As usual,
it happened before I knew it. Wish I could recall exactly what was
said that made me get up from the floor of bible class and say I just couldn't
agree with what was being said. “Don't Bite the Hook” has my name
on it. Deacon John is ever hopeful something "meaningful" will emerge
out of outbursts such as mine. But I'm not theologically articulate;
only know alarms were going off in my heart.
Another
Monday morning Bible study. These weeks, I confess I attend largely
because that's where parties and open houses invitations are made (I'm
anxious about being left out--you’ll see why)! When I moved back
to the Midwest and met The Deacon, I urged him to hold Bible study--know
a good teacher when I meet one.
We no longer
meet in a small upper Sunday school kids room with balloons. We're
downstairs at the big table now. The group has grown. Still,
class is not for the faint hearted, the Borg and Crossen approach.
I find it refreshing after years in a so called conservative non-denominational
church. However, far more challenging than theology is embracing
the ever fractious body of Christ. Lately I look for reasons not
to show up every week! I swear we always end up ranting about the
same old, same old, and it ain’t the glory of God, but--politics.
The Deacon
follows the Sunday lectionary (something I'd never heard of 'til this move).
Originally I thought of Bible study as my Sunday after pill. Needed
something following Sunday services in these old churches.
The group
is about as interfaith as groups get ‘round here--maybe 4 denominations
plus whatever I attend. Before the group got larger, we'd go around
and mention how our priests/pastors had used the lectionary. I loved
this. Occasionally someone remembered something, or had taken notes,
but most of us drew blanks. (Always throwing me into peels of laughter—start
to get the picture?) I'd usually enjoyed a service off the beaten
path which had no direct relationship to the lectionary, and so reported.
Though
The Deacon (TD) says readings rotate in a 3 year cycle, I swear it's the
same thing every week. Just discussed that, di’n’t we? Between
church and bible study, seems like the hem of the garment, loaves and fishes,
prodigal sons, golden age births, miracles from the good book are everywhere.
I'm no
Bible reader, but a fair listener (resigned to the hot spot with other
non scripture readers.) Now and then a story's a new one on me.
Otherwise….
All sounds
same-same to me. Ancient, difficult names blend into one mishmash,
and I drift-drift. (Yup, been asked if I'm ADD.) Only the gist
of a dozen or so stories have jumped onboard to guide my life. Perhaps
wrongly, I feel I've got the idea: love God with all thine heart, mind
and soul, thy neighbor and thyself likewise. Yes? No buts.
(As in, but if you're not saved you're toast no matter what.
More or less learned not to bite that hook.)
When I
twin love thy neighbor with buddhist mind training such as to put others
first, who can miss the picture!
Which is
why in our 2nd or 3rd year of Bible Study my body and I have become bold
enough to do yoga during class (since I'm giving up Y water class for Bible
study). When I can't take another anglican gay update, or go feed
the poor lecture from our hefty fearless leader, I go to the floor.
The last thing this sedentary soul needs is more sitting on her buttocks.
I've beaucoups spiritual lessons under my belt—not much confusion there—but
hips still need work.
I'm
particularly beside myself when the discussion returns again and again
to patting ourselves on the back and bashing "them". My patience
wire trips and sometimes I can't take it anymore--we never get anywhere.
So I find a corner in the room where I hope not to embarrass the Lutherans.
The Episcopalians already pretend they don't know me—no problem.
Presbyterians endure me stoically. I'm the least of the worries of
ex-catholics. While folks hold forth, I listen and do a little bodywork
instead of sit, sit, sitting in awful bucket seats, stressing tailbone.
This morning
I saw clearly--maybe 'cause I was on my back—ha ha—how some of us have
such small gods. Who your God is, is how you live your life, no?
Suddenly I realized folks couldn't be talking about the same God as me!
Not my God! No way the fear and doubts and negative thinking I was
hearing had anything to do with the omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent
God! I've been around the Psalms too much for small stuff.
Just how
big is that God of yours, I wondered, further separating myself from the
rascally body of Christ around me! Saw clearly how the lenses of
our personal Gods form our world views. Earlier I'd noticed
The Deacon ignore the suggestion that the reading was about faith.
Just where was/were God and faith at this table this morning? Intellectuals
and fear were running amok!
I may have
spent a long time seeing the world through a blurry family lens, but once
on the road, fur flew. I've had the gift of grand teachers and several
life giving, life saving, functional churches, cleaning up the lens through
which I view life.
Both the
Bible and Christian meditation remind me to pray without ceasing.
Religious Science reminds me my assignment is love. Christian Science
reminds me to stand porter at the door of my mind. And Buddhism helps
me know and study my own rascal mind. These teachings have served
me for several decades, grounding me theologically more than I'd
realized until this moment. I'm not asking questions, just wrestling
with self.
Darned
if my background and theology haven't brought me into collision and alienation
with the mainstream, my community, my local body of Christ. Sometimes
to the point I'm lonely and question whether there's room for me.
My truths aren't others'. The gulf widens as fear grows. How
from another planet are my beliefs, my God, how alone in my New Thought
thinking, following the road less traveled. I don't like this and
don't thrive.
The same,
same rant about the contemporary politics of “us and them” is tough on
me. To be fair, most of the class The Deacon tries valiently to keep
us in the time frames of the “paricopies” (big theological terms remain
black holes no matter how many times they're defined!) we study--so we
stop leaping to current events. However, he's the leader, free to
report on current anglican dramas, share favorite commentaries, and remind
us to spread the gospel and feed the poor... better not go there.
But of
God? Not so much! I weary and badly need perspective on the
body of Christ.
I'm especially
touchy about Blame and Bash "them" rants--fundamentalists, nondenominationals
and megachurches (unless I'm doing the bashing)--from the mouths of those
who've never known or visited any of the above. How can we do this!!
It's a cake walk to dismiss a church as "full of republicans". It's
advanced studies to hear what's really going on.
We ultimately
circle around to—Why’re our own beloved oh so comfortable mainstream churches
dying?! I've tried and tried (not hard enough I've been reminded)
to attend mainstream churches here, but end up shaking my head, horrified,
more depressed then when I walked in…. What's so preferable about
a dying church I wonder?
Most accusations
roll off me. However, it's painful to have loved a nondenominational
church dearly and hear my companion joke and criticize them as they wring
their hands over their churches. Will the real conservatives please
stand! How can we throw out the good taught in other churches!
I come home and write furiously.
Answers
are so right with us in the form of our own narrow minds that sometimes
I can't sit still. I yearn to say we're boring ourselves to death
with the same old same old but instead I say….
“You know
I can't agree”, as I swing my legs to the side and crawl up from the floor,
returning to the chair vacated earlier. My cherish opinion: despite
his occasional lectures on epistemological humility, some of us haven't
changed our mind or listened to anyone with less than a PhD since the ice
retreated. Meow.
Like a
broken record--I’d already mentioned briefly that morning—again—how much
I'd appreciated attending a so called conservative church where we were
clear we were under authority, both God's and the speed limit. I've
grown to appreciate churches that challenge our rebellious natures and
take God, faith and prayer seriously. I miss them dearly.
On my soapbox
I unskillfully blurt out about not throwing out babies with bath water
and how I have to hold my nose and roll my eyes in nearly any church, even
those I love, which is most all. At least in some of the so-called
conservative churches (that as it happens are growing, while cherished
local ones die), there's life. I hear sermons that challenge and
engage, that make me uncomfortable and come back for more. In contrast
most of our local mainstream churches are oh so comfortable and safe.
Learned awhile back I need to be a bit comfortable. Oh to be a silver
tongued public speaker!
I wonder
why I'm not included in private parties?!!
I don't
want to look at the world through the lens of cynicism and fear.
It's hard to see the good in the world when one feeds on mainstream news
and comes from a struggling church in need of hospice. Most folks
haven't had the opportunity to witness a church full of life and change,
a church that turns lives around, a bold, transparent minister, self examining,
loving, edifying. Again and again-- how blessed I was to learn to
love in that vineyard of irresistable folks who weren't as fond of me as
I was of them. Took the assignment to love anyhow with me when I
moved back to the midwest.
Feeling
better.
How could
one possibly be anything but a lifelong learner--humpf?!
One of
the Bible class regulars enjoys the strong characters at the table as much
as I do. His fertile mind has come up with a cast for the class.
He's got Raymond Burr starring with Margaret Mead, Talulla Bankhead, Groucho
Marx, Lucille Ball, Rod Blago and more. Coming soon: Bible
Study: the movie. It helps to laugh.
Spring 2009 - Into the Garden
Thought
I wanted to be included at someone else's easter dinner; I wasn't.
Considered assembling a dinner of leftover folks but didn't think I knew
anyone else. I'm more or less unfit for human company this so called
“spring” anyhow.
Listening
to Maundy Thursday and Good Friday services finally "got it"--time to go
to The Garden! Of course. For weeks I've been threatening to
go listen for frogs, sleep under a tree. Then it got cold, rainy,
etc. Rain or not, I was off for a night in eastern IL. When
my favorite campground was closed/locked, surrendered to the main campground
just off the interstate with its steady roar of traffic. Dashed to
town to attend the vigil at an old catholic church. After we stuffed
ourselves into the church, we were hailed back outside--babies, families--for
an official opening fire ritual, with a priest. I was thrilled to
watch a sharptail hawk fly in--it was dusk-- and observe the gathering
from high for some time, before flying across the street. I love
gatherings of the changing/unchanged catholic church--Philippinos, Hispanics,
all ages, kids. (Don't know what the hawk thought.)
Back at
the campsite three of us early bird tenters rattled around the nonelectric
loop that evening. Frogs went to sleep early; awoke once to an owl
call. Aircraft flew so low so low during the night I wondered if
I'd tented on a runway. The new waxing moon rose early and made shadows
on the tent much of the night, but I was too cold to peak out from sweater
over head. T'was nippy. Found myself thinking--regardless,
good to be out.
In the
morning, indulged in writing Eve months of news. The park director
I met last year at the closed campground to the north came by and chatted
with us tenters. Good job reclaiming stripped coal land.
Excellent PR man; had to tear myself away to Easter morning late service
(glad I did). Wanted more tent time, once it warmed up, more time
in the woods. More time writing Eve, myself. More time in the
garden. Yearn to return.
Late of
course, squeezed into full sanctuary. Folks arrived 'til the service,
which was satisfying, was over! A baby hiccuped ceaselessly.
Oh how I miss the old church. Why cant I forget! Don't really
need a pastor in jeans with shirt tails out and punk hair, or a light show,
but sincerity works. Afterwards I met the lone recycler and senior
pastors. Boldly or rudely I mentioned how the call to green came
from the top in Boise. The pastor opined that Idahoans are more environmentally
aware!! Just because there are rivers? Not my view. Cherished
opinions. Before leaving town, visited new widow Kathy, heard about
the trip to China, and saw Harry's tree us old buddies contributed towards.
