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30 de Octubre 2008
it is only prodigal eisegesis, i know.
if some of this seems familiar it is because of the entry titled rcl. but i'm finding that things have changed quite a bit since then.
on the prodigal son:
It isn't that I hate this parable. I just think it is really messy because it is about a family, and the texts we read around it were about families too which just makes things even messier.
Don't take this the wrong way but I can't shake the feeling that the father in the story told himself his son was dead because that was what he really wanted.
I am like that. I think movement away from me is about death.
I tell myself the man I loved so much is dead because I don't know what to do with his absence. I guess I'm just not afraid enough of death to avoid really pretending hard. I assume the mourning is easier if I assume his departure will be final.
But I want him back almost every day. Every day I want to go back to the places we loved. Everyday I put my head to the chest of God and listen for the sound of his feet thumping, coming closer to me, so I won't have to move my own feet closer to his.
At one point it seemed he was returning. One morning I turned toward the horizon and a grey figure in the distance finally moved a little closer. The waves of heat obscured the vertical line and I saw, as he moved closer, that he was on his knees the way ancient pilgrims approach a sacred place.
And I, like a fool, was hopinghopinghoping. Like a drunkard, I was stumbling in my excitement, I was slurring and ultimately misunderstood over and over again as I called his name. I was wrong; I just don't know what I was wrong about. I don't know if it was him who came home, or if it was a shattered version, a broken, shoeless, torn apart . When my questions met his ears, they landed. But when I asked, "what do you do with what happened to us? He answered, "I don't know" over and over again. And it was beautiful to me, I had waited so long to hear his voice. But perhaps he was disappointed that I had ignored his apology in favor of festivities. Perhaps he was all too aware that home would never be home again no matter how he repented, how he turned, how close he came to me. Perhaps I thwarted his repentance by silencing him, by hoping or settling for this lovely ghost of him. The celebration was bittersweet.
I don't know that I was ever close enough to him to call his homecoming a return. Was this ever his home? I never made it a home for him; I gave him the little I had and told him it was all I had to give. I made him believe that there was a portion for him but kept the largest share for myself. I know I let him go.
And while he was gone I kept quiet, kept my distance and waited because that is all I could do. It seemed possible to turn toward from far away, to let him fly and hope he would return, to repent secretly. But the place where I waited wasn't home. It wasn't home to him when he was here, it wasn't home to me when he was gone, and it isn't home now that I can lie and tell myself he came back.
It is a maddening dance around the characters in this parable, but not for the usual reasons. I never come close enough to trample toes, I never come close enough to understand the way we (the parable, the runaways and I) have been choreographed like this.
So how do I know I want him and all his mess back here? Why do I think I want him back? And in the moments when I am running to him, why do I want to throw my arms around him so badly?
I can't get it out of my head that Nouwen says there are "invitations to come higher up and closer by." And I issue them, but only haphazardly. From emotional light years away, I poke and prod the distant man I once loved, hoping he will wake with a start and reach for me.
They say keep your friends close and your enemies closer. They say you don't get to choose your enemies. In the studio where I learned combination after combination at the barre and on the floor, I rarely chose my dance partner--I learned how to connect time, connect steps, how to extend and stretch my limbs or turn my head properly toward my partners. I learned to present openly, from the heart, from the center, toward the audience. But to really connect with the partner was a leap toward expression, drama and emotional connectivity reserved for those who, appropriately, were prepared to bleed to be en pointe or even simply en releve, but to turn into their partner nonetheless higher than the rest of us.
Those were the dancers who had learned to spot: to focus their eyes on one small thing while the rest of their body turned again and again in a beautiful flurry of repentance. And their partners stood behind them almost the whole time, head high, not quite touching but not so distant. Proudly making the angles with his body, like arrows directing the gaze of the audience to his partner's show of strength and beauty. And when it was his turn to spin, he did so with a righteous anger, kicking higher than she might and leaping so his core, his proud chest seemed to be thrown about from the force of his heart beating. He could force all his weight to rise as he spun on one straight supporting leg, the other leg twisted in anguish, en dedans but cutting the air between himself and her, madly, lovingly. Finally he would land silently, leather to wood, chest heaving under the strain and present himself to her. Not like a ghost but like a dream.
The father Nouwen wants to be hopes to dance like this but the Mac (from The Shack)-like father simply cannot do this step. He kept his hatred so close; he forgot to focus on the spot of grief for his daughter, lost his balance, never completed the turn, and instead found himself hoping for the opportunity to shoot the murderer, his only partner in this bloody dance, right between the eyes. I understand. I often take a loaded gun when I make the trek home or wherever God hoped we'd meet.
That is the way of the worst fathers I know--the enemies I keep closest. Skip over the relationship you were unable to maintain and aim high enough so the bullet, all your hopes and fears will hit hard and maim, possibly kill what it is you hate. Focus on what you hate, rather than the reason you hate it.
It is so complex because this way it is infinitely easy to accidentally punish those who stay close. You make those closest to you into slaves, you forget to show them love enough, to celebrate their loyalty, and they will never learn to enjoy your presence.
