The skinnytree is undergoing a few changes. I hope you like these changes and I'm sorry if you don't, because, well, even though I generally hate change, sometimes it gets to be time to be brave.
I am not the puzzle, I am the masterpiece;
not the riddle but a kind of answer to the riddles that have caused you such trouble.
And sometimes, when you look at me that way and tell me
We don't have to fall apart
I think I am the lightening bolt to the tree in your heart that arrives along with a new kind of understanding.
And I am learning to trust that we are these things for each other because I am learning to trust you when
You tell me,
every day,
you tell me,
in your own way
you tell me.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Dear Ms. Shoffstall
We (yes, the royal we: Jackson and I, if you want to be included, just let me know) have begun to appreciate the prayers and poetry of the 60's and 70's especially that which was published by women or for women who were single mothers or young daughters with too much college ahead and too much love lost behind. Generally these are published in books with covers looking a bit like popular kitsch looks these days--some steamy looking roses or a teapot and spilled milk, maybe a drawing of a sleeping cat or tired bird midflight. And the pictures of the poets in the back look a little like Farrah Fawcett might look after a long morning with a twin two-year-olds and a longer afternoon with a makeup and lighting crew.
A woman who knows (what has been going on around here), She handed me an old rectangle of paper when she was here to visit a few months ago. I was told that a good friend clipped it out of a newspaper when she was going through divorce, then, when the smoke cleared she passed it along. So I'm third to carry this little poem with me, and I do so proudly. Neither of them knew who had written it because the editor was not kind enough to include your name (for shame!). My version has some funny line breaks and lots of capitol letters, which I am not sure about--maybe they are the workings of the 19 year old poet mind, or maybe just an editor's foibles. Either way, I get a really helpful (if not too voilently bastardized) version the point you might have been trying to make--I think, especially when this particular copy has the history it has...
I get the feeling carrying this little piece of yellowed typing paper in my wallet is like lifting some kind of emotional barbell. Maybe one day, as dear Jackson promises: it is possible that even the tiniest artists (we?!) might win a power-lifting competition. If not in a Portland-area highschool gymnasium then at least in the middle of the night: for having the strength of will to pick ourselves up off the floor again; or in the messy bedroom: for lifting our heavy heads off the pillow and greeting one more gray day; or in the MDiv practicum, surrounded by (eek!) pastors: for being brave enough to raise an eyebrow when someone punishes us for pushing back. If the poem on the page isn't the weight we lift, then it is a spotter for whatever is weighing me down... every day.
I looked for an image of you, just in case you fit the bill we so admire these days, or in case you used to, but I think you must be so beautiful it would hurt to look at you, because my attention span wasn't long enough for all the searching that seemed to require. You work for the Baha'i Faith, so there is that--its probably good for the complexion to do good work.
I did a little research (really, very little) and found this version of the poem and the author's note which belies just how wise you are even now. I would have written you, to thank you and tell you that I'm just passing it on, because it was so helpful to me and to ask permission or something like it and tell you that this poet has found your poem to be just fine, doing good work--and plenty of folks agree with me. But I would have had to join Linkedin to do that and I'm not really feeling it.
So, Ms. Shoffstall, if you find this and wish I'd take it down, just leave a comment to that effect and I will surely take it down, if not then, thanks for that too. Either way, perhaps you'll forgive me if I couldn't find a version that duly compliments your inner 19 year old.
So without further delay:
Veronica Shoffstall, 1971
A woman who knows (what has been going on around here), She handed me an old rectangle of paper when she was here to visit a few months ago. I was told that a good friend clipped it out of a newspaper when she was going through divorce, then, when the smoke cleared she passed it along. So I'm third to carry this little poem with me, and I do so proudly. Neither of them knew who had written it because the editor was not kind enough to include your name (for shame!). My version has some funny line breaks and lots of capitol letters, which I am not sure about--maybe they are the workings of the 19 year old poet mind, or maybe just an editor's foibles. Either way, I get a really helpful (if not too voilently bastardized) version the point you might have been trying to make--I think, especially when this particular copy has the history it has...
I get the feeling carrying this little piece of yellowed typing paper in my wallet is like lifting some kind of emotional barbell. Maybe one day, as dear Jackson promises: it is possible that even the tiniest artists (we?!) might win a power-lifting competition. If not in a Portland-area highschool gymnasium then at least in the middle of the night: for having the strength of will to pick ourselves up off the floor again; or in the messy bedroom: for lifting our heavy heads off the pillow and greeting one more gray day; or in the MDiv practicum, surrounded by (eek!) pastors: for being brave enough to raise an eyebrow when someone punishes us for pushing back. If the poem on the page isn't the weight we lift, then it is a spotter for whatever is weighing me down... every day.
I looked for an image of you, just in case you fit the bill we so admire these days, or in case you used to, but I think you must be so beautiful it would hurt to look at you, because my attention span wasn't long enough for all the searching that seemed to require. You work for the Baha'i Faith, so there is that--its probably good for the complexion to do good work.
I did a little research (really, very little) and found this version of the poem and the author's note which belies just how wise you are even now. I would have written you, to thank you and tell you that I'm just passing it on, because it was so helpful to me and to ask permission or something like it and tell you that this poet has found your poem to be just fine, doing good work--and plenty of folks agree with me. But I would have had to join Linkedin to do that and I'm not really feeling it.
So, Ms. Shoffstall, if you find this and wish I'd take it down, just leave a comment to that effect and I will surely take it down, if not then, thanks for that too. Either way, perhaps you'll forgive me if I couldn't find a version that duly compliments your inner 19 year old.
So without further delay:
Veronica Shoffstall, 1971
AFTER A WHILE
After a while you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and chaining a soul and
you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and
company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises and
you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and
your eyes ahead with the grace of woman,
not the grief of a child and
you learn to build all your roads on today because
tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans and
futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn that even sunshine burns
if you get too much so
you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead
of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth and
you learn and
you learn
with every goodbye, you learn.
(Author's note: This poem has been plagiarized, bastardized, renamed, reworded, redesigned, expanded and reduced. But it is my work, which I wrote at the age of 19 and had published in my college yearbook. Why anyone would want to claim it is beyond me, but for what it's worth, I wrote it, and if I'd known it was going to be this popular, I'd have done a better job of it. - V.S. )
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
For Andy W.E. and Lisa Sparrow
Even on an ordinary Tuesday, you shine like Sabbath sun and play like its a prayer:
You dreamed of inviting us all into your home and we came.
And we do it often, or wish we could, because it seems so easy to be at home with you.