If I lived in Urbana, I'd have a qigong teacher and woods right in town
with paths to prowl. Compelling. Not to mention ethnic influences.
'twas an
Easter of re-enactments. From 1st Pres breaking apart, re-doing Ken's
"Bystanders", scene by scene, and then uhhh discussing each. To the
vineyard junior pastor retelling the easter story from the point of view
of a soldier.
Reenactments
always remind me of my first experiences, which seemed so right and real--pastor
Mike's incredible passion for bringing the Bible alive in his unpretentious
way, greeting us in Hebrew or Greek. Incredible Idaho. Sleepers
everywhere.
As always--
head full of confusion needing airing and sorting.
Keep thinking
'bout full Easter weekend. En route to camp, heard talk by a visiting
buddhist teacher i've not much appreciated in the past. If i heard
right--one always hears what one needs--this time he focused on the "sickness
of right and wrong", good and bad (like in the story of the father with
the son kicked by the horse, the son couldn't go to war, etc). Curious
students began asking such off the wall questions as why it took Jesus
Three (not 2, not 4) days to resurrect (I hooted with delight). That
was somewhat how the teacher responded-- 1 day, 2? 3?, what difference
does it make? Promoting (I thought) his point about right and wrong.
(On another level, I understood this to be about our incredible demand/addiction
to know per Angeles Arrian.) The teacher baits seekers with a "Go
ahead, ask anything at all"! Bet he yearns to be a counselor.
Maybe he is. What I wanted to know was--how are his eye(s).
Heard he'd had an operation, was studying his face, eyes.) Of course
I didn't ask. He's the teacher who said No, I couldn't go into prison
with one of his students without being his own student also! Have
I mentioned that lately--ha ha--so i know he's got his own control issues.
I'm his student, most everyone's' student, but won't admit it to his face,
which is what I assume he needs. Maybe he's changed? Have I?
Now why
would any thoughtful person ask a Buddhist practitioner/teacher (albeit
Jewish by birth), unknowable questions about a 2000 year old teacher or
another denomination? We must know these things, even as we scorn
the religion of our grandparents, and admire uncle Al who refused to set
foot inside church. We're confused folks. I am. On review,
perhaps it does seem preferable asking an outsider an inside question,
to asking the average pastor who'd be unlikely to have a broad view.
Another answer might be, we're not very thoughtful people, which I translate
"mindful". (Lately I want to call the yoga classes I've been sharing
at the fitness club, Mindful Yoga. "Can't you move faster and do
more, like the other instructor does?", one newcomer confronted.
No....)
Since I
so wrestle with judgment, the visiting teacher's talk was more or less
down my alley. Stunned to learn a student from Lincoln Christian
college observed the morning--silent sit/walk and teacher talk. Was
that why the Christian theme? Who knows. Never heard such a
thing from that teacher. Easter weekend; bet I wasn't the only one
surprised. Too bad I haven't learned how to build relationship with
the group. Relationship, not my strong suit.
Which leads
to pastor John subbing for the UUs recently. He's utterly lucid and
unabashed about his Christianity, yet belongs to a nonchristian fellowship
i'm tempted to label antichristian. There he is, enjoying the fellowship
that he didn't get in his own denomination, a story I relate well to, seeking
community. He knows several folks well enough to be included in their
lives. Boldly he spoke on "Advanced Spirituality", with a chuckle.
Wonderful, simple talk, referencing the Bible amply, also Kerouac and everything
in between. He knows his theology and his UUs. Bonnie wove
hymns into the closing before anti christians knew what happened and the
equal time committee could meet. John was pleased. I watched
as people made their ways up to him. I know he touched a distant
chord in many. Ones who didn't want to hear a christian speak hadn't
showed up, per UU prerogative. After an hour of socializing, eventually
joined 3 diabetic UU members--2 former pastors and an aspergers fellow--for
lunch at their favorite chain. (Don't bother to suggest a change
to a healthier, less traditional venue!) At every opportunity I asked
what Rev John heard from folks after the sermon. He too wonders why
no one ever discusses sermons. Wish he were a regular sub.
Love hearing from those who've been there, done that, lived, learned, grown.
Heart warming morning/afternoon.
The dance
goes on. Lose track of perspective unless I go to the garden and
write my heart back open. Closes so easily. So many unfinished
lessons.
From a
cemetery side rosary (as always, practically no one could hear beans, especially
the folks who whispered); to an evangelical flogging so severe (go recruit
for Jesus) that I nearly jumped up on my seat (in one move, like a Hubbard
Street dancer onto a folding chair) and yelled "Shut Up! I'm a contemplative!";
to an episcopalian service in Hartford (went east for Hemphill memorial
service) I cried through, the dance continues. UCCs showed a friday
night movie that gave life/ brought order out of chaos-- Seeger doc: Power
of song; at last able to accept UCC hospitality. Does it count that
I inadvertently experienced a gay centered concert? Did I mention
the baptist's deeply moving easter production (so reminiscent of Cora's
Concert of the Cross)?
Surely
one man's evangelism for Jesus is as real as one woman's campaign for silence.
If only he'd listen. ha ha. If only she'd do what she's told.
ha ha.
Absolutely
yowl at charges of lack of diversity brought by some amongst us.
Like to challenge the chargers to try following me around; doubt they could
hold their noses long enough. The local paper listed: 120 years ago
4 mental patients arrived in town. I chuckled and thought "we've
never stopped arriving!" I dare all of us to look fully at the diversity
in the body of Christ here and not scoff or wince!! EEK!!
Have I
adopted a multiracial child, 2 or 3, or taken a single mom in? I
have not. Don't feel called. Sometimes feel pushed by those
who feel called to tell us what to do! Have I crossed lines, spoken
to "Others/Them"? Hope so. Been civil where others turn their
backs? One never knows where one meets God. Deferred to others?
On occasion. I practice deferring, as well as holding my own now,
speaking the truth. Have I crumpled? Despaired? Repented?
Often. Do I forgot who's in charge? I have. Remembered?
yup. Struggled? Again and again. Let go?? Now and
again. Started over? Again and again.
One never
knows the next step in the dance--perhaps that proves I'm not saved-- unless
one has the right touch with the partner, and a light step. "Keep
walking" is a proverb I relate to. I think it fits well with "Be
still and know (god)". If one's path is wide, one can step in any
direction and stay balanced.
We do our own thing in this country, whether we listen (to God or others) or not. I so prefer the comfort of those who acknowledge other paths, one God, not yours and mine. Whenever I try the narrow path, I fall right off, bumping into narrow gates, getting bruised and scraped. This spring, the phrase Compassion's way from a buddhist reading at the end of sittings, rattles around and around. Each moment, just as it is, the only moment... holding to self centered thoughts, exactly the dream... I so love eastern teachings: compassion, non attachment, non harming, right thinking, right action. Can only practice, slide the wedge back in, crack open my heart. Not in big ways per instructions--give all away and follow me--perhaps that's for men? But Here and there, now and then, in my own way, I catch the gate before it slams. Like sticking a foot in a closing elevator door. Feels right. I'm learn to write prisoners clearly, as Jesus might.
Instead
of meditating through Fr Laurence's seminar yesterday, I went to the back
of the room, lay on the floor, sleeping, unabashed, exhausted, without
discipline. To small groups he asked What is Necessary, What is Missing.
Others answered faith, other good responses. I mumbled Discipline.
The facilitator thought that would fall under What is missing, rather than
What is necessary. Whatever. As always, I was unclear about
the question. In the tea leaves of life, I feel only the learning
is important. Having missed a night's sleep flying in so very late
and driving north, squandered the opportunity to hear Fr Laurence.
However, the reminder of the fruit of meditation is never lost when one
witnesses the clarity of his mind--like a good knife--his thinking, his
humor. Good to be with meditators again, even if the day was like
an anesthetic from which I could not awake.
Today's
not the garden I had in mind, these trees along the Des Plaines.
I'd planned to spend the day with a college mate. In her busy world,
she forgot my coming and I transposed digits in her phone number.
I'm enormously grateful for this perfect garden and its good night's sleep.
Bristled
recently when I heard contemporary buddhist essay say we should be able
to respond to what appears to be the most challenging forecasts with an
"OK". (Disagreed--what about suicide?) The essay stayed with
me, perhaps helping me make the shift from looking forward to seeing an
old friend, to heading out of town when she wasn't home; going with "what
is" rather than what I'd expected. Ram Dass' "Ahhhh so", returns
often, with gratefulness. No new teachings, just new timing, open
ears.
All fits
together perfectly when I make time to reflect. Finally.
Never lost
on me is the power of gratefulness and prayer... to pray without ceasing...
every thought is a prayer. Deeply imbedded teachings for which I
am ever so grateful.
Fall 2008 - Fond Moments
Pulling
together notable adventures the last few months feels beyond me--waited
too long!! However looking back over my shoulder's often a helpful
re: matters of the spirit. Fun to look back and see what's sifted
out of the dramas; what remains memorable, strong, amusing, distasteful,
and best of all, helpful and clear...
Maybe start
with last night. The Courier (local newspaper) sponsored a stop by
the Army Field Band and Choir on its Midwest tour, right here in No River
city. "We", the whole area, turned out for the free show at the spiffy
new college gym. I've been surrendering, mellowing for years, for
times like this, all part of the decision to regress to the Midwest.
The Northwest's Sedentary Sousa band got me loving bands; the Inland Empire
got me going to church. Now, instead of "outdoor" pursuits, life's
filled with "social outings" like tractor parades, church luncheons, funerals,
class reunions, nursing home sings, burgoos, even cruise night (once, by
accident). Sewed an 1850s dress to sing in. For the record,
I don't go to ball games yet, or eat regional cholesterol winning "horse
or pony shoes"--think gravy and cheese. Knew it'd be a profoundly
complex evening. Watched myself alternately resist, be manipulated
and enjoy.
Interesting
timing, the Field Band concert on the eve of a nasty, divisive election,
midst faltering 2008 economy. I've learned from (two) Illinois Regimental
Civil War re-enactment bands-- bands lead men into war. No accident
the Army Field Band tour during the controversial Middle East War.
Who can be dry eyed during a medley of armed forces songs? Here's
to dad, Uncle Bill, grandfathers Art and Chester; most of the men in the
local obituaries, and a few women. (Maybe someday when I'm fully
balanced and grounded, I'll listen without tears ... potential thread.)
What surprised
me most, perhaps because the audience was elders who'd been there, who
visibly melted, was the jolt I felt at the set of Big Band music.
Zing. This was the music girls danced with WW2 GIs to, these now
white haired men and women of the audience who survived WW2 and the intervening
years. As the gym filled with Tommy Dorsey strains and the audience
warmed, vivid scenes from Ken Burn's fall 2007 War documentary scrolled
through my mind, especially the voice of the son assuring his Italian mother
he was well, right up to his death.