These kinds of fathers are like Mac: expecting God will be whoever is needed in the moment the relationships falter, in the moment the car crashes, in the minute you take the first step off the marked trail, in the time it takes for the gun to fire. They never rise into the dance. God becomes like a first responder. It is as if God is about the business of blotting the blood from our mother's lips, cleaning up the messes made by rage, instead of interrupting greed, addiction and self-hatred.
I guess I don't think the father in the parable is much like God at all. I think the father in the parable is just like me. I think Mac's Poppa is not enough like my papa and yet too much like Nouwen's fatherly inclinations in his last chapters.
I think I want the parable father to take a good look around his home and wonder why his son ran away. I want him to stand in the middle of the house falling down around his ears. I want him to feel like Mac upon returning to the scene of his daughter's death.
I want Nouwen to understand that I want him to father me but I know he won't--
not perfectly. I want him to imagine I am dead because he let me go, because fathers always let go and I want him to foolishly chase the ghost of me each day because even when I do return it won't be anything like it was, it won't be better and it might be worse. It may not be like I returned at all because I didn't want to come back--I had no other choice. And I don't think the kingdom of God is like a family forced to reconcile or starve to death.
When I unravel the riddle this way I want Nouwen to use the jealousy and self-hatred conjured by his reading of the elder son. I want him to see the father in the painting repenting and, the way Mac (simpleton that he was) turned out in the end, wise to the fact that we can never go home again, that our loved ones will never come home again, not really, and maybe the father in the parable was doing right to hope his son might never return.
I know the parable is probably about hopeful reunion and joyful repentance, about unconditional acceptance and other good stuff but tonight I just can't read it that way and though I feel guilty about all this self-indulgent mess I've made of it, I think that is just going to have to be okay for now. God knows what it means even if I don't.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 5:20 PM | Comments (1)
29 de Octubre 2008
under care
they call it coming under care when you fill out all the paperwork and attend all the interviews and meetings so that one day you can be ordained in the PCUSA.
here is what i wrote to them.
i call this piece
form one:
Questions for reflection
Describe yourself as a person.
I am at my best in relationship. My relationship with my husband and his constant love encourage me to be creative and take risks. My relationship with my church family is built on grace and mutual respect. My friendships are based on compassion and loyalty.
Describe briefly your understanding of what it means to you to be an inquirer. Please include the most important events, experiences, and persons that have prompted you to become an inquirer.
When it came time for me to choose a field for graduate study I wanted, more than to study my other loves (poetry and public education) to study divinity. I chose a seminary that offered a Christian Studies program informed by psychotherapy. I was hoping to finish school in two years with a better understanding of the hearts and minds of post-modern Christians and then write or teach with them in mind. During my first year I met Dr. Patricia Brown who encouraged my husband and I to seriously consider ordination. She explained that ordination enhances the relationship between ministers and church members, and teaches us to be mutually committed to one another in lasting ways.
In January of 2007, I took a part time job as Children and Family Minister. Very early in the interview process I observed how specific pastoral tasks informed my pastors' faiths. Their joy over administering the sacraments of marriage and baptism was (and still is) contagious. The way they struggle over the sermons in text study each week, the way they offer pastoral care, it all seemed mysterious and familiar at the same time.
I wouldn't say that there was one day I woke up and thought, "hey, I could do that!" about sermonizing 300 people. I would say that there are days I show up and feel like I am the luckiest woman in the world because I get to be in church for four hours and I take that notion to be a kind of sign from on high that I was formed to love what most people would loathe about Sunday mornings.
During the first year as Children and Family Minister I came to see my pastoral role as an opportunity to invest in the long-term goals of my young parishioners' families. I came under Dr. Brown's tutelage in order to earn a Certificate in Spiritual Direction. As I learned more about the history of Christian spirituality and my calling to Spiritual Direction I saw that there was a place for my voice to inform the way we go about faith formation in the very youngest members of the church.
Having already extended my time at Seminary an additional year, I figured one more wouldn't hurt, especially if it would run concurrent to my time of discerning a call to ordination. So I signed up to delve into the Biblical languages and take on the task of homiletics. Each day I feel myself growing into the idea that I might one day wear clerics or offer last rites at a hospital bedside. Each day I learn more about the "I" who will do these things and come face to face with another spark of talent, ability, or strength. The more I lean into the call as it takes shape, the more I see it taking on the shape of my self.
Write a brief statement of your personal faith describing what you believe about God, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit and your relationship to them.
I am beginning to see the Trinity as three distinct notes in a triad chord. Each member on a distinct frequency vibrating, moving everything at once, and yet moving together and bending toward one another, always one, always three. The Triune God is inseparable. God is in relationship, the members of the trinity enable each other to be one, to be what they are as one, but also as three persons with differences, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. But this is still very difficult to articulate.
My personal faith, my personhood, is developed in relationship to the One Creator God. And I am, in relationship to God, intended to bear God's glory by participating in the brokenness of creation.
What does it mean to you to be Presbyterian?
I imagine a Presbyterian church that honors tradition, maintains a balance of power between ordained leaders and lay ministers, and has hope for an established polity adapting to the needs of the globalizing, economically, geographically decentralized Body of Christ.