When we arrived at the intersection of Sacred and Profane, we found you painting walls pink, cooking us dinner, planting a garden and hoping not for bounteous produce but only for a place where we all might be nourished by learning to love the dirt; you left the gate unlocked and the dog unchained to greet us.
You are the hopers, the dreamers, the risk-takers who retreat into the forest and then emerge ready for another month of life in the urban ecosystem And as you live in the holy bothness of your forest love and city heart I think of all that I want to be--much of which you already are. You see new life for the prostitutes and would anoint the Johns with oil. You keep watch over the human traffic as it mingles with the morning commute and I am ever mindful of the adventurous spirit you bring to all you do.
And I will never forget the day you warmed my cold old soul with coffee and split open pomegranates so that when I felt most exhausted and infertile, you noticed my hands covered in red like a midwife's: shrouded in evidence she has been with the newly born.
I wrote the following piece on the day I learned it . You have known it all well for a long time. But I want you to see it. And I'm posting all this here, even though I could just send you an email, so that folks will know that you are, that you live this and during this, the holiest of holy weeks, when blood and water; death and life collide, everyone might know that you exist,
That you are
and that you are
Dear Guardians of the holiness of whores and the Jesus in the Johns...
and this our hope for our children is what you birth every day.
And I thank you, with all my heart, thank you.
::::::::::::
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month...
so there is this:
NATIONAL DECLARATION BY RELIGIOUS AND SPIRITUAL LEADERS
TO ADDRESS VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN
We proclaim with one voice as national spiritual and religious leaders that violence against women exists in all communities, including our own, and is morally, spiritually and universally intolerable.
We acknowledge that our sacred texts, traditions and values have too often been misused to perpetuate and condone abuse.
We commit ourselves to working toward the day when
all women will be safe and abuse will be no more.
We draw upon our healing texts and practices to
help make our families and societies whole.
Our religious and spiritual traditions compel us to work for justice and the eradication of violence against women."
* * *
then there is also this thought I'm working on, a part of my self, my story, haunting me, like a ghost of an idea about falling and failing in love, jumpers, flight and fight and all these other ways we move into love and out again.
there was a moment yesterday, crossing the aurora bridge, the one famous for all the jumping from its trestles, and I thought of flying instead of falling.
I thought of the birds, like swallows, moving wings once or twice and then stealing through the air without moving a muscle. Chins up, wings folded, toes curled, feeling the power of the one thrust propelling them toward the next tree.
I straightened my back, closed my arms straight down my sides, and stretched my neck toward the sky, blue and filled with the cold of autumn against my face. I had pulled back against the wind of fear, and it lifted me up higher than it ever has so I could rest against it for a moment and slide myself between clouds like bed sheets or warm water.
I thought of all the times and places to fall in love.
The truth is that these days I am better than I've been in years. Old friends tell me they see me again, the ways I used to be and new friends say it is nice to hear me sing along, to see me play along, bounce down the sidewalk, smile honestly, weep it out, and hold on to myself.
But there are moments, when I feel so alone.
In those moments I think of all the missed opportunities: the chances we didn't take.
if you stop taking advantage of the chances to fall in love, they begin to disappear, they are replaced by anger, dead ends, silence, yelling, screaming, hating... you begin taking risks to fall in love. I began to let myself fall for hurtful things because that was all I knew and all that was offered and so the falling in love became more like suicide jumping. I was falling for anything, everything and not just falling but jumping and hurling, hurtling, hurting,
like a kamikaze fighter pilot, heading straight into death, fearlessly, gracefully and powerfully into the pain (to cause it, to feel it)... but not honestly, or hopefully and not in a healthy way--only silently, secretly, furtively, dangerously, thinking only of saving my marriage, not myself.
then there was one night
i sat on a park bench, smoked two cigarettes, drank a can of simpler times lager
and then
i called a friend who said haven't you been through enough?
i called my dad who said you can feel guilty if you want to but you didn't do anything wrong.
i called my sister who said it sounds just awful.
i called my mother...
and by the grace of God she said
don't ever give up hope
but i heard her say
Love can happen to anyone, anywhere, it can happen over and over again. The way birds migrate toward warmer weather, or return for a break from the heat of things with full bellies and nearly grown babies. think of love following you, waiting for you, wanting you, even when you are moving from one warm place to another, trading trees for oceans, not life for death.
you needn't go about love like you're on a suicide mission. that is not hopeful, not helpful.
so
here is a list of things to look out for, excerpted from a pamphlet published by planned parenthood:
"Does your partner...
Threaten to harm you, pets, or himself?
Blame you for everything that goes wrong?
Lie or break promises to you a lot?
Ever say, "you make me get this angry," or "I can't help being so mad with you around."?
Expect you to do everything he says?
Ignore or dismiss your ideas or the things you want to do?
Get jealous when you spend time with family or friends?
Seem very overprotective or ask other people to watch over you?
Call you all the time?
Accuse you of flirting or getting romantically involved with someone else?
Keep you from having money of your own?
Force you to have sex when you're asleep?
Get angry and threaten you when you don't want to have sex?
Force you to have sex without protection against pregnancy
Hurt your genitals or any part of your body during sex?
Criticize your sexual performance or use sex as a way to punish you?
Only care about his own sexual pleasure?
Refuse to take full responsibility for the abuse?
Refuse to get professional help?
Become more and more abusive?
if you answer yes to any of the above, you are in an unsafe relationship."
Don't rush forward. Get some space, take a deep breath, that might be all you can do for now. But the day will come when someone will offer you help, hope...
because there is more out there and you have not missed your chance to be loved, you just aren't loved by that person, and that doesn't mean you are unlovable altogether.
one day
there will be a different yes because there will be a different set of questions...
"Do you talk openly about your feelings and tell the truth without fear?
Do you listen to each other's ideas?
Do you solve problems and disagreements together?
Do you each have friends, interests and activities of your own, and ones that you share?
Do you respect each other's privacy?
Are you proud of each other's talents and accomplishments?
Do you talk openly about your sexual needs and desires?
Do you protect each other from unintended pregnancy?
Do you always have each other's consent for sex?
Do you help take care of each other?
Do you have disagreements without becoming violent?
Do you respect each other's belongings?
Do you feel closer to your partner as times goes on?
Do you feel happy when you think about staying together?
Do you solve problems together more and more?"
Well, do you? Do you want to? Do you know you could, would, will?
Don't ever give up hope. Look for the next chance, take the next chance to be loved but if you feel yourself falling too far, too fast, don't forget
hope is a set of wings, a warm updraft, a curl in your toes and a lift in your chin, hope does not search the horizon for an enemy, or watch the ground for signs of life to be snuffed out, hope does not increase the speed of disaster,
hope turns falling around and failure takes flight...