Band members
were impeccably attired in black military jackets with gold buttons and
blue pants; women (a few) in short jackets and floor length blue skirts
with deep slits in back, low black paten heels. I liked the women's
attractive short or pulled back hair. (Reminded me what a relief
it was to go to a Nazarene College play with clean cut kids.) I was
riveted by the excellent posture of most band and choir members--just how
"military" these musicians lives are, I don't know--do they workout, run
mazes? These weren't everyday Americans; no one was obese.
None too subtly, the evening masterfully choreographed a tribute to those
willing to give the ultimate sacrifice on our behalf in a war I tend to
deny, with music. Undeniably a treat to hear exquisitely trained
and tuned voices and instruments--no everyday occurrence! Because
I'd listened to Odetta sing Leadbelly earlier, had a yen for the concert
to end with "Goodnight Irene." (It didn't, of course.) Quite an evening.
Is there's
a better way, better country? Where's God in all this? Everywhere.
Gulp.
Three days
later we senior Sunshine Singers caravaned 70 miles over to the VA in Quincy
to sing. Our coach's church in the small farm town of Franklin is
active with the American Legion and has a connection with the volunteer
coordinator in Quincy. Another moving, interesting experience, visiting
the big, beautiful old grounds, and old men (and some women) I think of
as dad's military buddies.
Military
musicians remind me of Kathleen Norris, the writer's family. I'm
gingerly reading her latest, Acedia and Me. If I remember
right, her father was a career military musician, who ended up in Hawaii.
Read cautiously; her story is mighty close to the bone, a little risky,
looking into depression as the days turn short, gray and cold. Waited
years to learn what Kathleen's been doing. Acedia!!! Naming
indifference is the first step, she suggests. I think I understand.
I'm open to guidance wrestling noonday demons as winter approaches.
Wouldn'tchaknow, the desert monks knew spiritual disciple was key. The
Yoga of Discipline waits on the shelf. I dance around discipline,
in any tradition--prostrations or meditation, lectio divina or serving
meals; praying at dawn, noon, sunset and midnight...
The last
few months' weather--late summer and fall-- has been nothing short of Divine!
(I know, that's judging; I practice loving it all but as Pappa puts it
in The Shack, "I'm awfully fond" [of temperatures in the 70s....])
After ice storms and floods we look at each other and exclaim, again and
again--What a gorgeous day, week, month! What a
beautiful evening! Hard not to wonder if God finally gave central
Illinois a break? Or, we'd been rewarded for surviving last winter!
Or.... Gorgeous week followed week. Feel a bit less foolish
moving to the Midwest. Thank you God!
One gorgeous,
mild fall weekend headed north by toyota to Wisconsin to a Thich Nhat Hahn
style mindfulness retreat, probably the highlight of the fall and something
of a life saver. Left town breathing shallow, stomach amok; returned,
revived. Heard about this retreat during a retreat near Chicago,
end of September. The crazier the election and economy, the stronger
the appeal of the woodsy porch Linda described. (Having met challenging
"industrial" food at the earlier retreat, the promise of good vegetarian
cooking didn't hurt.) I haven't been back in the Midwest to have
a sense of whether October's weather was unseasonably warm--that's my guess--or
perhaps it's the difference in elevations west and midwest. Warm
days and mild nights under a growing moon made camping delightful.
Nothing
short of a miracle that I crawled out of ye olde tent (with its growing
number of patches) in the dark and hiked to that lodge porch
in time to watch sunrises. Couldn't understand why everyone else
sat inside. (I'm challenged by sangha.) Hearing the morning's
last coyotes and owls, and first birds was pure heaven on earth.
Remembered the compelling story in Idaho Loners of an Idaho
hermit who lived in the Snake River highly recommended watching sunrises
for peace of mind. He is so right on, yet I can probably count the
sunrises I've watched on both hands.
Inside
and out we flicked off swarms of asian lady bugs. We sat in silence,
walked and ate in silence, smiled and bowed, and listened to excellent,
simple talks. Adored the silent group walk, nearly 100 of us walking
slowly through fields and woods--a good hour outing--out to a viewpoint
to contemplate.
For once
I was comfortable with "friendly" silence. Usually silent attendees
and talking presenters feels lopsided. Perhaps being close to nature
helped? or... maybe meeting several friendly folks who also attend
church, the night we arrived (before silence fell), helped. One intense
fellow clearly needed this silent weekend as much as me. His bursting
right out with how he'd looked forward to the retreat for months helped
me feel I might be home (Thay's theme) for the weekend. A couple
times during the retreat our eyes smiled, or we sat companionably in the
horseshoes of couches. At the end we briefly compared notes.
A small connection can make such a difference. Encountering church
attendees at a buddhist retreat was something of a first and a relief,
perhaps another difference between Midwest and West.
During
social justice discussions I caught up on sleep in the warm tent--almost
hot during the day. By mid-day I was down to a sleeveless layer (while
others wore jackets and, to my horror, closed the sliding glass doors!)
I remain
overwhelmed with gratefulness for such a restoring experience. What
a super speed bump to slowing down life. Already look forward to
returning next year!!
Still floating from simplicity and clarity of the Wisconsin weekend, a few Friday evenings later, drove over to IUS to watch "10 Questions for the Dalai Lama" (by travel photographer Rick Ray). Wonderful film. Like a broken record I chant: dunno know what I'd do without Buddhism in this crazy world. Wisdom teachings on delusion, attachment, suffering and impermanence are invaluable.
Thought
I'd better ease carefully back into the mainstream after two meditation
retreats (one "Christian", one "Buddhist"). Unitarians maybe?
In September I'd heard a delightful talk on the smorgasbord of religions
out there that made me chuckle with recognition. Like an international
potluck, you can end up with a bit of a stomach ache mixing too many religions,
the minister testified. Same, same, the "Too many minds", of the
clear minded buddhst prisoner In Idaho I once wrote about. (Don't
I know! Still don't seem to be able to choose just one, still visit
around, upsetting my stomach now and then.) My most recent unitarian
visit had me shaking my head Rats! Just couldn't agree that
examples of holy alliance like Ghandi and MLK are all THAT rare!
I've piles of inspired biographies--MLK and Gandhi have company!
Maybe I'm not a UU. Too Christian to be unitarian; too "Buddhist"
to be "Christian"! Can't choose sides!
Today visited
northside Lutherans (again); David subbed at the helm. (Probably
not proper terms in church world!) It's a blessing to be under his
compassionate wing. And to chat with friendly folks. Like a
number of churches, the northsiders hold 2 services--one for young folks,
another for old folks. How ridiculous, per Judge Jeanie, small churches,
splintering "for the sake of the kids". What kinda cereal do you
want, your royal highness? No!! Here's breakfast, here's church.
Do as I do--sit down, stand up, sit, stand; say this, say that. Wish
I'd mellow out. Can't I just sit there and sink into the experience!
Still miss The Past, my old church! Thanks, buddhism, for teachings
on letting go. Tonight allowed myself to listen to Idaho (perhaps
it was all a dream?). Been months. But no, there's still an
amazing. healthy church out there. Sublime to hear a good, relevant
message from the heart. That Tri! Now he's using words like
holistic and Mind Body Spirit! What's the world coming to!!
After nearly
2 years, Psalms class ended. Mission accomplished from my view--gained
a grand appreciation of the Psalms. Our excellent teacher became
discouraged at erratic attendance, like of this sheep. It's heresy
to suggest that while the father pursued one lost sheep, others strayed,
but I think that's what happened. No doubt others wouldn't see it
that way...
This leaves
Monday's lectionary discussion my most consistent, ongoing group.
I've been nudging the group to read the Psalm as a group. Though
I failed earlier, someone talked David into attending; he's fine ballast.
This 2nd year of the Sunday After gathering of the body of christ remains
interesting and uplifting. Thank you, deacon.
As I write,
realize perhaps the theological glue that holds me together is the Y treadmill
(used to be stepper). I rotate reading yoga, buddhist, christian
science magazines (falling further and further behind on all). Current
favorites are Radical Grace ("Christian") and a ("Buddhist") prison newsletter.
Love each issue deeply. It's my only consistent reading time, perhaps
the fulcrum of what little balance I manage! There's yoga for Body;
buddhism for Mind; and christian science for Spirit! After I attempt
to turn down THREE teevees, I take off shoes (usually) and pad 'long the
moving path, sometimes listening to favorite mellow music on the forever
low battery ipod, while reading article after article, frequently digging
for pen to underline... Perhaps a comment in a meditation article
about how caring for bad attitudes is the same as caring for bad backs--both
respond to love! Or an article in the buddhist magazine trying to
explain the subtle difference between the way buddhism works with ego and
western therapists do, or how the West is changing buddhism. Perhaps
an article reminding us of the truth of god's presence in Iraq, or in the
election, or our finances. Or a report of a teacher or parent forgiving
the youth who killed a son, or a prisoner writing about the impact of his
teacher's death. Reports of prisoners doing thousands of prayer cycles
towards enlightenment or others' health give me goose bumps. Another
article describes the difference between walking mindfully through noon
traffic versus angrily; another writer looks at being overwhelmed with
emotion watching a violent movie vs observing with equanimity. So
often buddhist articles address issues immediately on my mind, things I
can use now,
One morning
I tried talking to my treadmill neighbor (like I used to sometimes Out
West). Oops; so much for community. Better to keep my nose
in re-ligio than giving up precious sustenance in order to meet the ever
challenging body of Christ! Oh, this practice of loving people I'd
rather not! Too bad Jesus, Buddha et al. all said to. Can't
I just go home and talk to the dog like others do! Help! Balance!!!
In many ways the Y is an epicenter, an excellent microcosm of learning and drama. On bad days I refer to it as the west side's unhealthiest place-- my small, bitter cherished opinions showing. (Cherished opinions being thoughts that gotta go!) Instead of forgiving, I still harbor resentment over being turned down to teach in lieu of younger models! Assumed I'd teach there like mom!! It's focus is kids (who are of course short of involved parents these days) and of course, that all American obsession, looking good, neither subject of which is my strong suit! What then would I doing there (since they got rid of the hot tub that was there when I first visited)? Mom and dad were both deeply involved--mom taught, dad played tennis, contributed time and finances. I joined in memory of the folks, I guess, and because I think I need a place like I had in Idaho, to teach and exercise, and have become most fond of Connie's water class. The Y's falling down around us--leaks, stinks, shorts--oughta be razed. Should we "shore up the mansion", "support the symphony", "rescue the Y", back the arts, or revive downtown, questions squarely facing this community in these challenging times, (not to mention challenging my ego and conscience). Don't think we can have it all, but that's another story....
One of my favorite moments the last few months--I've had no opportunity to share--happened during (silent) meditation at the Chicago area retreat in September. When I looked up at the nearby candlelit statue saw not 1 but 2 figures! Smiled knowingly. Ah ha! Of course! Never alone. Reverend Mary used to remind us of the line in Course in Miracles to remember who walks with us. While the presenter tried to keep us busy with her agenda, I drifted, sensing I needed to relax, not analyze. Spent much of the retreat laying on my back, outside under oaks, on picnic tables under shelters, acorns clonking, enjoying reading The Shack finally. (Ended up rather fond of that book, thank you, Sally! Loved the author's view of God as male because of our great need for fathering. Amen. Each retreat, each book, person or event offers something special, helpful. That candle light ah ha is there for good. Didn't find an opportunity to share what we experienced during the retreat. I now so do!