I see the pews of my youth filled with new kinds of families, passing peace and relying in the weekly liturgy to form the faith of their children and inform their daily struggle.
I see the faces of the ordained women and men who hugged me close to their black clerics shirts when I was a little girl, and their robes opened, welcoming like wings behind the communion table.
I see myself at table, praying to thank God for another meal with my church family.
I see the hands of men and women raised in praise or protest votes.
I see the broken tiles and leaky roofs of the buildings that housed the faith of my childhood and mourn that they fall into disrepair because we have forgotten how to fill them with love and grace.
I see myself at session meetings struggling with my elders to look for a new solution to the old misunderstandings that threaten to rend our community.
Describe your current spiritual practices and disciplines.
My week has two high points: Sunday Morning Liturgy and Wednesday evening midweek gathering for classes and choir practices. In preparation for these wonderful and draining hours I rely on long, spiritually refreshing walks with the dog, The Jesus Prayer and The Prayer of Examen. I also meet monthly with a Spiritual Director who challenges me to stop struggling against my visceral responses to the gospel and listen carefully to the children I intend to serve.
Who/what is your ideal role model for ministry? What do you expect in your ministry? What aspect of ministry do you find least interesting?
There are very few children's ministers I would call ideal role models. I find it easier to borrow strength from my seminary community. They struggle alongside me to juggle best practice and disappointment. They build a shelter for my failures, which is, in turn, what Children and Family Ministries should be about. The more time I spend learning from my learning community, the better I am able to hold the failures of my parishioners.
I expect my life of professional ministry to be rich with the kind of joy that breaks the heart. I expect crying babies and sobbing mothers and weeping fathers, and sadness I can do nothing for. I assume I will say or do the right thing sometimes and the wrong thing often but God's grace will meet me in both. I expect a challenge and hope for strength to rise to love whatever God loves and hate only what God would hate.
The list of least interesting parts of my vocation might include seemingly unchangeable, hopeless personalities or budget meetings. But I am painstakingly optimistic that I will manage to treat both with dignity and respect their importance in the life of the church.
What are you doing to maintain your physical and emotional health?
I surround myself with friends who remind me to enjoy myself and my relationship with my heroic husband. Long Vacations are not an option. Instead, I maintain a rhythm of short recesses at coffee shops and always keep up with the weeknight Sienfeld reruns, which offer a reprieve from the stressors that would otherwise engulf me in faithless worrying. And of course: the aforementioned dog walking.
Comment on what have been (are) some of your more meaningful interests and hobbies.
For as long as I can remember I have had what we call in writer's circles "writerly tendencies." The boxes of journals pile up in the basement, the pens and pencils accumulate in the backpack--I'm afraid to be without one. My hunger for books and even academic articles is coupled with an unforgiving drive to fiddle with sentences until the language can't bear the weight of my meaning. There are often bits of paper with scraps of ideas stuck in odd cracks around the house, short stories written in two words or less in the back of my mind and, especially before I learned to type, thick calluses on my writing hand where I gripped the pen too hard for too long. My writing life keeps me company, comforts me when I am upset and deepens my most important relationships. It is the most meaningful of all my talents and interests and, more often than not, enriches my ministry.
How do you plan to finance your education?
I have completed two years of seminary so far by taking out student loans and will continue to do so for another three. I have supplemented the student loan income with my part time job as Children and Family Minister.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 10:04 AM | Comments (0)
28 de Octubre 2008
high class enlightened behavior, if you will
this morning at chocolati there is a man sharing the velvet comma shaped chair next to mine, with his dog and they both seem pretty okay.
and also, there is a puppy wrestling match going on between the two little dog brothers (cappy and apollo creed murderface mclovin) who hang out here now. so i keep thinking that it is a good enough day to lay it on the line.
here goes.
i thought i might make a list of all the people who probably read this but then thought better of it. instead i will just explain that there are others out there, who are just like you and me and you don't need to know what they look like (this ins't facebook) and you don't need to know all their favorite shit (this isn't myspace) you just need to know that they are there, or here, rather and that they keep coming back for more.
see, the things i write here are not just for one of you. i think i know you pretty well, Readers, and i only tell you about the things that will be helpful for the plural you. so if you think i wrote this for you, i did, but i also wrote it for at least one other person and the fact that you are reading it on the internet means i put it here so you two or three or 20 could read it at the same time and know that you are with each other.
if i had something to say just to one of you i would write you a letter or send an email or call you up and be with you like that.
while i'm at it, i should explain one more thing:
the skinnytree started as a place to sort of carve my initials above yours. it is a way to tell you all the things i wanted you to know, the nice things and the mean things. it is my way of cutting you and me, who we are, our names and feelings, into something that will eventually grow and change and perhaps hold onto us in spite of ourselves.
i hoped you wouldn't argue when i made a personal dig.
i hoped, suspending my deepest fears of turning in to the narcissist, you would know i wanted you to see it even when i wrote it about someone else. but mostly i knew this would be helpful for me and so i divided the selfish parts into three categories:
help yourself, which is less an invitation and more a command.
helpful, which is the nicest way i can point you in the right direction.