You dreamed of inviting us all into your home and we came.
And we do it often, or wish we could, because it seems so easy to be at home with you.
When we arrived at the intersection of Sacred and Profane, we found you painting walls pink, cooking us dinner, planting a garden and hoping not for bounteous produce but only for a place where we all might be nourished by learning to love the dirt; you left the gate unlocked and the dog unchained to greet us.
You are the hopers, the dreamers, the risk-takers who retreat into the forest and then emerge ready for another month of life in the urban ecosystem And as you live in the holy bothness of your forest love and city heart I think of all that I want to be--much of which you already are. You see new life for the prostitutes and would anoint the Johns with oil. You keep watch over the human traffic as it mingles with the morning commute and I am ever mindful of the adventurous spirit you bring to all you do.
And I will never forget the day you warmed my cold old soul with coffee and split open pomegranates so that when I felt most exhausted and infertile, you noticed my hands covered in red like a midwife's: shrouded in evidence she has been with the newly born.
I wrote the following piece on the day I learned it . You have known it all well for a long time. But I want you to see it. And I'm posting all this here, even though I could just send you an email, so that folks will know that you are, that you live this and during this, the holiest of holy weeks, when blood and water; death and life collide, everyone might know that you exist,
That you are
and that you are
Dear Guardians of the holiness of whores and the Jesus in the Johns...
and this our hope for our children is what you birth every day.
And I thank you, with all my heart, thank you.
::::::::::::
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month...
so there is this:
NATIONAL DECLARATION BY RELIGIOUS AND SPIRITUAL LEADERS
TO ADDRESS VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN
We proclaim with one voice as national spiritual and religious leaders that violence against women exists in all communities, including our own, and is morally, spiritually and universally intolerable.
We acknowledge that our sacred texts, traditions and values have too often been misused to perpetuate and condone abuse.
We commit ourselves to working toward the day when
all women will be safe and abuse will be no more.
We draw upon our healing texts and practices to
help make our families and societies whole.
Our religious and spiritual traditions compel us to work for justice and the eradication of violence against women."
* * *
then there is also this thought I'm working on, a part of my self, my story, haunting me, like a ghost of an idea about falling and failing in love, jumpers, flight and fight and all these other ways we move into love and out again.
there was a moment yesterday, crossing the aurora bridge, the one famous for all the jumping from its trestles, and I thought of flying instead of falling.
I thought of the birds, like swallows, moving wings once or twice and then stealing through the air without moving a muscle. Chins up, wings folded, toes curled, feeling the power of the one thrust propelling them toward the next tree.
I straightened my back, closed my arms straight down my sides, and stretched my neck toward the sky, blue and filled with the cold of autumn against my face. I had pulled back against the wind of fear, and it lifted me up higher than it ever has so I could rest against it for a moment and slide myself between clouds like bed sheets or warm water.
I thought of all the times and places to fall in love.
The truth is that these days I am better than I've been in years. Old friends tell me they see me again, the ways I used to be and new friends say it is nice to hear me sing along, to see me play along, bounce down the sidewalk, smile honestly, weep it out, and hold on to myself.
But there are moments, when I feel so alone.
In those moments I think of all the missed opportunities: the chances we didn't take.
if you stop taking advantage of the chances to fall in love, they begin to disappear, they are replaced by anger, dead ends, silence, yelling, screaming, hating... you begin taking risks to fall in love. I began to let myself fall for hurtful things because that was all I knew and all that was offered and so the falling in love became more like suicide jumping. I was falling for anything, everything and not just falling but jumping and hurling, hurtling, hurting,
like a kamikaze fighter pilot, heading straight into death, fearlessly, gracefully and powerfully into the pain (to cause it, to feel it)... but not honestly, or hopefully and not in a healthy way--only silently, secretly, furtively, dangerously, thinking only of saving my marriage, not myself.
then there was one night
i sat on a park bench, smoked two cigarettes, drank a can of simpler times lager
and then
i called a friend who said haven't you been through enough?
i called my dad who said you can feel guilty if you want to but you didn't do anything wrong.
i called my sister who said it sounds just awful.
i called my mother...
and by the grace of God she said
don't ever give up hope
but i heard her say
Love can happen to anyone, anywhere, it can happen over and over again. The way birds migrate toward warmer weather, or return for a break from the heat of things with full bellies and nearly grown babies. think of love following you, waiting for you, wanting you, even when you are moving from one warm place to another, trading trees for oceans, not life for death.
you needn't go about love like you're on a suicide mission. that is not hopeful, not helpful.
so
here is a list of things to look out for, excerpted from a pamphlet published by planned parenthood:
"Does your partner...
Threaten to harm you, pets, or himself?
Blame you for everything that goes wrong?
Lie or break promises to you a lot?
Ever say, "you make me get this angry," or "I can't help being so mad with you around."?
Expect you to do everything he says?
Ignore or dismiss your ideas or the things you want to do?
Get jealous when you spend time with family or friends?
Seem very overprotective or ask other people to watch over you?
Call you all the time?
Accuse you of flirting or getting romantically involved with someone else?
Keep you from having money of your own?
Force you to have sex when you're asleep?
Get angry and threaten you when you don't want to have sex?
Force you to have sex without protection against pregnancy
Hurt your genitals or any part of your body during sex?
Criticize your sexual performance or use sex as a way to punish you?
Only care about his own sexual pleasure?
Refuse to take full responsibility for the abuse?
Refuse to get professional help?
Become more and more abusive?
if you answer yes to any of the above, you are in an unsafe relationship."
Don't rush forward. Get some space, take a deep breath, that might be all you can do for now. But the day will come when someone will offer you help, hope...
because there is more out there and you have not missed your chance to be loved, you just aren't loved by that person, and that doesn't mean you are unlovable altogether.
one day
there will be a different yes because there will be a different set of questions...
"Do you talk openly about your feelings and tell the truth without fear?
Do you listen to each other's ideas?
Do you solve problems and disagreements together?
Do you each have friends, interests and activities of your own, and ones that you share?
Do you respect each other's privacy?
Are you proud of each other's talents and accomplishments?
Do you talk openly about your sexual needs and desires?
Do you protect each other from unintended pregnancy?
Do you always have each other's consent for sex?
Do you help take care of each other?
Do you have disagreements without becoming violent?
Do you respect each other's belongings?
Do you feel closer to your partner as times goes on?
Do you feel happy when you think about staying together?
Do you solve problems together more and more?"
Well, do you? Do you want to? Do you know you could, would, will?
