love me deeply and each one of them has adopted a different way of working out the meaning of our theological differences.
Both churches have ecumenically informed theologies with deep roots. Though these roots may mean that transplanting is impossible, it also means that these old trees will bear new leaves, if not heirloom fruit, faithfully and in turn. These theologies, though locally informed and reformed by my very participation, are reaching deeply down into the fertile soil of tradition. Those roots reach down deeper than their most recent political agendas and even deeper through the habits that have yet to stand the test of time. As a result, we are learning to form a theology that works for us and against us in different seasons, like wind and water against a tree, according to what we need. And we see that even a local theology will speak of God: the God we experience, the God that is One in the here and now and forever.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
too big.
the old formatting was just too big... maybe you were feeling that too. & as for you, Joe L.: let me know if this is not working for you.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
...more trees lately
What do I do with time off, time to discern? I woke up this morning and twisted the little Ficus tree so it will grow more evenly. The new leaves have been standing straight up, greeting the light as it comes through the window. They are so funny standing on end like that! The older, wiser leaves lay down, bowing heavily and darker green. They are a little dusty, but they are also more trusting. They wait for the light to move toward them, I suppose. So I turned the pot just right because I don’t want this proud little tree to end up fluffy and full on one side or worse, leaning in fear that the light only loves one side.
This is what I do with time to discern. I look around at the new growth and the old growth. I think of leaning toward the light of the future and how earnestly I have done this. I think of my dusty, trusty parts as they bow to the future. There are new goals simply because there is new growth. I need to twist myself away, to turn away from the light so the new growth will twist too. I need to pull myself carefully away from the source or I will end up fluffy on one side and deprived on another. It isn’t a matter of waiting until there is something better to turn to (God is all around!). Rather, it is a matter of trusting that there is enough good light all around me and I must turn, must twist a little away and face the future.
and I found an old scrap of paper in my copy of Nouwen's In the Name of Jesus that says:
You have so much desire and I hope you always will but I want for you to learn to use it in ways that satisfy, or lead you to the God of those desires. Listen to all the desires: they will lead you, they will always lead to God.
and also, I found this:
This handsome ornamental is
dramatically colored in most seasons
with bright green foliage turning
orange and red in autumn, purple and
white flowers in spring, and young red
fruit in summer. The seeds of this and
other maples are consumed by
songbirds, game birds, and large and
small mammals. The scientific name,
meaning "rounded" or "circular," refers
to the leaf shape.
in the National Audubon Society field guide to trees of the western region.
its a lovely poem about a lovely tree...
This is what I do with time to discern. I look around at the new growth and the old growth. I think of leaning toward the light of the future and how earnestly I have done this. I think of my dusty, trusty parts as they bow to the future. There are new goals simply because there is new growth. I need to twist myself away, to turn away from the light so the new growth will twist too. I need to pull myself carefully away from the source or I will end up fluffy on one side and deprived on another. It isn’t a matter of waiting until there is something better to turn to (God is all around!). Rather, it is a matter of trusting that there is enough good light all around me and I must turn, must twist a little away and face the future.
and I found an old scrap of paper in my copy of Nouwen's In the Name of Jesus that says:
You have so much desire and I hope you always will but I want for you to learn to use it in ways that satisfy, or lead you to the God of those desires. Listen to all the desires: they will lead you, they will always lead to God.
and also, I found this:
This handsome ornamental is
dramatically colored in most seasons
with bright green foliage turning
orange and red in autumn, purple and
white flowers in spring, and young red
fruit in summer. The seeds of this and
other maples are consumed by
songbirds, game birds, and large and
small mammals. The scientific name,
meaning "rounded" or "circular," refers
to the leaf shape.
in the National Audubon Society field guide to trees of the western region.
its a lovely poem about a lovely tree...
for Kj
Kj asked if I had already been assigned a Peanuts persona (these are the games we play, I guess). And, yes, I have... in fact it was given me so early in life that it was probably more prophetic than anything else. I've come to see that I have been living with it for so long, I'd hate to live without it...
so even if I am a little nervous you'll know me better than either of us ever intended, its only right you should watch this, er, as if it were maybe home movie footage. sigh. Anyway, I think something about Woodstock's resilience and attentive nature can really put folks at ease. You just kind of know its all going to be all right eventually, especially if you listen to the words of the song--they are very helpful!
so even if I am a little nervous you'll know me better than either of us ever intended, its only right you should watch this, er, as if it were maybe home movie footage. sigh. Anyway, I think something about Woodstock's resilience and attentive nature can really put folks at ease. You just kind of know its all going to be all right eventually, especially if you listen to the words of the song--they are very helpful!
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