and just in case, which is where i put things i really want you to know even if they are not helpful, kind of just in case you were wondering or just in case i was too mad to articulate
in a helpful way.
and then there is this, which factors in every damn time:
i am becoming more and more resigned to the fact that i have this sort of maddening sensitivity. it is like a sweet tooth that loves to tear up over sour candy, or a wild hair that threatens to ruin all the family photos, or or or...
and so the only way to let you know that you are, regrettably paying dearly to be my friend is to be honest with you.
my feelings are so inconvenient and i know people who can't change, which makes me very afraid that i can't change, and so i should just be honest. if i'm honest with you, you know ahead of time you will have to pay the tax: if you love my sensitivity and brilliance, you will have to sit and cry with me sometimes. and i am quite ashamed when it happens but this is the price we pay.
i must take it or leave it about myself. and i have it on a good authority that i have to live with myself more often than you have to live with me--it might be hardest on me--so spare me your judgmental fears, i have plenty of my own. i have to take a risk and want to be honest enough to tell you i'll be crying under the stairs, take it or leave it, join in or don't, pay the fare or walk.
when you stop trying so goddamn hard to be normal you strike a bargain with others and force yourself to hope, which is where i am today... knowing you are probably there too.
and with those who are unwilling to uphold their end of the bargain you just put up boundaries because you will hurt worse than they will should the fences fail or the walls crumble. but hurt is just hurt and there is God in the hurt.
in her next life my good sensitive friend Donna is going to come back as a thick-skinned, unfeeling jock mindlessly loyal to the home team and drinking in the bleachers.
but for now she says that crying under the stairs is high class, enlightened behavior and we all should be crying under the stairs. she says that buying a home is buying a safe place to cry.
she says that normal is to hide behind the game face which means you will die behind the mask. and that is how you become exhibit a: the failed suicide attempt, bomb building, gun toting, narcissist too much in love with the reflection because you can't see yourself anywhere else and neither can anyone else.
of course, no one has the right to judge madness, i'm not attempting to do that. i'm trying instead to avoid it for myself and to show you who you are to me.
just think of all the things we really ought to feel
sad about
grieve,
mourn:
wouldn't it be understandable if your best friend with all his hangups and traumas went under the stairs and stood there naked, yelling and crying, just for a little while? just imagine how appropriate it would be in light of all the terrible things that we have done to each other? imagine your best friend stripped and bleeding, crying out on behalf of all the worst things we have done, even the things we have left undone. imagine him thirsty and angry but refusing to dry his tears and suck it up.
who am i to say all the crying is finished?
what of the people i love who can't cry for themselves? would it be wrong to consider me a hired hand to mourn? i mean, if i'm going to go cry anyway, you might as well get in on it.
it is who i am:
i prefer passing out halloween candy to buying christmas gifts
i like lots of church on sunday mornings and wiping noses all day long.
i'm into brussel sprouts and beer milkshakes,
for the record i quit smoking pot when i was 20 and yet i can't deny my slight lifelong secondhand and firsthand nicotine addiction.
i am proud to say i fell in through the ice on sarah palin's lake wasilla one time but didn't drown and when i was 13 i kissed a really beautiful boy and then he hid from my mother, in her shower, for half an hour.
i believe in rocktober and autumn leaves, God killed God and
i am working on crying every chance i get because i think it will actually minimize the drama.
i am a poet and pastor: i won't tell you which way to vote but i will tell you i will be with you when democracy fails you.
i like to tickle and
i would take the ocean over greenlake, and stars over snowflakes
i find your accent to be a miraculous wrapping around the gift of your voice.
i admit dance saved my life, fiction is a good vacation and television probably won't kill you.
i maintain that addictions are chemical reactions, psychotherapy works if you show up and running away is a fantasy--it is never going to work the way you thought it might.
in my opinion loving her makes her more beautiful
truth is what happens when you close your eyes and jump
creeks dry up sometimes but not all the time
childhood sticks with you
and grown up is when you are finally able to tell your step parents what is really going on, whether you really love them or don't.
my new friend told me yesterday that her daughter had a great time with me, carving pumpkins at a youth group event, even though i gave her a real knife and she cut so deeply into her middle finger that us leaders were afraid she would need stitches. and it is possible that she had said wonderful time because (what pastor in her right/normal mind would do this?): i figured we needed to blast Green Day's dookie and sing along as i rushed her back to her father so he could assess the damage to the precious mid digit. honestly, nobody needs a middle finger more than a junior higher.
i recommended that the patient watch all the episodes of Joan of Arcadia because it is a show about a girl who gets to talk to God.
lizzle looked at me and said, 'abigail, what would i do without you?'
i immediately fired off a snide comment in response but when i woke up this morning it sunk in.
the gratitude in her face and the honesty in her voice were written on the bedroom ceiling this morning when i opened my eyes.
normal people don't get their friends' daughters sliced open and then recommend canceled television shows.
normal people don't listen when someone asks what they would do without you.
this kind of behavior is reserved for painters, poets, and other crazies, hand picked to help with the sorrow and point out the lovely shitty shit all around:
molly made me my double decaf americano in a 12 oz paper cup: room, no sleeve. she warned me it was really hot and then said, 'you look like you're wearing tight clothes today, you're all sexy, what a hot little figure, who knew?'