Don't ever give up hope. Look for the next chance, take the next chance to be loved but if you feel yourself falling too far, too fast, don't forget
hope is a set of wings, a warm updraft, a curl in your toes and a lift in your chin, hope does not search the horizon for an enemy, or watch the ground for signs of life to be snuffed out, hope does not increase the speed of disaster,
hope turns falling around and failure takes flight...
Friday, March 26, 2010
We are the storytellers
We are the prove it to me, show me kind of people that we are because we have made it too easy to deny the power of words.so if a picture is worth a thousand words, then what is a poem worth? Or a fable? How many words is it going to take for us to unravel the truth hidden in a fable? How many words, how much wine will be spilled, as we work out together what each line, each syllable, each vowel, is trying to do to us for us, or with us as we read? Are they worth the words they’re written in if they are going to require so many more? How much meaning ought we smash into each word so that it might finally bear the fullness we hoped it would? How many possibilities must each word hold in order to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?
Given the option (and believe me, I have been given such an option) I have chosen to stare at a word instead of a photograph. I have an affinity for paintings that seem almost to have been crossed out, because the artist has used the brush like a pencil and written a word over the top of a still life. Even the painters end up saying, if not writing, the words to help us understand what they were trying to do with an image or color or line, and the captions enrich or take away from the meaning because they are just that important.
This whole thing makes me want to figure out the perfect way to put up or shut up.
How on earth are we supposed to get back into the pulpit every week?
Damnit,
we are the story tellers, even if we are the photographers, the painters, we are also the truth tellers and nay sayers, the chatty cathys and gossip columnists and the only reason we tell our children "sticks and stones can break our bones but words can never hurt" is because we know damn well that words hurt and so we must tell ourselves... well, something, anything.
So how do we go about telling a story about God who explains there are blessings for those who can believe without seeing? I mean, if words are so powerful they are bound to hurt, even if they're just trying to tell the truth and it seemed like a good idea, and then in the end it wasn't because it just wasn't as helpful to tell the story as to be a part of living the story... but we don't have the option of seeing it with our own eyes. Its such an awful mess we're in.
See, I refuse to believe the story of Thomas is about how Thomas was supposed to trust God (God shows up sometimes and sometimes God doesn't). And that is precisely why the story is more about Thomas learning to trust his friends' when they say, "omygawd! Thomas, he was here, he was right here! You just missed him!" Its about Thomas giving credence to the words and then letting them hang in the air long enough to dispel at least a little of the jealousy that reigns upon overhearing a friend got to see the miracle and he didn't.
Its about shutting up and shutter release, but its not about God having to prove Godself, or telling us that its wrong to desire that God would show up. God doesn't ever have to prove anything--its one of the privileges that come with being God. Another one is that you're more in control of your emotions than humans. So I really don't think God is pissed because Thomas didn't get it the first time and I don't think it was any huge effort for God to make time to go down and help Thomas out in a moment of dis...pair, dis-ease, dis-belief, what have you.
I know the Thomas like picture takers and kinesthetics like me, we are not in such dire straits because God does show up sometimes, not always when we need it most--sometimes when we don't need it at all. Its more like those of us who would prefer the first hand account to the revised standard edition are missing out on one kind of blessing that comes with giving in to the power the storytellers possess (I would call it "the power of the gospel" but that is a little cloying). Thomas' friends were brave enough to open their mouths and confess--we've got to give their story a little credence. So, he says, blessed are those who have not seen (they've learned to take their friends at their word, and good friends with good words are hard to find).
But then Jesus keeps showing up! So maybe its a win/win, or at least a lose/lose: either you're going to get the blessing of blind faith and somehow know the truth when you hear its feint whisper or you're going to get the picture, the whole picture and nothing but the picture, you're going to taste and touch and see and that will be that. Thomas' only real mistake was doubting his friends, his only betrayal was in telling them he just didn't trust them. If they hadn't been flying high as frat boys on a Friday night, intoxicated by the sight of Jesus alive and kicking, the gospel would probably say something about Thomas bringing them down: "Man, Thomas, we knew you weren't going to believe us! Why did we even say anything man!" I think the word "jaded" would probably have been in there somewhere, you know Jaded Thomas, instead of Doubting Thomas, I'm just sayingisall.
But Thomas' gospel buddies stand quietly by, you can almost hear their eyes roll innocently toward the ceiling. They're so sure of what they saw and what they said, they're sure that their level of excitement was warranted (they pulled the piece out on the lanes, so to speak and its left to Thomas, who seems like the kind of shitter you can't shit, and the biggest loser because of it. They saw it with their own eyes. But in talking about it they've done the unspeakable and expected Thomas to believe the impossible. They told him Jesus was there and even if Jesus had crossed the threshold, it was Thomas' friends who crossed the line. Their story had such a hold on Thomas: he probably feels like a real jerk for showing up too late to see the miracle, and an even worse jerk because they probably were right, but they didn't have to expect him to believe it! How could they?!
They're not wrong, Walter, they're just assholes. Yeah, you know what I'm getting at, I'll be buggered if, in my imagination at least, its not exactly like when Walter tells the Dude, "calmer'n you are, dude, calmer'n you." So Thomas just prays they'll shut up about all their big plans and the next round robin and all that "if you will it, it is no dream crap." So he puts it in reverse and slowly backs out of the handicap spot.
What is a Thomas supposed to do?
Its the words that bother him so much that he wants to give up on them--they hurt. There is no way such a painful truth won't cause a little doubt, discomfort, disbelief, especially when you have to hear about it. Thomas tells them off when he says, "Well then, have it your way. I'm going to do more than just see Jesus. If he is alive I'm going to touch him. I'm going to go about this smarter than you, braver than you. I'm going to ask to see where the nails went it--wouldn't you like to have made sure he was who he said he was? Did you even check him out? Or were you all just imagining him?" And in the end it is the power of those words that come back to make Thomas sure that God is God and cares about Thomas. Its the power of the savior saying all those words right back to Thomas, telling him its time for getting exactly what he wanted, that elicits Thomas admission that this is God. We don't get to know whether Thomas actually touched Jesus or not, but we know those words touched Thomas' soul until he picks up right where he never intended to and decides to use more words, to confess that Jesus is the Lord--good grief!
And Jesus responds in kind, kindly, like God is sometimes wont to do when he tells it like it is, and in my head I can imagine that crazy Jesus telling his Thomas
Well, there you have it Thomas, this is how it had to go down between us--you're just being you and I'm just being me. I gave you the opportunity to let the storytellers rule the day, but you let their words get you all worked up in all the wrong ways. So instead of the blessing of blind belief, I'm giving you what you asked for. It will be harder from now for you to trust me because I've given in to your whims. But that is okay, you'll be okay. Just remember that if you don't see me next time, its not because I don't want to show up again, its not punishment or withdrawal; its because blind belief is just as good as what you asked for. I want you to know it too because I want you to know the power of the story--I can show up just as well in the Word as I do in the flesh. Blessed are those who don't get to see me--you'll be among them soon, and they'll believe you when the tables are turned and you're the storyteller. Just wait--you'll see the power in your own words and it will teach you to lean on the words, love the words; Love the Word Thomas, it loves you.