"If you knew who walks beside
you at all times on this path that you have chosen you could never experience
fear again."
from the Course in Miracles
Spring/Summer 2008 - the right to pursue one's spiritual path
Following
2nd service one summer Sunday morning, walked 'round community park, letting
thoughts simmer--feeling "been there, done that"! Pastor addressed
the small church v big church/friendliness controversy. Remembered
when Tri challenged us by taking away the "Come as you are you'll be loved"
bumper sticker until greeters were trained. We were talked to about
how we need to get along with ourselves/each other first ... what a miracle
that we get along at all (including the reminder Democrats should be welcome
too). Like in Boise (until I'd been there years), I'm tired of greeting
neighbors on either side who turn away to talk with real friends.
I'd prob do the same thing if I had old buddies in the congregation, but
I don't usually. On the way to the car, met a loner in the parking
lot who spoke back--small but important connections, these. Hard
not to compare the skillfulness of leaders addressing these issues near
and dear to a newcomer's heart.
Just back
from the West, visiting two of my root church experiences (Science of Mind
and Spokane Unitarians). Neither S.O.M. nor Unitarian Universalists
are labeled "Christian". Yet both churches were vital stepping stones
to a "Christian" congregation along my path back to the midwest Bible belt.
I'm looking
for clarity finding a church home here. Eventually, in Idaho I couldn't
resist the life and authenticity at the conservative/"radical middle" fellowship
I eventually called home. I more or less fell in line, under authority,
a huge thing for me. When the fellowship changed from having no membership
to offering membership, I signed the book. Pastor said "If you call
this home, you're welcome to sign the membership book." I did.
(Earlier I wrote about being immersed in the Boise River.) Although
I began to sense I'd be moving away, I grew greatly under the benevolent
authority of evangelic leadership.
My sense
this Sunday was that although I've found aliveness, I've not found home;
doesn't feel like the reluctant but compelling fit of the radical middle.
Haven't
found a way to describe my predicament, as Ram Dass might call it, without
using clichéd labels. When friends send emails about the gov'ment
spreading flu, taking away rights, I line up with those darn liberals.
Other emails bash the religious right or whine about the right to health
care, written I bet from couches with cable teevees by folks with SUV guzzlers,
and I think noooo, I'm an old fuddy duddy on that one, over there with
right wingers on that one!
"Not Always
So", the title of a Buddhist book I love, 'bout says it for me.
Despite
the local pastor's charm and helpful talks, I don't have a sense of belonging.
No waves of love for people who disapprove of me, have come sweeping over,
as they often did out west. From visit one in Idaho, I was deeply
touched by the music and truth I was hearing, and the willing hearts of
the congregation, under authority of an extraordinary teacher. Over
and over I wiped my eyes along with the rest of the congregation, deeply
moved. Somewhat similarly, a few years before, as soon as I walked
into my first new thought church in Seattle and heard the minister I was
touched and began to recognize some of my cherished opinions might need
a second look. Indeed--Surely the Presence, was there, and remains,
as I saw on this return visit.
Perhaps
what's most revealing that I'm not home yet have been talks on the church's
mission: to help others come to Christ (or something like that).
If the mission were to bring ourselves closer, I'd have no problem.
But to badger others without cleaning our own stables first? Perhaps
I misunderstand.
At my own
former radical middle fellowship last week I heard (or thought I heard--one
always wonders): Consider whether believing differently is equal to unfaithfulness.
One hand is the fist of truth; the other, open is to change. Is that
not radical? Change, the C word! Try that in Illinois!
Came back
from both Seattle and Boise, a little teary, but revived, spiritually,
to have been around "other" paths, ways of thinking. While in Seattle
I heard stories of Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama meeting; sang with
Pat Wright's incomparable gospel choir; heard Mozart's Requiem Mass dedicated
to the continued War in Iraq. My head spun; this was not the midwest.
In Boise I was blessed to spend time with several men who walk the talk,
awesome disciples of Jesus. I know it when I experience it.
Humbling.
In Oregon
enjoyed bunking and soaking with "infidels" who put mother earth, the environment
first. One nodded at my new "The Environment: God's Creation, Our
Responsibility" t-shirt. It's from a church I semi-apologized.
Saw a smile. I'm so proud of my old church, senior pastor teaching
sustainability and thriving by living more simply. Doesn't get much
better than that! I'm also proud of "infidels" who walk the earth
gently, ride bikes, raise gardens, recycle ferociously. And humbled,
again and again. Sometimes I wish I had another church person to
talk with when I visit the Oregon retreat. Other times I delight
in just being with their faithfulness to the earth. Lord knows, we're
all so darned different. I think it was on Speaking of Faith I first
heard something like, "the right to pursue one's spiritual path" mentioned.
Amen! Boy do I take advantage of that one! What a treasured
freedom!
"Wherever
am I going with this???" I'm always tempted to answer with the old
book title "Where did you go? "Out". (Said that to G when he
phoned the other night when he accused me of not telling him I was going
to Seattle. "Out", I chirped and continued, "and What Did You Do?
Nothing," (the second half of the title). He's younger; never heard
of it. I swear I told that boy I was off to Seattle and Boise!
He thinks I'm secretive; I think he doesn't listen.). Where am I
going? Out to take advantage of the freedom to pursue one's spiritual
path. Life probably wudda been easier if I were a cradle Catholic
like my current good buddies, or devout Lutheran or Episcopalian or Presbyterian.
But no, I came from a family where mom stayed home and dad took us to (the
congregational) church that was just entering tough times. It hangs
by a thread to this day.
Perhaps
as a result I sit silent zen now and then; read Benedictine and Franciscan
newsletters; visit both mainstream and nondenominational churches regularly;
attend a variety of Bible studies. Do you know anyone else willing
to go to an LDS concert?
A few weeks
after pacing around community park, I went the hospital chaplain's last
service. Except for no one singing--that's not true--we all sang
the first verse of "Jesus Loves Me" like true children of God--it was marvelous.
How I'd love a community church like this. Well attended by folks
of numerous faiths, meaningful talk full of humor and intimacy by warm,
retiring minister. We lingered, leaving slowly, inspired and heartened,
brought together on the occasion of yet another beloved's retirement.
The body of Christ together, again, and again, and again.
Winter 2007-8 - Where everyone knows your name.
and O'Donohue's Death
Pastor's
sermon last week “Where everybody knows your name” (Acts 2; 42-47) surely
had my name on it. Recalled the long Where to live crisis that landed
me back in the midwest. Where indeed? Back to where everybody
knows your name. Back to the beginning. Can't go home?
Hmm.
I yearn
for guidance to get through each week--just "the truth", not a lashing
or bashing; support and encouragement, not coddling. I yearn to be
moved, to have help connecting dots, understanding life, the world, reconciling
paradoxes, and for meaningful interpretation of scripture. Ideally
in the company of buddies, but maybe not. (Haven't created that yet;
took years out west.) Every time I hear pastor's Biblical explanation
that man needs a companion, I nod in deeper understanding; he has a bead
on male-female relationship that's helpful. As a progressive in an
evangelic church, of course, I wince now and then. I surely miss
former pastor's measured words--he considered the wide spectrum in the
congregation and tread remarkably carefully. Both good naturedly
refer to their churches as places for rejects from the mainstream.
Yup.
After threatening
to visit for a year, enjoyed Springfield's west side non denominational
church the other week. Nondenom. talks seem to speak to subjects
on my heart--like, just how much knowledge (in a cyber world!) is enough!
A nearby fellow that morning shared that he worked with the gray haired
elder tinkling the ivories! Cool!--elders involved in music!
Slowly
understanding what's missing (between me and church here)--it's being under
the authority of a visionary. Duh. Took a while. Idaho
was my first experience. (Picked right up on something different
when I walked into what became my long term home church, but was slow to
understand what it was; slowly grew to respect and appreciate being under
the visionary authority of a pastor who wasn't afraid to mention the E
word-- environment--and later showed world population charts and spoke
of limited resources! Stunning. Such a church had my full attention!
An article in Jan 27th's Christian Standard (good little magazine out of
OH) says studies say "large" churches (>400) are driven by vision, smaller,
by history or changing needs. Ah ha! I'll think on that.
Like any
good divine nudge or message, they seem to appear in groups. Went
to a Black History evening at prison one Saturday night. I was in
heaven with music, chaplain's passion, and the speakers message on... vision.
Right on! Harder'n'heck to hear in the gym, strained and kept relocating.
Among other things Bishop Warren said--well, preached, yelled-- spend time
with folks like what you want to be. Click. Simple,
profound. Get clear so you'll have the vision of who you really are.
Yes! Vision! Needed in prison, in churches, in small, old towns....
Can't yet
understand how it makes any difference whether a group's small or large,
vision would still be good, que no? The whole country needs it!
This week's
headlines about local college kids witnessing another mass murder leave
me stunned. Not that people kill--we're frustrated and confused,
unskillful in our cries for love--rather,how can we not make a connection
between guns and death? Aren't we missing the obvious? Or am
I! Each time I see a "Guns save life" billboard on the highway, I
wonder what I'm missing. I surely know we all perceive things differently--the
way I understand things is not the way others do. Amen.
Each time
I threaten to stop going to Bible class because of my dinged ego, I hear
the teacher's passion for the Body of Christ-- his profound understanding
of people-- and I can't resist. It was a bit much when he started
bashing mega churches and I knew darned well he'd never been to one and
never will. Don't I know how easy it is to throw stones! I
haven't either, but I'd love to. Wait, wait, teacher, you can't speak
to why others go to church! As you yourself preach, most of us go
to be with others: for fellowship! No matter that churches might
promise to save you, protect you, assure you they're the only true one,
bash others, mostly folks simply show up to be with friends and fill that
hole
in their life.
Meanwhile
I wander into, enjoy, grumble, puzzle over our local churches. On
some levels I no longer search, no longer full of whys and "how comes",
though I yearn to understand churches more fully. I yearn to be at
peace and find niches to serve. I need help living, surviving tsunamis
of popular untruths, staying on course. It's good to write through
this jumble of thoughts! I confuse sincere folks. The other
night a gal fixed her Lutheran gaze on me and pleaded, where are
you a member! Decided to answer Idaho (true, but perhaps not helpful).
Not sure how long I can get away with that, or if I should.
After a
recent quick visit back West, it still feels right. Beloved senior
pastor mentioned the headlines of the week, then commented the only way
to have peace and to lessen competition for dwindling resources so your
children have them, is to consciously simplify ones lifestyle. He
calls it leaving small foot prints, large hand prints. Bold, bold
man. I'd never seen such a crowded service.