the world series was rained out for the first time in history
and i voted for a black president last night.
see, there is a lot going on and it isn't that you have to feel about it all, but i do and even though each day i grow up a little more i will never outgrow feeling, as much as i dislike it as much as you dislike it.
good luck trying to get over getting over it.
if you need help crying over it, i can do that, i think.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 10:09 AM | Comments (1)
27 de Octubre 2008
~
the creek, at its widest point was about ten feet from my shore to the other. at the deepest it was impossible to touch down without ducking under.
i knew the bends, the rocks, the sandy places under the water and which parts dried up first in summer.
i knew its scent in summer and its sound in the flood seasons. i knew where to find mosquito eggs and tadpoles. i knew the safe places to climb down the bank and if a tree came down in a storm i was sad and scared to see such a change in my friends along the edges.
i could walk the length of it barefoot because i was there so often alone with just familiarity to keep me safe even though my papa had once told me that if he ever caught me down there alone he would make sure that was the last time.
the rocks taught me to balance on my legs, to trust the soles of my feet. the cold water rushing along my backside washed away the feeling of her hand coming down too hard, numbed the sting of the spankings.
but this is also how i think of shame.
the waters of my shame run right through the forest of my self and i know them well. i spend most of my time there, alone, with the hushing rush of my embarrassment. when the shame slows down and pools i get a good look at my reflection in it. i could walk for miles on the rocky bottom with pebbles pressing into my feet and legs going numb. i have learned to balance here, to stand up against the current and watch it swirl against my body. and even though i am afraid of what i imagine just a little deeper down, in the darker water, hiding, i force myself to stay, to tread in the deepest part. i know the way to climb out, i know the shore is kind
and forgiveness is in the space between
the dry grains of sand that built up
under a tree around the next bend. but i don't climb out.
when i grew up a little more i was the counselor who held hands with the smallest, bravest among us who wanted to walk the creek too. i was confident and caught them when they slipped or warned them against the holes threatening to swallow their tiny feet.
and i'm still doing this. moving into the shame, holding your hand, inviting you to do more than look, to get in, both feet, then ankle deep. then asking if you will take one more step knowing your knees will disappear. lovingly, i point to the next safer spot, knowing you might slip and land hard against the bottom and drench us all in the spray that will fly.
and with each moment i am shocked that you are still with me, still looking down for a new foothold on another slippery rock. still in it and headed for deeper waters.
i have been warned to guard my heart against you, not to become emotionally involved. and i have been hoping to protect your heart. to keep you from falling,
in love.
but i can't. i haven't, have i?
today you told a story and expected me to guide you through your shame in another way, less loving, less careful, to drag you along, to chide you for calling him a friend even though you were in love with him. you thought i knew enough to give you some advice that would drag you down deeper until the shame of it covered your face, just so i wouldn't be able to see you anymore. but i didn't because i know about falling in love and i know about drowning in shame. and the way i see it, they have to be two different things.
you should never be ashamed you fell in love with him.
you loved him.
and as with any friend i want more than anything to hold your heart above my head and just keep walking on but i can't keep my balance that way,
heart
high above
head.
you loved him and he will never understand how much or what it cost you because they rarely do. you will just keep coming back down to these banks to throw stones at your reflection and i will be there, catching the stones you throw toward where i wade.
why can't we be gentler with ourselves, one another? why can't i be strong instead of stubborn with you who i love? when will the glassy chill finally dry up, quit foaming around the edges and leave a little of the dry ground of forgiveness behind?
never. and that is why i keep up with this ridiculous all wet writer's trek through the beginnings, endings, like midpoint interruptions or extensions of my favorite conversations. this is why i write: you.
this is the best i can do to be with you, in it. because i need you, in it. when i send this on i know you will help it, make it mean something by adding yourself, the self i love from so far away.
if i could be alone with my thoughts i would wonder what it means and come up empty. without you it has no meaning.
but when i am with you here, or there in this way,
i know you make meaning with me.
i know you,
make meaning
with me.
make the wet of my tears and yours, the deep dark waters that cut self-loathing into the story, make them mean.
and though i know it sounds less like an invitation and more like my heart begging yours for permission,
and though i am sure to hurt you again, to let you fall in love, and slip and trip and to risk the desires of your heart and your head drowning in it, even though the last thing i want is to make you feel stupid and i do it everyday, i hope for you to wade knee deep in the fast moving stream of your worst self, lapping unabashedly, painfully bruising your body and hopes against the boulders of your worst story,
because
i know, (i don't know how but i know) you aren't ready to climb out yet and neither am i.
and if we have to be here, the least i can do,
the best i can do,
the only way i know to repent, is to invite you in so i can see your face and stop turning long enough, just long enough
to see you
here, silent and afraid
but not alone.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 2:53 PM | Comments (0)
24 de Octubre 2008
confession madlibs
fill in the list of blanks:
(no peeking)
Something really bad
someone you love
a place you like
a place you don't like
a place you feel safe
Something you are sorry for
something you forgot to do
Body part
Someone you don't like
someone you do like
Good verb
Someone you know well
someone you don't know well
good verb
something good about God
verb
Most merciful God,
We confess that we keep __________ing and cannot free ____________. We have
sinned against you in __________, _______________, and ____________,
by _______________________________ and by forgetting to _____________________.