That's just how I imagine it anyway... I'm not sure, but it seems like a pretty good explanation for an often abused story, don't you think? I mean, if you walk away feeling a little less guilty about wanting to see for yourself then I think that is good and if you're left with a little more respect for your own ability to tell the truth then that is super and maybe, just maybe you're not going to worry when they tell you, because they will:
you're not wrong, Walter, you're just an asshole,
because really sometimes you are an asshole and sometimes you're not and who gets to say which is which anyway? Maybe you're just you being you and me being me and sometimes that is exactly how the gospel goes down.
Given the option (and believe me, I have been given such an option) I have chosen to stare at a word instead of a photograph. I have an affinity for paintings that seem almost to have been crossed out, because the artist has used the brush like a pencil and written a word over the top of a still life. Even the painters end up saying, if not writing, the words to help us understand what they were trying to do with an image or color or line, and the captions enrich or take away from the meaning because they are just that important.
This whole thing makes me want to figure out the perfect way to put up or shut up.
How on earth are we supposed to get back into the pulpit every week?
Damnit,
we are the story tellers, even if we are the photographers, the painters, we are also the truth tellers and nay sayers, the chatty cathys and gossip columnists and the only reason we tell our children "sticks and stones can break our bones but words can never hurt" is because we know damn well that words hurt and so we must tell ourselves... well, something, anything.
So how do we go about telling a story about God who explains there are blessings for those who can believe without seeing? I mean, if words are so powerful they are bound to hurt, even if they're just trying to tell the truth and it seemed like a good idea, and then in the end it wasn't because it just wasn't as helpful to tell the story as to be a part of living the story... but we don't have the option of seeing it with our own eyes. Its such an awful mess we're in.
See, I refuse to believe the story of Thomas is about how Thomas was supposed to trust God (God shows up sometimes and sometimes God doesn't). And that is precisely why the story is more about Thomas learning to trust his friends' when they say, "omygawd! Thomas, he was here, he was right here! You just missed him!" Its about Thomas giving credence to the words and then letting them hang in the air long enough to dispel at least a little of the jealousy that reigns upon overhearing a friend got to see the miracle and he didn't.
Its about shutting up and shutter release, but its not about God having to prove Godself, or telling us that its wrong to desire that God would show up. God doesn't ever have to prove anything--its one of the privileges that come with being God. Another one is that you're more in control of your emotions than humans. So I really don't think God is pissed because Thomas didn't get it the first time and I don't think it was any huge effort for God to make time to go down and help Thomas out in a moment of dis...pair, dis-ease, dis-belief, what have you.
I know the Thomas like picture takers and kinesthetics like me, we are not in such dire straits because God does show up sometimes, not always when we need it most--sometimes when we don't need it at all. Its more like those of us who would prefer the first hand account to the revised standard edition are missing out on one kind of blessing that comes with giving in to the power the storytellers possess (I would call it "the power of the gospel" but that is a little cloying). Thomas' friends were brave enough to open their mouths and confess--we've got to give their story a little credence. So, he says, blessed are those who have not seen (they've learned to take their friends at their word, and good friends with good words are hard to find).
But then Jesus keeps showing up! So maybe its a win/win, or at least a lose/lose: either you're going to get the blessing of blind faith and somehow know the truth when you hear its feint whisper or you're going to get the picture, the whole picture and nothing but the picture, you're going to taste and touch and see and that will be that. Thomas' only real mistake was doubting his friends, his only betrayal was in telling them he just didn't trust them. If they hadn't been flying high as frat boys on a Friday night, intoxicated by the sight of Jesus alive and kicking, the gospel would probably say something about Thomas bringing them down: "Man, Thomas, we knew you weren't going to believe us! Why did we even say anything man!" I think the word "jaded" would probably have been in there somewhere, you know Jaded Thomas, instead of Doubting Thomas, I'm just sayingisall.
But Thomas' gospel buddies stand quietly by, you can almost hear their eyes roll innocently toward the ceiling. They're so sure of what they saw and what they said, they're sure that their level of excitement was warranted (they pulled the piece out on the lanes, so to speak and its left to Thomas, who seems like the kind of shitter you can't shit, and the biggest loser because of it. They saw it with their own eyes. But in talking about it they've done the unspeakable and expected Thomas to believe the impossible. They told him Jesus was there and even if Jesus had crossed the threshold, it was Thomas' friends who crossed the line. Their story had such a hold on Thomas: he probably feels like a real jerk for showing up too late to see the miracle, and an even worse jerk because they probably were right, but they didn't have to expect him to believe it! How could they?!
They're not wrong, Walter, they're just assholes. Yeah, you know what I'm getting at, I'll be buggered if, in my imagination at least, its not exactly like when Walter tells the Dude, "calmer'n you are, dude, calmer'n you." So Thomas just prays they'll shut up about all their big plans and the next round robin and all that "if you will it, it is no dream crap." So he puts it in reverse and slowly backs out of the handicap spot.
What is a Thomas supposed to do?
Its the words that bother him so much that he wants to give up on them--they hurt. There is no way such a painful truth won't cause a little doubt, discomfort, disbelief, especially when you have to hear about it. Thomas tells them off when he says, "Well then, have it your way. I'm going to do more than just see Jesus. If he is alive I'm going to touch him. I'm going to go about this smarter than you, braver than you. I'm going to ask to see where the nails went it--wouldn't you like to have made sure he was who he said he was? Did you even check him out? Or were you all just imagining him?" And in the end it is the power of those words that come back to make Thomas sure that God is God and cares about Thomas. Its the power of the savior saying all those words right back to Thomas, telling him its time for getting exactly what he wanted, that elicits Thomas admission that this is God. We don't get to know whether Thomas actually touched Jesus or not, but we know those words touched Thomas' soul until he picks up right where he never intended to and decides to use more words, to confess that Jesus is the Lord--good grief!