Mid February
I was jolted to read an e-newsltr saying native Irish speaking theologian
John O'Donohue died early January, age 53. The shock reminded me
of my reaction to Loren Eisley's death in 1977. Never met either.
O'Donohue's earthy spirituality, luminous (or is it numinous?) teachings
about death, have been enormously helpful and healing, right down my alley,
a perfect fit. Although I have no idea where O'Donohue might have
taught and explored next, I feel his work stands complete--prophetically
his last book is Benedictus: A Book of Blessings. A December
interview (on the web), is also prophetic. I'm listening to his CDs
again, perfect for winter reflection, grieving and grateful in one swoop
for his life.
After many
years, met an old school friend recently. His health is precarious;
may well not see him again. Back West I had an unexpected gift of
a long talk with the church gardener, who's for years has been too busy
to chat. His health also is failing, changing; we could speak frankly
of the changes and journey ahead. He was full of clarity and time.
He's also full of visions and peace. I was stunned to witness how
all his life experience has brought him to this perfect moment where he
touches so many lives. He's in exactly the wisdom place senior pastor
spoke of in his December 2006 empowering elders sermon that knocked my
socks off. O'Donohue helps me understand the preciousness of life
and the naturalness of death; perhaps he's something of a Celtic Taoist.
It's comforting to know there's beauty in deaths of beloved friends.
Though I
had ample opportunity, missed out on the holiness of the Easter season
this year. No one's doing but mine. I was selfishly consumed
with whether or not I was going to live to see spring. Went to a
number of lenten programs, ever interesting, though I often drifted.
Either I change, or get outa this world where churches sing along to CDs.
Attended
1-1/2 hrs of a Good Friday 2 hour noon service. Sat near a friendly
professor; thought he (and others) weren't going to make it through the
meditative section--silence, not for academics! The nearly empty
church rattled and rustled with shifting. (In all fairness, it wasn't
an easy meditation, putting one's self in Jesus' sandals!) Drifted
back to ghosts of Easters past--music and meditations in big venues along
the West Coast. As they became slicker, I began letting go.
Ended up remembering fondly the relatively simple Good Friday that pastor
Mary read the Easter story. As I reminisced, suddenly my eyes lit
on the here and now communion table--chalice and.... The more I stared,
the more clearly I saw an iced jelly donut. Incredible! (Possibly
maple bar.) Between presenters I psstt at Dave and pointed.
He shook his head firmly--Not donut. I was unfazed, of course, continued
to see things our way, as we're want to do in this neck of the woods, and
of course spent the rest of the service reveling. Nothing could more
perfectly symbolize how times have changed in this old farming community.
The final Via Dela Rosa singer (to CD) took me right straight back to Mary's
service and Joanna's rendition of Via Dela Rosa (also with CD). Over
lunch we marveled at the lovely conclusion to the service, debriefing not
only the talks, but professor's recent travels East. My hunch is
I'm one of the few folks around, who, having just read Swami Abhishiktananda's
story, can imagine the experience of being upended by India. Absolutely.
I'd be.
This
winter I read two biographies of catholic priests who lived in the Orient.
They went to evangelize, build bridges, learn, and because they were drawn
to the divine listening, silent, meditative aspect of Asian traditions.
Despite the peace and contentment they admired and found in Asia, both
agonized continuously over the belief that they might be betraying Christianity
and Jesus as the only path to God, their respective orders and vows.
Dear, dear Christianity! Much to learn. Why not embrace rather
than resist? Perhaps that's why O'Donohue touches me so. He
appears to have left priesthood without bitterness and kept on expanding
and passionately embracing the whole earth, especially the preciousness
and beauty of it's wilds of his native landscape.
Christianity's
seeming to draw lines and force taking sides drives me wild. I overhear
people judging other churches and religions, shaking their heads knowingly
at other's delusions. I back away. We seem to be indiscriminate
and confused about Jesus' tough love teachings, probably always have been
and will be. Endlessly fascinating, but also grounds for seemingly
more and more division and alienation.
Easter morning, after visiting both non denominational (for message) and traditional (for stained glass, music and color) services, hastened to Easter brunch with Donna's family, a few blocks into town. A few hours later, across town, vegetables in hand, I joined an episcopal dominated gathering for roast lamb, spaciously hosted by the deacon who loves Jesus and the early church because they ate together. From time to time my eyes rolled at the wonder of the assemblage. Recently I overheard someone ask if the area's ready to talk about race, I think it was. Race? Despite what it looks like, in my opinion, this area is as bizarre and diverse as they come. Today we were: peculiar singles (from swilling dirty old men and women to holier than thou abstainers); a wide variety of doubles from same sex, bi-racial to unclear orientation; the dominant aryan theme was spiced with color; natural and dyed blondes; gray to not much left; top heavy with degrees, education and professionals; relatives and non; a rather wide spectrum of mental and physical abilities/disabilities, and political views, veering towards democrat. A jealous girlfriend came late; drop ins from other dinners reloaded plates; poker faced youth drank wine. A functioning autistic drank beer and talked loudly to a deaf elder--my vote for the best win/win conversation! When we ran out of chairs, I noticed a senior eating alone in the next room, talking to a senior cat in a heated basket. Lord have mercy--truly the Body of Christ eating together.
It's been a long, cold, unstable winter, very different from my first winter back. No ice jams on the Illinois or Mississippi to the west (or so I think). Much time for pondering, sorting, reflecting. Lots of illness, mine and others; the newspaper bulges with obituaries. Sometimes on a cold night, occasionally in front of the gas log, I'm grateful to be right where I am, a very good moment. Thank you teachers of all traditions! How badly I need O'Donohue's reminder:
Fall 2007 - Uncle Harry on my mind
Yesterday
after church I swung by the store for more chicken bbq to spice up the
last summer salads. Looked forward to getting home after a long morning.
As I walked back to the car carrying a substitute for the usual brand (I
was tempted to say product but I boycott the term--don't get me started
on everything being a "product"--grrrr) between me and the toyota a geezer/ette
was taking all the time in the world backing out. Mellow from a good
sermon on the sin of pride, I mused silently about the ancient, invisible
driver, sunk below the dash. A white-haired gent heading into the
store waiting patiently on the far side of the slot. The car backed
imperceptibly.
At some
point I realized there's but One Power; Crossan calls it "Holy".
Similarly, in the small town I grew up in, we're All One, like it or not.
One's gotta assume the vehicle and driver that annoys, is one's neighbor.
When I moved back I instinctively knew you don't do anything you don't
want everyone to know about. Especially driving, since I have the
only ski board carrier on any vehicle probably in the entire west central
region of the state. Everyone knows my car or could in a heartbeat,
which has advantages and of course, disadvantages. Some know and
hate one of the world's slowest driver, although I'm relieved to be in
a retirement area where I'm not the only turtle (i.e. above incident.)
The morning I didn't see the car at the 4-way stop down the way--the driver
angrily stopped for preoccupied me--I ran an apology in the newspaper,
and believed in my heart it got to the right driver. (Took down license
plate just in case.) Thanks to a "neighbor's" fast reaction, I was
not in the police blotter under crunches, which we all read religiously.
Sure enough,
just as I was at last able to cross to the car and was unlocking it, heard
my name called cheerily from the car by now blocking the row. Thank
you God, I quickly prayed, for reminding me this beloved child of yours,
between me and lunch, is indeed a neighbor. Walked over to identify
said child and was startled to find a short, round fellow classmate.
As I recognized her and she greeted me, suddenly pieces fell in place.
It hit me that a few Sundays before this same woman and I, in the same
parking lot (though to the best of my knowledge without impeding traffic)
had had a longish, confusing to me, conversation. As I recognized
Linda reality dawned that the other Sunday I'd thought she was someone
else, albeit also a round singer.
(It's challenging
being semi face blind. Seriously, wouldn't know John Wayne if he
came to the door. Same thing happened the other evening--thought
I was speaking with someone I wasn't. No wonder the husband's name
had me raising eye brows. I was so confused I almost asked if she
had her husband's name wrong! I'm not kidding. Gotta be weird
being talked at by someone who thinks you're someone else.)
Back to
the parking lot and the community of saints that are neighbors, it was
almost too good to be true that 3 days later I lunched with the same parking
lot woman and she complained bitterly about slow drivers! Couldn't
wait to share this! This really happens, all the time, in small towns,
where there are no secrets. Try as we might, we all stew in the same
pot.
Where I'm going with this tale is to how very often the past months I've
been reminded of legendary teacher extraordinaire Ram Dass' "Uncle Harry
story". Again and again it comes to me since moving back to small
town America, where we are all-one-like-it-or not. Here it is from
the web:
Regarding relational proximity, Ram Dass tells the story of a record set he produced some years ago which sold for $4.50. His lawyer father saw the set and said, "Gee, that's a beautiful job. You know, if that was in a store it would sell for $l5.00." "You're right," replied Ram Dass, "but, would a lot less people buy it at $l5.00?" "No," said his father, "I think probably the same number. So, why don't you charge $l5.00?" Ram Dass replied, "Because it only cost $4.50." "Well," retorted his father, "what's the trouble, are you against capitalism? You could do a lot of good with that money."By Sept, heat or not, could wait no longer to take a few days off to collect thoughts. Like a frog in hot water, hadn't realized my attitude had been slowly sinking to what always feels like an all time low. So hot all summer I couldn't imagine camping, despite the instinct to escape for a night away now and then like I had in that former life Out West. Erroneously thinking it can't be this hot everywhere, late September I headed off with maps, tent, box of books and travel computer, camp stove and soups, to explore The Shawnee (National Forest). Just had to get away, dig to the bottom, sort and toss, pick things apart, try to make sense of the wreckage that was me, on what, it dawned on me, was roughly the anniversary of my return to the Midwest. Apparently since landing, I'd sunk slowly into ye olde slough of self loathing. Once the tent was up, I alternately wrote out everything on my heart-mind and launched into memoirs (2 Christian, 1 Buddhist). Started John Dominic Crossan's story of growing up in Ireland first, went on to Cecil William's story of Glide Church, No Hiding Place, books I'd awaited eagerly, like Crème brûlée. No overnight quick fix, the gloom lasted days.Ram Dass asked, "Didn't you just try a law case for uncle Henry?" "Yes," his father replied. "Was it hard?" Ram Dass asked. His father answered "I put in a lot of time on that case." "Well, you charge pretty good fees, I'll bet you charged him an arm and a leg," said Ram Dass. His father replied somewhat indignantly "What, are you - out of your mind? It's uncle Henry!"