We have not loved you with our whole __________;
we have not loved ___________________ as much as ___________________.
For the sake of your Son, Jesus Christ, _______________ us.
Forgive ______________, Renew ___________________, and __________ us, so that
we may delight in your ________________ and __________________ in your ways,
to the glory of your holy name.
Amen.
Most merciful God,
We confess that we are captive to sin and cannot free ourselves. We have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. For the sake of your Son, Jesus Christ, have mercy on us. Forgive us, Renew us, and lead us, so that we may delight in your will and walk in your ways, to the glory of your holy name.
Amen.
good luck.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 1:53 PM | Comments (0)
i like you
this is why you are my friend:
even if you only said three words, here is what i heard:
"i like you
[not because of your pain or past--that is just pity. not in spite of it either--that is denial. not because you are honest about it--that is just voyeuristic of me. not because i need you to use it to understand that you are just like me--because i don't need you to be like me. not because you have to use it to earn my sympathy or i'm leaving--that is bribery. not because it makes you experienced in a sort of self-destructive sexy way--that is just opportunistic.
i like you because whatever is behind you or in you or happening to you is a little complicated and a lot honest and when it shows up something in me rises up to greet you, and wants to hug you and i'm not sure why. but something in you calls to something in me and it feels good to be called out of myself by your joy and your sadness, whatever the cause. and i just want to be here with you, even if we aren't going to save the world or spy on the neighbors. even if the decoder ring tells us what we already knew.]"
it is like we can be 11 years old again, hiding under the stairs from the drunken brawling grown ups and we don't have to worry about ruining anyone's life just because we feel ruined ourselves. we don't have to worry about rescuing our families from their dysfunction because we aren't aware that we aren't that powerful, even if we are already aware that we are supposed to and failing miserably. it is like we are young enough again, but this time we worry less about trauma and more about a friend coming close enough, not to focus on the drama or give advice, or be afraid, but just to be,
to be with
to witness
as we climb higher into the next apple tree
how many times the rock will skip across the creek
the 16th mosquito bite
a wrestling match with the dog
the race across the meadow
the perfectly roasted marshmallow
the big dipper
nothing but net
secret handshakes
a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis and staying long enough to watch it taking flight
dandelion seeds blown from the stem, carrying wishes safely to the ground on
clean white parachutes that never fail to open
goldfish swimming
tadpoles wiggling
autumn leaf kicking
rubberband shooting
paper airplanes looping the loops
a pretty dress
a home run for the home team
bloodbrother scabs
potato bugs
garter snakes
swinging so high we fly
hot dogs in the macaroni and cheese
bubble bath beards
a new brown crayon
bubbles popping
sprinkles on the hot chocolate whipping cream
what the half-chewed food looks like on my tongue
what my bellybutton looks like
or even just to say 'ewwww' about grownups kissing in public.
the biggest problems are beginning to feel like the things on this list, like confusing amazing discoveries rather than catastrophic ultimatums... they are sad but they are not big enough to kill me when i am safe in this spot.
when i did 11 years old the first time i had to skip all the age appropriate triumphs because i was left alone to deal with the great losses. and now i am feeling the way those simple good things would have felt because you are reminding me that there is time and space to hide out and regroup, to hope for you when you can't hope for yourself, that if i just hold still for a minute you can look, even though i can't bear to, at the splinter in my thumb and tell me it isn't in so deep or quite so small that it would be impossible to dig out.
the problems are deep and insidious, don't get me wrong, but for once someone sees there is more to me than my extraordinary problems or fantastic useful talents, i am worth more than my contribution to your grown up world, your gnp and wisdom mongering
and i know. you prove it to me by feeling small with me,
by managing to hide out but not from
you give me space to work it out
you built me a fort when i asked.
when i told you what i wanted,
you didn't just say 'i don't know what to do.' maybe you were just bullshitting me when you told me about a safe secret spot, but i guess you have just enough of a peterpan, neverland fantasy focused brain, or i make you feel young enough to imagine the sort of spot i needed. and what is really helpful: you gave me a place to go but you didn't force me to go there. and you didn't assume you were invited and later, when i called to invite you, you whispered because you knew it was holy ground. and best of all: you didn't say you were too busy with something more important. and when you saw me in it you complimented me, there was joy in your voice that made it ok, for the first time, to curl up and cry until i was finished. you took one look at me crouched and crying in the corner and you exclaimed as though we were playing sardines and you were so glad to have found me because hiding with me was going to be the highlight of your day. hiding with me meant you were a winner even if we were just going to keep on hiding and keep quiet and still. it seemed like maybe if we hid long enough all our friends, all the answers might find us.
i never had a place like that before maybe because i never had anyone to help build it. i never had anyone with enough childish strength to help in a way that doesn't invade or dictate.
because when you are with me you aren't so grown up, so concerned with my drama that it keeps you from seeing more of me, hoping for more of me, celebrating with me.