And Jesus responds in kind, kindly, like God is sometimes wont to do when he tells it like it is, and in my head I can imagine that crazy Jesus telling his Thomas
Well, there you have it Thomas, this is how it had to go down between us--you're just being you and I'm just being me. I gave you the opportunity to let the storytellers rule the day, but you let their words get you all worked up in all the wrong ways. So instead of the blessing of blind belief, I'm giving you what you asked for. It will be harder from now for you to trust me because I've given in to your whims. But that is okay, you'll be okay. Just remember that if you don't see me next time, its not because I don't want to show up again, its not punishment or withdrawal; its because blind belief is just as good as what you asked for. I want you to know it too because I want you to know the power of the story--I can show up just as well in the Word as I do in the flesh. Blessed are those who don't get to see me--you'll be among them soon, and they'll believe you when the tables are turned and you're the storyteller. Just wait--you'll see the power in your own words and it will teach you to lean on the words, love the words; Love the Word Thomas, it loves you.
That's just how I imagine it anyway... I'm not sure, but it seems like a pretty good explanation for an often abused story, don't you think? I mean, if you walk away feeling a little less guilty about wanting to see for yourself then I think that is good and if you're left with a little more respect for your own ability to tell the truth then that is super and maybe, just maybe you're not going to worry when they tell you, because they will:
you're not wrong, Walter, you're just an asshole,
because really sometimes you are an asshole and sometimes you're not and who gets to say which is which anyway? Maybe you're just you being you and me being me and sometimes that is exactly how the gospel goes down.
Friday, February 26, 2010
and another thing about:
The thing about a blog is this: it is different from a book because it happens late at night and I can write about you because you show me a little picture of your face when you sign on as a follower, or you confess in an email that you have been reading the blog... (I should tell you that because I am a little ashamed to be associated with the bloggers and blogs of the world I refer affectionately to this little bit of periodical as 'the skinnytree'--I hope you will too because 'blog' and 'blogging' and 'blogger' can be such an embarrassing thing to claim, mostly because the word log is involved and I hate to imagine the skinnytree reduced to firewood, you know: logs, and such unless you are going to build a giant bonfire so you can keep warm while you sleep all night out on the beach...)
[Dear gawd, those were good sleeps out there with nothing but my favorite sleeping bag (which I still have), my bestest friends (all boys, ironically) and their giant bonfire made of huge timber brought forth to us out of the roils of the pacific oh!-shen...]
Anyways there are these things I am thinking tonight and because you are not just reading a book I wrote, not just perusing a collection of my poems I can take advantage of a sort of subscription you have bought into and keep you up to date. woo. hoo.
so for one thing
I was reading through Wendell Berry's Jayber Crow and thinking that it might be my favorite book these days because he says things like
But sometimes a prayer comes that you have not thought to pray, yet suddenly there it is and you pray it. Sometimes you just trustfully and easily pass into the other world of sleep. Sometimes the bird finds that what looks like an opening is an opening, and it flies away. Sometimes the shut door opens and you go through it into the same world you were in before, in which you belong as you did not before.
He keeps writing things like that. All kinds of things like that godamnit. You really should try this book out. I mean it, in the most Reading Rainbow spirit of recommending books. Lavar Burton is going to jump out from behind a tree at any moment and say you don't have to take my word for it.
and for another
We have been working like little mules on a video which will be sent out to possible donors so the graduate school I love so well will be more sufficiently funded (it is young and so has no endowment). We transcribed the interviews and read through the text of it until we were drunk from the possibility that these things these folks are confessing in these interviews are not just hopeful, they are also true. Which leads me to wonder as to how many of the things we hope to be living also happen to be true about life in general, if only we would stumble upon some kind of proof? Too bad hope evades proof... if you could prove it you would have just passed it by anyway and you wouldn't have to hope in it anymore; it would turn into something from the past, rather than something for the future and ouch. That would suck, I think.
So I keep noticing things that portend some kind of larger lovely thought or even something as simple as the next poem. I keep on tracking with the next blossom, the next bead of sweat on your brow or the next drop of rain. I hope for the next favorite book to reveal itself or the next friend to send word she is pregnant. I wonder when you will photocopy your degree and send a copy via snail mail, I wonder when you will tell me you have been reading along and the skinnytree is helping. I worry (just a little) that you will refuse the anti-depressants or forget to take them each day because I hope that you will even out and integrate so that when you cry you won't feel as though it is reason to abandon who you really are.
so here is a quick little poem about it:
there is a song,
a sound
about
around about
the night I lay bleeding and
nestled, nested,
wrestled, rested, against the cotton
of your folded wing during the storm.
In and out of my waking, the sleep and not sleeping moments between cloudbursts and lightening bolts,
over the din of dreams, under the drowning of my sorrows,
which wove us tighter together:
where before only a prayer tied me to you
now there is a rope and its knot:
a body and its blood
(whole and parts of it
moving together like one note among the rest in the notes, love).
A shoebox full of loveletters is like
trying to contain a river in a wine glass...
I can't recommend it.
but if you made copies of all the things I wrote
and sent them back to me
well,
at least that is real...
evidence of the way the exchange never ends.
it is a little like how
tears are part of the water cycle, the process by which water moves up over down and around:
evaporation condensation precipitation
love is like that
too:;:;
particles
clouds/fogs
droplets
the rising and falling and song of it against the window and puddling
all about around about.
& that is enough for now I think. goodnight.
[Dear gawd, those were good sleeps out there with nothing but my favorite sleeping bag (which I still have), my bestest friends (all boys, ironically) and their giant bonfire made of huge timber brought forth to us out of the roils of the pacific oh!-shen...]
Anyways there are these things I am thinking tonight and because you are not just reading a book I wrote, not just perusing a collection of my poems I can take advantage of a sort of subscription you have bought into and keep you up to date. woo. hoo.
so for one thing
I was reading through Wendell Berry's Jayber Crow and thinking that it might be my favorite book these days because he says things like
But sometimes a prayer comes that you have not thought to pray, yet suddenly there it is and you pray it. Sometimes you just trustfully and easily pass into the other world of sleep. Sometimes the bird finds that what looks like an opening is an opening, and it flies away. Sometimes the shut door opens and you go through it into the same world you were in before, in which you belong as you did not before.
He keeps writing things like that. All kinds of things like that godamnit. You really should try this book out. I mean it, in the most Reading Rainbow spirit of recommending books. Lavar Burton is going to jump out from behind a tree at any moment and say you don't have to take my word for it.
and for another
We have been working like little mules on a video which will be sent out to possible donors so the graduate school I love so well will be more sufficiently funded (it is young and so has no endowment). We transcribed the interviews and read through the text of it until we were drunk from the possibility that these things these folks are confessing in these interviews are not just hopeful, they are also true. Which leads me to wonder as to how many of the things we hope to be living also happen to be true about life in general, if only we would stumble upon some kind of proof? Too bad hope evades proof... if you could prove it you would have just passed it by anyway and you wouldn't have to hope in it anymore; it would turn into something from the past, rather than something for the future and ouch. That would suck, I think.