"Well," Ram Dass said, "that's where I run into a problem. If you'll show me somebody that isn't Uncle Henry, I'll rip them off." http://www.rossbishop.com/Articles/Monthly0310_Paradigm.htm
Luckily I realize crises are basically spiritual. How I needed those edifying books! Began relaxing, breathing better, sleeping more deeply despite the heat, as I read about the Christianity that had opened the eyes of my heart a few years back. Not the Christianity that condemns and separates us from each other. Evidently, after embracing spirituality on the west coast, without consciously realizing I'd ignored some of my heart felt beliefs trying to fit into the small old churches of the midwest (I'd grown up in). In it's place, of course, was depression and unhappiness. I'd once been lost; thought I was found, only to feel lost again. I was lonely and starved for the teachings that had changed my attitude a few years back. After the west coast, who wudda thunk a red neck Idaho church would have kept the bar "so high"? Held my own revival, nodding my head, wiping tears, remembering the Christianity I'd painfully grown to love. Pages held teachings and stories like those that had brought me back to church--thank you Crossan and Willams. Wrote, read, steamed vegetables and slowly examined the first year back, realizing it was perhaps a rougher than I'd thought. Shock is a blessing.
Late the final day started reading zen memoir, Bad Dog. With a sigh of recognition, remembered I must be zen christian, stumbling in the footsteps of Merton and others. Try as I might to be mainstream Christian (whatever that is), zen buddhism remains the miracle salve for the inconsistencies of the world where local churches leave me hanging. No way can I throw Buddhism out, especially now that I'm back in the Bible belt. Buddhist teachings about the nature of suffering are a veritable life preserver in the rough seas of a crazy world, in a small town whose churches would rather die than change or get together to survive. Paradoxes rest more gently under the wisdom teachings of zen buddhist masters. Jesuit William Johnston writes: (Jesuit) Lassalle "...saw that the Western spirituality he had learned, all in the upper levels of the conscious mind, paid little attention to the deeper unconscous." Ahhh. Black and white Christianity may work for many, but for some time, my Christianity has been a different shade, tempered by the teachings of New Thought, Christian Science, Jesus movement churches, yoga, and of course, life. I'm 60 plus and know what it's like to wander 40 years in the wilderness both literal and hypothetical. In those teachings, I found relevant Christianity. Slowly I've moved towards an interfaith balance that makes sense and sustains. Indeed--religions are windows to God! Thank you, Deacon John.
Shifting topics abruptly, or so it seems, a few weeks later, Saturday morning October 13th, while driving east, the absurdity of Only Son hit me like a slap in the face. Only son? I don't think so. Think about it: a God with only ONE son? How many folks do you know with only One son? How many fathers want just ONE son? I know a string of single moms with one son, but I simply don't think of God as a single parent. Probably not. (Not on my farm as my first beloved pastor from down the road New Berlin put it, meaning, in the face of facts, one still believes what one chooses.) Don't most couples yearn for their own basketball team (boys of course)? Why would God be any different? I've never heard anyone express sympathy to God for having an "only", albeit a good one and a boy. No one says, "Poor Jesus, an only," the way we talk about kids without sibs. I know, I know, there's James. "Poor God, just ONE son."(Of course not!) People like having kids. They feel sorry for people without 'em. Maybe even God, if we're to believe we're his childen, likes having a lot of kids!! Sorry for God for having but ONE??? Not likely. Doesn't make sense, a magnificent God having but one kid that only some people run into. Naw. Folks don't believe it. If we're made in his image, he'da hada lotta kids-marriages-divorces-wives, que no? ONE son of God? ONE true religion? ONE window to God? I don't think so.
Why then so frustrated with these neighbors, the small "c" church all around
me, who are politically incorrect, bicker and whine, won't turn off cellphones
in funerals, won't recycle, ignore their kids, blah, blah! Why such
harsh criticism of self and others? (Who me, judgmental!) Where's
the peace I so admire in these midwest folks who lured me back home for
my finals (lessons), with their smiles and inner peace, these people who
stun me with their intelligence, humor, charm, wisdom and tolerance?
These same folks lean on the past, wave flags in their yards, look back,
collect stories and alarm clocks, fans (did you know there were oil powered
room fans?) and dolls, anything their hearts desire. My version of
Lake Wobegan is a puzzling mix of wisdom and ignorance, professors and
hicks, in any combination, a terrific hash, the full spectrum of over and
under-educated (though I confess I hold "overs" to a higher standard of
tolerance), mental health and illness. The community and it's churches
are a veritable state hospital. In turns I'm horrified and overcome
with wonder and love. Amazing grace, how can it be!
I cherish Marilyn's story of how her granddaughter balked when M's husband
sent back the pot roast while she apologized to him, "you're right dear,
it's awful". I want the sparkling eyes and peace of that wise woman,
who told me with a double twinkle in her eyes of the turtle sundays at
the Double Dribble in the next town, causing me to drive the 30 miles there
more than once! (Thank goodness they've closed for the season.
Memory slipping? We'll see who's waiting next spring!)
So much to learn about paradox from these former farm folks who now go
from one doctor appointment to the next, hook and line sunk into the medical
insurance system (health--my cherished issue)! They ferociously attend
small country churches, shrug at changing times, dying congregations and
rotting neighborhoods. They host potlucks with not one healthy, unsweetened
dish in sight unless Charley brings yams or I bring steamed broccoli.
These doves of peace whose grandkids are in the police blotter, eat together
at Long John Silver's or Granny's, take their kids to MacDonalds, and leave
the rest to the Lord! How dare they!
How can I not love these women, like coach Maryann, who leads us seniors
to sing in nursing homes, etc. sometimes including singers from the nursing
homes, handing them a binder. (For $5 every few years, she provides
us with binders and endless lyrics (some she's written), often from her
childhood or the turn of the century-- 1900.) She never runs out
of patience when we show up late, can't find pages. We're never scolded
or shamed like every other group I've ever known. We ain't no fine
chorale, easy on the ears. A former music teacher quit in disgust,
but another chorale member sings his heart out.
"Everyone found 'Deck the Halls'?", coach Maryann asks and waits, handing
out duplicate copies to those most befuddled. Sometimes nursing home
residents want pages; she hands her own over. St. Maryann of the
Senior Singers. Sometimes during "Ain't She Sweet", she jitterbugs
around the lunch room and hugs or pats each patient/resident, or maybe
each of us! The men blush. Today we had 8 men singing heartily.
Most choirs would eat their hearts out. Like I say, she's a retired
junior high coach (also an irrepressible ham who wheels along a tub of
wigs and dress up clothes she takes to performances). She'd rather
raise a barn than sit at a concert. She has the right attitude to
work with men, and a child like sense of humor, not for the faint hearted.
When we get to the end of the program, she always says like a kid, "We're
done now." That's after we've stood and sung God Bless America.
I love it.
Most months we go down to Scott County nursing home where her mother lives.
Sometimes she hands (her) mom a mic (though we still can't hear).
She orders mom to stop crying like a coach might. Tough love from
a wise lover.
No shortage of master teachers in my life. How to be true to one's
self and live among saints? Deacon John forever reminds us the only
dance in scripture is community! We The Imperfect are it! I
watch my elders live each day well, with unceasing prayer and patience,
turn the other cheek and put others before themeselves--classic teachings
to surpassing peace in any window to God.
By the time I packed up tent and books to return home for a few more weeks of summer heat, I'd seen more clearly what can change--that would be me--and what can't--that would be everything else. The key to peace, thank you teachers great and small, of course, is accepting what is, with heaps of patience. I smile every time I think of Suzuki Roshi's phrase "Things as it is." Yup, learn to accept things as it is, Jeannie. Chosing one church home may elude me, but the heavy paths to truth and peace lightened during the waxing moon of my stay in the tinder dry woods of the Shawnee.
Summer 2007 - Battle for God -- Church Wars
Our cul
du sac has episcopal, catholic, jewish, methodist, and bar owner households
along with my uncommitted one, plus the best mower I've ever known--baptist
elder Joe. Frequently attending and socializing with a variety of
churches and members, I'm starting to be reminded of the joke about the
participants in a discussion about how to do something or other, who each
say: No--like this! Blows my mind to think there could only be one
right path to God--only like this! How could it be--we're
all so peculiar in this backwater, perhaps overdoing Deuteronomy
14:2 some: "I have chosen you to be a peculiar people unto Myself!"
The more I learn, the more I find myself referring to the entire community
as one big State Hospital.
Slowly
realizing at this time of my life a small town's my perfect cup of tea--a
smorgasbord of small stubborn churches all within a couple blocks, let
alone miles. Though I sometimes despair of finding the "perfect"
church, I'm wondering if the entire town might not be my true church.
A small town is forced to be somewhat interfaith, or sink. There's
no "catholic" or "Polish" neighborhood, no "methodist" district, or Russian
center. YMCA is as close as it gets. (We have slums like I
never saw out west, heavily black, but since most families are intermarried--meaning
blacks and whites here--economic boundaries are clearer than racial.)
Amazingly there are at least 5 methodist churches; 5 pentecostal; 3 baptist;
3 lutheran; 2 UCC, 2 LDS; 1 catholic; 1 episcopal; 1 assembly of God; 1
presbyterian; several newer non denominational and independents; no Jewish.
Looking at the methodists and baptists it's obvious (to me) these folks
can't get along with each other any better than the rest of us! Catholics
seem to do best staying under one large roof. I call them all churches,
but only away from sensitive ears of those who attend the only true church.
Over the years churches have split, yet the population base of church goers
has remained about the same. So, go figure, folks rattle around in
big, old churches, scattered far and wide in pews.
Notes from
the last 6 months smorgasbord. The women's interfaith group sponsored
lovely Thursday morning lenten services that took me to more churches and
introduced me to women interested in unity and community. I was so
smitten by methodist part time pastor Janet than I've returned several
times to be in the presence of this passionate, spirit filled woman who
prays and sings like we oughta to the stolid little congregation.
Love that fiery woman, one of the few women in local pulpits. I was
also impressed by the new baptist pastor who spoke.
He spoke again
a few weeks later at a Kiwanis prayer breakfast held at an ungodly--oops--hour,
short and to the point. Most excellent Rod the cement? concrete?
man sang. What a treat--the mature singers of Jacksonville, both
male and female!! Don't know when I've heard so many good male voices.
Although
women from a number of churches compose the women's interfaith group, congregations
still tend to stick together. I was hoping to meet more black women
like my lay pastor classmate Shirlee, but no more African Americans turned
up for the friendship service at black Mt Emory than at any other service.
The same half dozen Afro American leaders are on every council and board.
I'm humbled to have been in grade school through high school with Shirlee--what
a woman of God.
Also during
lent First Presbyterian held a Wednesday evenings series of dinners and
talks led by Prof Jamison. My favorite part was heartily singing
old Welsh and Scottish hymns! Folks really sang out! Often
thought of my old Scottish by way of Canada and Bellingham mentor
Barbara, who would have approved and understood this almost old world enthusiasm
for singing. The final evening Prof Jamison spoke about love letters
in the Bible, illustrating with the first letter he wrote his new wife
as he went off to serve as a navy chaplain. (An Arabic speaker, he
was sent to Africa, where he reports his Arabic went unused.) As
a recent WW2 history enthusiast, I loved hearing him read this intimate,
old fashioned letter, perhaps something like dad wrote mom, but I'll never
know. I was deeply touched by his willingness to illustrate love
letters with his own.