it is a place where we can just watch the miraculous half-hopes that float to the top of our problems.
they slowly unfold the way stars come out: bright burning gaseous trouble spots in our heads and hearts, we can look up at them in wonder, knowing the irresponsible adults voices won't butt in, and we can celebrate the tiniest discoveries for ourselves without judgment, without wondering who will be hurt, who will be killed, who will be at fault and why it took us so long to figure all this out.
i like you too.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 1:36 PM | Comments (0)
22 de Octubre 2008
martin is tired of the what if game
but i'm not.
it was pretty late last night so i don't fault him for telling me that my problem with intimacy would still be with me in the morning and that i should lie down and try to get some sleep, if it was at all possible, which was a very gentle way to say what sounded at the time like such a horrific possibility.
so here is another one, a really big one, because he was right (that has been happening a lot lately), the problem is still with me:
What if intimacy is more about not knowing the other person, the way wisdom is sometimes about the task of discovering what we don't know?
What if
if you want to be closer to someone you have to stop thinking you know about her, know what is best for her or what she will say or do? Stop imagining she doesn't love you or wants to leave you. Stop assuming she is crazy and an emotional wreck. And see what happens. You probably get a lot more than information about her favorite color or sex position.
what if
You probably get your life back, you probably get to wake up in the morning and touch her because she doesn't prickle and she doesn't try to escape from the slide of your hand. And when you can really feel her skin, even while she trembles nervously giving over to you, that would be the nice part, the reward for all the constraint it took to stop second guessing her motives or predicting her departure based on the diluted superhuman parts of her that she let you see in the first place.
and it wasn't a betrayal that she didn't show you, it was just the way gravity held her inside herself, not down, feet flat on the earth the way we so often imagine it, but like the very earth itself pressing into its core with such force, turning inward.
what if
she is only spinning so fast inward because she is so accustomed to turning and turning, repenting of herself over and over.
what if
you can, what if you will give her a reason to stop spinning. your eyes, your face, your tears will bring hers out. your gravity, your center will pull her toward you and
what if
you won't be able to get it down, on paper. you won't be making a list of your favorite things about her or the things about her that are driving you crazy . of course you will know them but you will also know all the blank pages and pages are out there, and you want those more than you have ever wanted anything before because that is where you imagine hope will write itself down, in your own handwriting. that is where love goes to grow, the blank pages.
what if
that is what God was trying to tell us about when the prophet wrote that even at the beginning, when it was just dry land and wet water, emptyish as it was, it was good.
what if
God said it was good even before it was all done
what if
God said it so it must be true.
what if
it must be true.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 10:22 AM | Comments (0)
20 de Octubre 2008
don't leave me
"High & Dry"
"Two jumps in a week
I bet you think that's pretty clever don't you boy?
Flying on your motorcycle,
Watching all the ground beneath you drop
You'd kill yourself for recognition,
Kill yourself to never ever stop
You broke another mirror,
You're turning into something you are not
Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry
Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry
Drying up in conversation,
You will be the one who cannot talk
All your insides fall to pieces,
You just sit there wishing you could still make love
They're the ones who'll hate you
When you think you've got the world all sussed out
They're the ones who'll spit at you,
You will be the one screaming out
Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry
Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry
It's the best thing that you ever had,
The best thing that you ever, ever had
It's the best thing that you ever had,
The best thing you ever had has gone away"
when we saw radiohead at the salem armory ten years ago we were all so so close, my body was pressed between aaron, dre and tim. they stood behind me like my goons and my flat front
pressed flat against one of those security walls they put up right in front of the stage, looking straight up at thomyork, doing that funny little wiggling dance he does, my posse boys were afraid if they didn't press in hard enough their little abifrail would be crushed by all the other fanatics.
and being in the heat of all the lights and the crushing weight of my highschool crushes
it was easy to believe that thom is very much afraid of cars and
worried about
Evil Knievel's daredevil heart simply drying up and leaving even such a hero lonely as hell.
lonliness is the real risk.
i am finding that i am capable of so many things,
saying things, writing things, loving, hating, and i've been lucky to land most of the jumps
but even the controlled risk, the safest landing costs me.
i am often overwhelmed by the grace written in bold letters across your face, the way your eyes don't crinkle or look afraid, or the way the eyes of a good friend slowly redden around the rim and blink quietly, madly, hopelessly begging me to stop whatever i'm doing, or rescue you from whatever you've stumbled over that calls out the tears. i am easily tamed by the way there is a little bit of sweetness in your quiet voice, or a tiny whirring in the silence between us. and my own ears stop ringing with the high hiss of fear and my body stops shaking and i uncurl in the space you make for the way i see things.
it is truly lovely.
and many times you step out even further into me and you say something like 'i love you' or 'this is why i am glad we're friends' or 'i hate you sometimes' even while you smile so sweetly...
i hear your smile over the phone, when you say 'yeah' and i rise slowly out of my fears a little more, not so fast i would get the bends, but just a little at a time
and i can see the surface where fresh air will meet me, not today, probably not tomorrow, but one day soon.