So I keep noticing things that portend some kind of larger lovely thought or even something as simple as the next poem. I keep on tracking with the next blossom, the next bead of sweat on your brow or the next drop of rain. I hope for the next favorite book to reveal itself or the next friend to send word she is pregnant. I wonder when you will photocopy your degree and send a copy via snail mail, I wonder when you will tell me you have been reading along and the skinnytree is helping. I worry (just a little) that you will refuse the anti-depressants or forget to take them each day because I hope that you will even out and integrate so that when you cry you won't feel as though it is reason to abandon who you really are.
so here is a quick little poem about it:
there is a song,
a sound
about
around about
the night I lay bleeding and
nestled, nested,
wrestled, rested, against the cotton
of your folded wing during the storm.
In and out of my waking, the sleep and not sleeping moments between cloudbursts and lightening bolts,
over the din of dreams, under the drowning of my sorrows,
which wove us tighter together:
where before only a prayer tied me to you
now there is a rope and its knot:
a body and its blood
(whole and parts of it
moving together like one note among the rest in the notes, love).
A shoebox full of loveletters is like
trying to contain a river in a wine glass...
I can't recommend it.
but if you made copies of all the things I wrote
and sent them back to me
well,
at least that is real...
evidence of the way the exchange never ends.
it is a little like how
tears are part of the water cycle, the process by which water moves up over down and around:
evaporation condensation precipitation
love is like that
too:;:;
particles
clouds/fogs
droplets
the rising and falling and song of it against the window and puddling
all about around about.
& that is enough for now I think. goodnight.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
so you know what I'm saying about you.
to those of you who remember camp so fondly: I do too... but I think you also remember how scary it was to be so close to those screaming mountain lions... and if you lived at camp you remember how good it was as well as how hard it was, which is why I love you so.
to those of you who love camping: you probably already know I'd sleep outside under the stars and blue moons with the best of you, I'm not really squeamish about that. but good grief, I really love taking long showers these days.
to those of you who don't like sermons, even of the most honest types: you can stop reading here, my dear.
022110, phinney ridge lutheran church, seattle wa.
I grew up at summer camp. No, really. We were there, all year, every year for 12 years. Our house was at the end of a dirt road nestled between a hill too steep to climb and a creek too swift to cross. Kids my age came by the hundreds from the suburbs of San Francisco and then returned to their sidewalks and streetlights after a week’s stay. They said I was so lucky to live in the woods. They loved to visit the wilderness and wished they could stay longer. I, on the other hand, lived in the wilderness. I knew better. I worried in winter that the creek would rise and flood the roads again. I remembered when the electricity was out for two weeks straight and we cooked on a propane camp stove the whole time. I became an excellent camper, of the highest order. But I hated it. I was stung by bees, bitten by mosquitos, lost on long hikes and my throat stung constantly from dust caught in my sinus—not just for a week or two each year but every day, all year. It was a real wilderness time for my whole family. The wilderness is a dangerous place. But mostly I thought of it as uncomfortable. I didn’t take it seriously. I didn’t respect it. I took it for granted. I dreamed of an escape. And Really we all do. My friends from the suburbs dreamed of getting away from the cement and drug deals while I dreamed of getting away from the threat of mountain lions and forest fires.
We give in to the idea that danger is temporary or that discomfort won’t last and so we never come to respect the familiarity of discomfort or see danger as a constant companion. When I think of the Messiah in the wilderness, I want him to be a hero—even though I should know better. I want him to wave off temptation as though he were swatting mosquitos. I want him to outsmart dangers and avoid discomforts of all kinds. It is so easy to overemphasize his divinity and figure it was simple enough for him to handle wilderness and temptation, danger and discomfort. His days on earth were numbered. But the truth of the matter is that so are mine, by a God who knows what it is like to have skin that is no match for thorny brambles, bones that ache from walking too far and a heart that breaks too easily. The Messiah experienced danger and discomfort just as real and lasting as any that you and I confront. The difference between the Son of Man and this child of God is that Jesus wasn’t always planning his escape. The Christ draws near to drug dealers and comes close enough to hear the mountain lions scream—he doesn’t turn and run, nor does he expect them to arrive at perfect on their own. There was one way for the Messiah to truly come, to be with us in solidarity and perfection. It says right there in Luke’s text that he knew the discomfort of hunger pangs, just like you and I are hungry when we are really hungry. He was not just peckish and not power hungry either but hungry nonetheless with the kind of hunger that comes after a long lost connection with something beloved. He was hungry like the widower gets lonely or the orphan hopes for a mother’s embrace. This hunger is the kind that comes when the addict needs a fix or the prisoner hopes for release. But Jesus, unlike us isn’t desperate to escape it, or solve it or wish it away. He stays in it, God, with us. We can be sure that the Messiah from today’s story is after more than bread, but we can also be assured that he knows what it is like to need sustenance. He walks steadily out of the wilderness and calmly, gently, proclaims a blessing over the song of our whining bellies: He knows our hunger, He knows our need—(He brought us to this place, and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey) and He is here, with us To say You needn’t live on bread alone. In fact, the worst wilderness is not any easier to handle on a full belly because it is going to be dangerous—no matter what. I’ve traded the redwood trees of my childhood for a life among the brick buildings but I know there is more to life than my surroundings—there is my inner life to attend to. And there, I find myself still wishing to escape dangers and discomforts of all kinds.
We always want for something easier and simpler. I wanted to wake up this morning with a renewed sense of my calling, unafraid! and confidently preach my first sermon as your Vicar. But I didn’t wake up in denial of the import of this task and so I’m left wanting more and hoping to escape the wilderness of my insecurities, if just for this moment and bless you with a hopeful word. I’m out here in the wilds of internship and I am aware of the dangers of this position, deep down in my gut. It grumbles a little as it digests and suddenly I am aware of my need in a new way. I am ever more aware that I don’t need more food, I need more faith. I need to trust, to hope, to love and that means I need you. I need this community, I need this common meal to make the discomforts of life into something bearable, maybe even beautiful! I need communion with you to strengthen me for this long journey. We all need to return to this bread and water and wine as often as we can.
At the end of the day I am glad the Christ knew hunger well because I am hungry. I am glad he is not avoiding discomfort because we are hungry and hurting and wanting for more than a simple trail mix, snack-sized spirituality. And here is this bread--so big it has to be broken. We want more than a bottle of water: And here is this font overflowing with the waters of grace and purity splashing so high and loudly that we jump out of our seats when we hear it poured out for all of us. They are here, we are here Right here. You and I are out in the wilderness of our lives but we are not alone we are together with Jesus and here we will come to see that because of him this water and this bread are satisfying, they are more lasting than our discomfort, and they are not an escape from danger—they are the Truth, the Life and The Way, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
to those of you who love camping: you probably already know I'd sleep outside under the stars and blue moons with the best of you, I'm not really squeamish about that. but good grief, I really love taking long showers these days.
to those of you who don't like sermons, even of the most honest types: you can stop reading here, my dear.