Sunday
mornings until adjournment for summer, I enjoyed enormously another retired
presbyterian professor's history of Christianity class. An outcome
is that Prof Koss is now helping me dig up German Kirchenbücher, for
mom's side of the family. I'm amused that David, as most call him,
is reputed to be the regional expert on royalty. Whoever would qualify
on the banks of Mauvisterre Creek!
Continuing
with Presbyterian connections--almost missed going to local playwright
Bradbury's "Faith on Wry"--so much to do in a small town! Luckily
I heard about it the last day and went to the last two performances to
catch every word. Knocked my socks off. Perfectly captured
the dance of churches in this community, more lovingly than my some time
view of church wars. Young Presbyterian junior high teacher Tim (who's
soon off to Lithuania to teach!) was out of sight as the new pastor; elder
Sylvia was fabulous talking to God; the young girl was perfect; and everyone
in between was sensational. Now we're looking forward to Ken's musical
about King David this August!
Got the
jump on spring when I headed south in early March to Missouri's Sacred
Harp convention in a small country church west of St Louis, near the Missouri
River. Camped my way down to see the first flowers of the year and
join folks singing from "Missouri Harmony" as well as the original sacred
harp text. How I love that passionate, difficult-for-me music, and
being with both men and women who unabashedly sing their hearts and faith,
and teach their children to do the same. If only I'd grown up singing
fa so la! Having first met shape note singing in the northwest where
singers didn't tend to be church goers, it felt rather different to be
singing in the Bible Belt with serious church folk, singing their religion.
(BTW--what a potluck.) Interestingly a Missouri episcopalian priest
or bishop, with help from a Canadian anglican, led an optional church service.
He was as warm and friendly as the rest of the local hosts, quite a contrast
to formal Jacksonville Trinity (where I have so many friends, but would
rather not spend Sunday mornings).
It seemed
right to go see the new "Amazing Grace" movie that evening at the small
local theater. (Don't think it ever came to Jacksonville.)
On the heels of a Saturday of shape note songs filled with worldly suffering
and the promise of a golden gates, it probably wasn't a good time to stop
at a new thought church in St Louis the next morning, but I did, hungry
for the truth I used to hear in new thought churches in the northwest.
Something seemed missing, I admitted, like "Wimber's meat" (Vineyard denomination
reference), perhaps. I'm defensive about evangelical pastors who've
never attended or studied new thought but use the term New Age pejoratively,
bashing that about which they know not. Had to stop myself from whining
and judging one of my most valued paths.
Father's
Day pastor J started a series of men and church that's keeping me on the
edge of my seat. For the summer, I'm going to Psalms class
and services under the same roof. Visiting other services afterwards,
I've heard 2 former local pastors speak, deepening my understanding of
local church history and increasing the mystery of what's next. Meanwhile
several new pastors have been called here, several have left or retired.
Although
it's a tiny part of my life time-wise, the odd Saturday morning I sit silent
with Springfield Buddhist students continues to be an invaluable part of
my spiritual balance in the Christian community. It's not something
I mention to many. (Could it be why I was turned down by Sunday morning
church visit club!) What would I do without a sangha of silence and
lucid teaching! One morning after sitting and walking this was read
aloud to the group: "Behavior and experiencing are, however, not
found separate. When I experience you (see you, touch you, hear you),
you are my experiencing just what is. But the human tendency is not
to stop there, instead of you just being my experiencing, I add on to it
my opinions about what you seem to be doing—and then I have separated myself
from you… examined, analyzed, judged." [p 91 Everyday Zen,
Joko Beck.] Zing! There's the truth how experience leads to
those cherished views that tangle lives, expressed with eastern clarity.
I've met
the local catholic ed coordinator and a sufi devotee interested in silence;
and I'm close to attaining prison clearance. Things should stay interesting!
May 2007
Settled yet? Practicing yes and no.
Never know
what's gonna come out when I turn my fingers to things of the spirit.
Perhaps
the biggest event of the season--my opinion, nat--was witnessing the decommissioning
of Northminster Presbyterian Church, the stunning old Portuguese church
that's down to a half dozen members. The church with it's lovely
dark wood balconies on 3 sides was full. It was stunning when a moderator
asked those in the congregation to stand who'd been baptized... married
in the church. By the time the questions were listed, many were standing.
But the past does not keep a church alive, does it? Drs. Kaye and
Jamison moderated ably. Hearty singing made me yearn for more community
sings, less handfuls. I noticed the contemporary drum sets to the
side, backlit with gorgeous stained glass windows. As much as I love
[some] contemporary music, the obvious message made me uncomfortable.
The crowd
adjourned to the basement for cakes iced like some of the stained glass.
A table with articles about the old country roots of the church attracted
a few old timers and the curious, like me. Vasconcellos, Defrates,
Fernandes, DeWees--grew up with these names. Those in wheelchairs
struggled with the make shift chair lift. Another statement of the
times. It was a bittersweet event, to witness my first, of what I
suspect, will be more church funerals, among churches facing change.
Although I have no memories of Northminster, even as a newcomer/returnee
I was moved by this historic moment-- the way community turned out, came
together and participated. I hadn't had such a strong sense of leadership
and elders since I returned. Jacksonville knows how to do funerals!
Perhaps
I was moved because my childhood church appears to be similarly disappearing.
Attended that same big old, deep blue church last week. Stilil love
it's big old clear glass windows. I'd heard a rumor that the new
interim was attracting a crowd, but what I experienced was the usual handful
of folks scattered about in their accustomed pews. The talk was on
grief, perhaps because the interim's father had just died. I stayed
awhile but was clear the service wasn't for me and left, an appalling habit
I've fallen into, after decades of enduring talks.
Although
I love seeing the familiar faces of elders in these old churches, I'm drawn
to churches with life, even if I have to sit alone in them. Been
there.
After a
half a year, I still have no idea where my church home is. Still
look forward to Alan's 8am Psalms class; have settled into David's interim
history of Christianity class. Usually I return to 1st Christian
for a service. I probably know and enjoy more episcopalians--such
as my lively neighbor-- than any other folks; but it's clear anglicans
are a social disaster for me. I'll never dress like that or dye my
hair. Ritual can be good but wow. Not me. I've more or
less given up on the Baptists, as excellent as the pastors are and as drawn
to their passion and sincerity as I am, since I'd never make the grade
if I opened my mouth. Just ain't Lutheran either, much as I appreciate
'em.
The other
day I found myself repeating history--I'd rather go to a church where I
don't know anyone, but where I hear a message that challenges me, than
go to a service where I'm comfortable with the people, but can't remember
a word afterwards. It's a tough one, though; those Presbyterians
are terrific folks.
It's not
that I don't like death and dying--I insist it's one of my big interests!
But I seem to be uneasy with it when it comes to churches, my church!
After all, I just trotted over to Cleveland for Unit 1 of Groves' Sacred
Art of Living and Dying Seminars. He's a world class teacher, but
I don't fall under his vision of changing the world by working in hospitals
and hospice. I'm just one lone stranger out on the rural prairie,
not part of a team. While Groves was teaching how leaning into the
pain seems to be the way to a peaceful, pain free death, I was reminded
of Barb Smith's great teaching that her heart attack was painless and how
much she enjoyed her stay in the eastern Canadian hospital (and how her
relationship with her sister who wanted to take care of her was never the
same!) Thank you, Barbara!
Listened
to Groves' CDs as I drove back across Ohio and Indiana. Terrific
teacher. Had to howl when he said liberals are hopeless at discipline!
He's right on! But Anamcara student I am not to be. Three more
of those seminars, processing grief with groups of grim paid hospice staff'd
bore me spitless. Been there, done that (or so I think).
The most
challenging thing I've worked through this spring is realizing and expressing
why I became so unhappy with the covenant group this outsider covenanted
to stay with 'til death do us part. Got more and more frustrated
listening to replays of family conversations until Laura said, and I got
it: "You want a Christian Conversation group!" (rather than accountability
group) putting me on the right track. Just back from Groves/Cecile
Saunders "How are you Within" question, realized why listing the week's
failures and successes didn't engage me. Now, if we were accountable
to the prayer of St Francis--maybe. Spiritual email buddies Ann and
Sheila helped me suggest the type of questions I'd prefer to discuss.
Thank you.
I've enjoyed
getting to know a pastor and a pastor's wife, and a former Lockwood neighbor,
but I've been more frustrated than not. After thinking and talking
this through, my move to adjourn for the summer was discussed and accepted.
No, I'm not wanting to be on the genealogy board either. Not yet.
January 2007
Am I Home yet?
Happy New Year, 2007!
Whata year!
This year
the thought of holiday travel (as I've done nearly every Thanksgiving and
Christmas for decades) was a distant memory. Stayed put in my new/
old home town--my first back in the Midwest since ????-- where I listened
to The Christmas Story pour from pastors' mouths and an astonishing variety
of church music--from an unpolished Baptist elder singing O Holy Night,
to hired soloists and in-your-face, dressed- down youth singing along with
CDs. Once again I embraced Christianity as my home faith, my people,
for better or for worse, in small town Illinois. Especially in the
aftermath of Christmas, if cult is defined as a group with a high degree
of tension, Christianity might well be so labeled, if not locally and nationally,
in my own heart. My own experience of tension and frustration with
Christianity often peaks at Christmas when materialism and holiness clash.
One pre-Christmas week I watched a woman dash from the car, pause at the
store door, turn around and go back and get a small child from the car.
The image of the forgotten Jesus haunted me throughout the Christmas season,
as cell phones rang throughout church services. It's tempting to
focus on what we seem to have forgot, what we're not doing so well these
days, like the fellow in the theology class who starts every paragraph
"The problem is...". Indeed we seem a bit confused lately between
shopping and parenting, church and home, right and wrong. Over "the
holidays" (as they're being called so as not to offend those offended by
"christ"), I felt alternately blessed, stressed and appalled. Perhaps
the most helpful teaching I heard this holiday was from the pastor who
mentioned how he celebrates all the people who come to services at Christmas
(as opposed to lamenting that many only attend once a year). Good
idea.
Hands down,
the highlight of the season was the Dominican taize service I rushed over
to in Springfield, a week after the first big ice storm. Big stone
chapel, packed, people singing along. I sat with the overflow crowd
by the back door I was let graciously in. Satisfying chants, short
readings, candles. Lovely, peaceful service--utter bliss. Afterwards
the congregation was invited into the large dining hall. Aged nuns
circulated, serving The Best Sugar Cookies of the season (more on cookies
later), blessing us with the grace of the religious. I joined the
Jacksonville folks who'd told me of the event. Despite dashing to
the car in heavy rain, returned home revived, wrapped in the warm and gracious
spirit of the evening. I look forward to more with the Dominicans.