022110, phinney ridge lutheran church, seattle wa.
I grew up at summer camp. No, really. We were there, all year, every year for 12 years. Our house was at the end of a dirt road nestled between a hill too steep to climb and a creek too swift to cross. Kids my age came by the hundreds from the suburbs of San Francisco and then returned to their sidewalks and streetlights after a week’s stay. They said I was so lucky to live in the woods. They loved to visit the wilderness and wished they could stay longer. I, on the other hand, lived in the wilderness. I knew better. I worried in winter that the creek would rise and flood the roads again. I remembered when the electricity was out for two weeks straight and we cooked on a propane camp stove the whole time. I became an excellent camper, of the highest order. But I hated it. I was stung by bees, bitten by mosquitos, lost on long hikes and my throat stung constantly from dust caught in my sinus—not just for a week or two each year but every day, all year. It was a real wilderness time for my whole family. The wilderness is a dangerous place. But mostly I thought of it as uncomfortable. I didn’t take it seriously. I didn’t respect it. I took it for granted. I dreamed of an escape. And Really we all do. My friends from the suburbs dreamed of getting away from the cement and drug deals while I dreamed of getting away from the threat of mountain lions and forest fires.
We give in to the idea that danger is temporary or that discomfort won’t last and so we never come to respect the familiarity of discomfort or see danger as a constant companion. When I think of the Messiah in the wilderness, I want him to be a hero—even though I should know better. I want him to wave off temptation as though he were swatting mosquitos. I want him to outsmart dangers and avoid discomforts of all kinds. It is so easy to overemphasize his divinity and figure it was simple enough for him to handle wilderness and temptation, danger and discomfort. His days on earth were numbered. But the truth of the matter is that so are mine, by a God who knows what it is like to have skin that is no match for thorny brambles, bones that ache from walking too far and a heart that breaks too easily. The Messiah experienced danger and discomfort just as real and lasting as any that you and I confront. The difference between the Son of Man and this child of God is that Jesus wasn’t always planning his escape. The Christ draws near to drug dealers and comes close enough to hear the mountain lions scream—he doesn’t turn and run, nor does he expect them to arrive at perfect on their own. There was one way for the Messiah to truly come, to be with us in solidarity and perfection. It says right there in Luke’s text that he knew the discomfort of hunger pangs, just like you and I are hungry when we are really hungry. He was not just peckish and not power hungry either but hungry nonetheless with the kind of hunger that comes after a long lost connection with something beloved. He was hungry like the widower gets lonely or the orphan hopes for a mother’s embrace. This hunger is the kind that comes when the addict needs a fix or the prisoner hopes for release. But Jesus, unlike us isn’t desperate to escape it, or solve it or wish it away. He stays in it, God, with us. We can be sure that the Messiah from today’s story is after more than bread, but we can also be assured that he knows what it is like to need sustenance. He walks steadily out of the wilderness and calmly, gently, proclaims a blessing over the song of our whining bellies: He knows our hunger, He knows our need—(He brought us to this place, and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey) and He is here, with us To say You needn’t live on bread alone. In fact, the worst wilderness is not any easier to handle on a full belly because it is going to be dangerous—no matter what. I’ve traded the redwood trees of my childhood for a life among the brick buildings but I know there is more to life than my surroundings—there is my inner life to attend to. And there, I find myself still wishing to escape dangers and discomforts of all kinds.
We always want for something easier and simpler. I wanted to wake up this morning with a renewed sense of my calling, unafraid! and confidently preach my first sermon as your Vicar. But I didn’t wake up in denial of the import of this task and so I’m left wanting more and hoping to escape the wilderness of my insecurities, if just for this moment and bless you with a hopeful word. I’m out here in the wilds of internship and I am aware of the dangers of this position, deep down in my gut. It grumbles a little as it digests and suddenly I am aware of my need in a new way. I am ever more aware that I don’t need more food, I need more faith. I need to trust, to hope, to love and that means I need you. I need this community, I need this common meal to make the discomforts of life into something bearable, maybe even beautiful! I need communion with you to strengthen me for this long journey. We all need to return to this bread and water and wine as often as we can.
At the end of the day I am glad the Christ knew hunger well because I am hungry. I am glad he is not avoiding discomfort because we are hungry and hurting and wanting for more than a simple trail mix, snack-sized spirituality. And here is this bread--so big it has to be broken. We want more than a bottle of water: And here is this font overflowing with the waters of grace and purity splashing so high and loudly that we jump out of our seats when we hear it poured out for all of us. They are here, we are here Right here. You and I are out in the wilderness of our lives but we are not alone we are together with Jesus and here we will come to see that because of him this water and this bread are satisfying, they are more lasting than our discomfort, and they are not an escape from danger—they are the Truth, the Life and The Way, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
in, tern, ship...
This internship has finally set sail.
Here is what I learned today, in spite of crying through supervision, sitting too long at the desk and getting the juice from a giant apple all over the sleeve of my dress shirt:
"Those who would work for good liturgy can sometimes think that it is an enterprise of interpreting: educating people so that they can translate the symbols into theological language. Not so. Good liturgy occurs when no explanations are needed, when the symbol and the story which surrounds it are done fully, faithfully, powerfully. This will happen when our rites, which are so rooted in all that it means to be human, and which tell all that it means to be Christian, are truly ours to do."
So just remember: even if you're not superhuman, at least you are human, and that is saying quite a lot, I suppose.
In short, please be yourself. It is a lot of work, but I'm asking nicely and optimistically that you can do it, knowing only
you can.
Here is what I learned today, in spite of crying through supervision, sitting too long at the desk and getting the juice from a giant apple all over the sleeve of my dress shirt:
"Those who would work for good liturgy can sometimes think that it is an enterprise of interpreting: educating people so that they can translate the symbols into theological language. Not so. Good liturgy occurs when no explanations are needed, when the symbol and the story which surrounds it are done fully, faithfully, powerfully. This will happen when our rites, which are so rooted in all that it means to be human, and which tell all that it means to be Christian, are truly ours to do."
So just remember: even if you're not superhuman, at least you are human, and that is saying quite a lot, I suppose.
In short, please be yourself. It is a lot of work, but I'm asking nicely and optimistically that you can do it, knowing only
you can.
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