As the
New Year starts, I'm primarily relieved. At times last year I wondered
if I'd get through 2006. New Year's Day (after an underwhelming but
interesting New Year's eve at Springfield's First Night--midnight fireworks
were canceled--more later) I lunched with episcopalians at Behan's tavern.
I'm blessed to be included in gatherings with this warm, sociable community,
probably based on my parents good works. Pure grace in action.
I do little but say Thank You. Smelled like an ashtray for days--bless
Smokers Welcome to Jacksonville, with it's overfed and aging population.
Go figure.
Although
Christianity is what's happening here, I still prefer "All of the Above".
My heart remains interfaith. After Behan's I dashed straight over
to Springfield on back roads (for Christmas I received a letter saying
my newly transferred car insurance was dropped) to sit silent with the
zen community for the last couple of hours. Where else is there designated
quiet space to sit and breathe with others? Haven't found that here
in Christianity. (Not yet.) It's another zen group I know I'll
never know socially, thanks to my years around Idaho buddhists. By
the time I arrived there were only 1 or 2 other sitters. I was good
for an hour of sitting tall before being overcome by Behan's buffet (perhaps
the best food of the holiday--when we went to pay we were embarrassed to
learn it was free--Buddhist generosity has nothing on Behan's!) Slid
off my cushion, pulled coat over hips, rested head on cushion and slept.
Why fight?
Which brings
up my spiritual achilles heel--discipline. This very morning, as
I lay in bed (releasing spine tension is my defense) I'd read: "The disciplined
life will cost us, but the undisciplined will cost far more". Attributed
to Dallas Willard in Christian Science Sentinel Oct 9. (I'm months
behind.) "The general human failing is to want what is right and
important, but at the same time not to commit to the kind of life that
will produce the action we know to be right and the condition we want to
enjoy..." Taken from an article in Christianity Today, Sept 2006.
I couldn't agree more.
As it happens,
Sangamon Zen Group meets at the Unitarian church in Springfield (apparently
none of the zen folks are affiliated). Bless the unitarians.
I spent 2 important years healing from the "C" word, Church, at the Spokane
Unitarian church, the first church I attended as a consenting adult, even
going to a national convention. Unitarians welcomed me to their choir
(unlike the local community choir) with no fanfare; perhaps it's their
job. I was only there to sing, but when I heard the astounding tidbit
that the minister was from the tiny farm community of New Berlin IL between
Jacksonville and Springfield, I began to take the cotton from my ears during
The Talks. Linda opened the eyes of my heart with tender stories
of folks from our mutual stomping ground. I began to hear the "G"
word, God, differently, even going so far as to take a spiritual autobiography
class.
Years later
I still feel right at home with unitarians, in their churches, at their
picnics and in their kitchens. Lo, as I cut through the kitchen to
the bathroom, there on the kitchen counter was a large pile of New Year's
Eve leftovers, packed neatly in plastic sacks, with a large hand
written sign on top that flashed--"Eat Me". Having averted my eyes
from plate after plate of homemade cookies (especially those iced sugar
cookies I adore) in order to survive the holidays, I helped myself to iced
gingerbread men and pumpkin bread, thinking (perhaps erroneously) church
won't be meeting for nearly a week! Thank you, Abraham Lincoln Unitarians.
There are
more home made cookies in this neck of the woods, than I saw in all my
years Out West in Costco country (granted, I didn't live in small towns).
I was so inspired by the beautiful, old fashioned cookies I saw at church
bazaars this Christmas that I pulled a recipe for candy cane cookies off
the web, bought peppermint extract and red food coloring, and stirred 'em
up. Came to a halt after a couple of toaster oven trays. Not
only was the pink dough impossible to roll out--you wouldn't believe how
different pink and white were--the canes were breaking up, unwinding, sometimes
burning. Toughest cookie I've attempted in decades! Sanbakkels
are a piece of cake by comparison! Since I can't figure out how to
use the digital wall oven, I use the toaster oven I almost didn't move--
disreputable looking, with a mind of it's own-- but incomparably more user
friendly than the built in oven which doesn't have so much as an on/off
knob I recognize.
Like many,
I digress easily this time of year. Back to church. Even if
the Bible Belt is near (strong Christian radio stations out number fuzzy
NPR by a long shot), I still crave silence, zen or otherwise, to sort through
the cacophony of the season for that still small voice. I still visit
churches anywhere on the spectrum from heady to hearty. It looks
like shopping to affiliated folks (pretty much all I meet. On the
other hand, you won't find me carrying around coupons looking for weekly
deals. Feels more like life or death to me--maybe I take church too
seriously!! If I can find a middle ground, healthy church in Idaho,
surely I can find one in Illinois!
Sunday
mornings I attend Alan's Psalms class regularly. Call it shopping
it you will; I rarely shop at 8am. Usually I go on to Shalom study
with the Presbyterians to see how the pastor facilitates professors--I'm
fascinated. Once I gave up learning about Shalom and just enjoyed
the profs' stories--particularly WW2 tales--I adjusted. But it's
not "church", so I go to a regular service at one of ~3 churches I enjoy,
none of which I'm totally at ease with. I go to Howe's baptist church
when he can attend; he's friendly and likes to talk about the service afterwards,
something I crave. We sit with the elder who handed me her research
on the evils of yoga. I smiled; been there, thanks to my beloved
former church. Thursday afternoons I attend a methodist covenant
group that includes the minister. Tried singing with their praise
band last fall! Noooo.
Occasionally
I visit an entirely new-to-me church, sense the heart of the church, often
only staying for part of the service. What I'm looking for, of course,
is a church where the congregation wants to be there as much as we did
in my old church that advertised "Come as you are, you'll be loved".
God knows it wasn't perfect, but it was very, very good. I look and
listen for life and heart, in the music, pastor, congregation and bulletin
board. In my former church there was no way to sit in the front section
of the church, closest to the podium, where pastors, close friends and
staff sat, worshipped and supported the service. The church filled
front to back--I'd never seen anything like it (in church)! You had
to have connections to sit up front! It's a tough act to follow,
a church so functional that even this nontraditional spirit, who flunked
the Does She Know Jesus test, couldn't stay away. Recently I noticed
a minister's wife sitting alone in an entire front row and winced remembering
my former congregation.
Not only
do I miss the music and life of my old church, I'm weighed down by what
feels like obsession with illness in churches (and the community).
Hence, my sense that the church search is a life and death matter.
A healthy church, please God! Perhaps the pastor I've most enjoyed
is with a small church country in Nortonville; he kept the focus on praise,
not ill health. No list of who's going, going, gone, etc. Brothers
and sister--Look Up! Keep Thine Eyes on High, not on problems!
I'm not going back to Idaho, but I am looking for healthy attitudes and
teachings to help me along. I don't need to go back to my Idaho church
and be told Christian meditation is a cult. Nooo.
Looking
back (as I do this time of year), I realize it took several years to settle
into church in Boise. Like the author of Eat Pray, Love (who
was repeatedly asked whether she was married) I've learned to reply "Not
Yet" to whether I've found a church home. Looking at it another way
though, I've found several. I'm listening carefully, with heart and
mind. The search is challenging, humbling. Lord, help this
arrogant servant get on board! A true servant would have hit the
ground running as soon as she arrived (I did phone the local prison immediately!),
only looking around to see what needed to be done next. Not there--not
yet!
Already
I know someone in most every church. I love the way people still
go to church in this neck of the Midwest, any church (no agonizing over
whether it's the right church like I'm doing!); and still say the pledge
of allegiance. A few years ago I would have rolled my eyes; now I'm
teary eyed. Shift happens, slowly. More folks than not have
gone to the same church all their lives! Churches don't seem competitive
(except possibly when it comes to hosting dinners.) At the same time,
seems to me few churches have much life left. While I've been out
West doing my own thing--first the outdoors, then back-to-religion--the
old churches of my hometown have either been dying, dividing or re-inventing
themselves. Congregations have splintered, are down in size.
And still I was stunned to learn one friend wants a small church--oughta
be happy with the local possibilities! I can't imagine how in the
world a handful of folks can keep doors open! Is it possible I think
bigger is better when it comes to churches? Lotta learning ahead.
What looks like certain death to me, may not be.
How surprised
I was to end New Year's Eve/ First Night in Springfield, standing in the
left aisle of an old downtown Episcopal church singing familiar worship
songs, with a handful of folks. I was leery of the frosted, designer
tossed hair of the pastor/song leader, but his spirit was right on!
Christian praise bands on a First Night Schedule?--this ain't Idaho!
It was the first time since moving I'd heard songs from my old church sung
with passion, one after another. Amazing Grace, how can it be!
I was equally stunned that my buddies for the evening didn't bolt (they
also sat patiently through our shaky Shape Note sing earlier in the evening.
No one I'd ever known in Boise would have lasted a minute!) An amazing
end to 2006. God is Good, all the time!
I like this coming
full circle. Like an oil panting, the view gets better the further
I step back, look, listen and breathe. I've brought my curiosity
about religions and cultures, probably acquired growing up in a small college
town, attending the congregational church, back to the same. Why
kids move and why they return is on my mind, but for another time.
Received
an email this holiday called Carols for the Psychiatrical Challenged--oof,
I hate forwards. Eventually opened it and saw one on the list for
me, Amnesia --- I Don't Know if I'll be Home for Christmas. That
got me going.... "Am I Home Yet?" ... "Is It Christmas Yet?"
Maybe, just maybe, mine's "I'm Finally Home for Christmas!" The Midwest
feels good, this first winter back.
A Tale from the Bible Belt
This really
happened. Always up for a new church experience, I was told of a
group that follows the teachings of Jesus. I imagined a few rebellious
airy fairy types talking over coffee about finding a church with life in
it, putting in my 2 cents. The parking lot was full--more folks than
I see at some mainstream Sunday services. It took a while to realized
all the women wore long skirts and had long hair pulled into buns (but
me in pants plus, forever unruly hair.) I could have left before
I was handed a small hymnal, but why not see this through. The hymnal
was British! The service began with the Pledge of Allegiance, followed
by several hymns, accompanied by piano, every verse sung slowly, painfully.
Two older women were at the helm, women of God written all over them.
Both had serious, attractive, peaceful countenances, graying hair knotted
up. It was the kind of peace I'm simultaneously drawn to and uneasy
with. The taller woman, in white blouse and cardigan over black box
pleated long skirt spoke first--simply, straightforwardly about her experience
with scripture that day. More hymns and the second spoke likewise.
My eyes were riveted on her purple print jacket over a plain dark A-line
skirt; it was rather like a jean jacket--could possibly have been considered
trendy. With their utter simplicity and sincerity there was no doubt
they were "called"; no way could I ever do such a thing. The entire
service all I could think of was Babette's Feast. I'd been tempted
to check it out at the library recently. No need. This was
the real thing, Jesus their nourishment. Who were these Sisters of
the Word? I know not (nor do those who told me of the meeting, nor
does the city who rented the space), but they have quite a following.
Sister workers? Stay tuned.