i held so much of it in until about 2pm when donnalinn came into the chocolati and just seeing her means i am safe and i couldn't hold it in anymore. my whole self filled with tears and overflowed. it was a little funny to me, i laughed a little when i explained that i don't know how to do these things, to be a good friend or to hold all this well. i just keep thinking about it and hoping about it, but it is not easy. i don't just walk away and my thoughts organize smoothly so i can focus on staff meeting agendas and carefree car rides to the chiropractor. of course i can compartmentalize enough to get through the day. but i don't want you to think that it is easy because, well, how important would you be to me then? not very. you are worth more than the easy way out. you are worth enduring thousands of papercuts on the thin skin over my heart, you are the reason i take one million tiny risks, i just don't know that i would like who i became if i attempted to endure it all alone, keeping the salty difficulties from you. i know you might begin to be afraid they are too much, but i think they jolt me tenderly from my worrying so i can join you in reality. and that is good.
maybe that is why the hugging has become so very important.
here is a line from henri nouwen that makes me think about hugs as
"invitations to come higher up and closer by."
by the way, i was hugging lots of people, i was hugging like a maniac on Sunday. it was just fine. nobody died or got hurt or seemed angry about it. which sets the bar pretty low, but it is honestly what i was sort of thinking (as impossible and unreasonable as that sounds) and it is a good start.
today the questions about punishment, people kicking other people or people repaying a kindness with judgment, seem to be very vivid in my imagination. it is painfully familiar, all this violence done to the people i love.
and the question seems to be how could you do that, nobody deserves to be treated like that.
it was no big surprise then when i looked into that sweet injured face, opened my mouth and this fell out:
nobody gets what they deserve, not in this life.
not the recognition, not the conversation, not the easy childhood, not the easy out, not the spankings or beatings. everything (insults, generosity, laughter, the palm of the hand) lands in the wrong place, on the wrong person. there is no way to balance the equation here.
after i said it i decided to think about it for a few days, maybe a few years because it seems really true today and it might be true for a long time.
but today--i wasn't reasonable--i could have, i felt mad enough to, slap the women in the stories i heard today, to grab them and shake them. to swear a blue streak and tell some crazy truth that would blacken an eye or knock loose a tooth. to get behind the desk and make some big decisions that might rescue my friends, rescue myself.
it used to comfort me when my mother told me that the people who hate me would get what they deserved. but they won't. i hope they won't. in the end i will be the one screaming out to them, not to leave me.
and then there is this: the grace we didn't conjure between friends, the grace i can't see, i only smell the sweet refreshing stink of it, landing all around like rain. and i hate when it storms and i hate when it lands on everyone and everything. but it does. it is big and bothersome and my only hope.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 3:08 PM | Comments (1)
18 de Octubre 2008
Kj meets wino
when Kj aksed me to write for vespers, and address the incoming students as well as the usual suspects, i went home (shocking, i know), poured about 20 fingers of some 2buckchuckred in a juice glass and wrote this.
it helps if you know that i kept thinking about the sunny day real estate called 'what it feels to be something on'... its called
what it feels to return/arrive
like the feel in your throat when the tone is perfect and only clear and matches the sound of my heart or when the strings in the bow vibrate just right up through the tendons and soft muscle in your arm or when an old word makes a new sound in your ear because you understand it for the first time
or the first time you kissed and it is just like that
like the first time you heard a baby cry out just to cry
or the way her heartbeat fills in your empty places without even trying.
or his sweatshirt under your hand when you hold on too long to his body hugging you.
and you remember the journey so suddenly when you do
the moment when the road opens up and 75 is as good as flying and the yellow bands in the road and the rows of corn finally tick past faster than you can count the blank spaces dark with fertility
the way you knew as you packed up
you know when you closed the door on the old ways
you broke someone's heart and you had to--
in order to escape.
and their disappointment in you is drifting off
like clouds move across the sun
you had to come see
you had to go where they can't follow
you had to follow the sound of the siren because it was your own heart seducing you.
of course it sounds like a stupid old love song
because it is
the song that says i'll love you for the rest of my life and i'll be here when you need me and i'm not ashamed of you.
i like you.
(which means a lot coming from someone who is really good at hate)
i like-like you.
which means that all the things you are about to say are like the little dreams i never dreamt
(i wait for the night to come, i wait with all my being wrapped around the first star coming out so i can close my eyes and see what comes in the colors you invent).
because when you are here i am here and
little by little
we will both be very soon indeed
drunk with the possibility that
God arrives
God returns
for another sigh another hurricane of grief
for another tear another storming hope
another knock knock joke from your favorite six-year-old.
knockknock
who's there
God
God who?
God who do you think you are to make every day such a trial and such a triumph?
so when you collapse against the sofa in the field abbot's office like a withering vine against the augustine heat of theology
and describe the way
your heart is breaking
just remember
me.
remember those who never intend to master divinity
or those who used to hate you
until i learned how
you can turn rotten carrots into friendship and make the pages of a theological text feel like home.
i hope i will stop imagining your hatred for me because it is not as deathly as i think.
i've always wanted to go home, i've been so homesick.
that is what led me here. to you, who i try everyday to hate.
but you prove me wrong everyday
you tell me i've let you in and i think
hell no
i think i don't change that quickly
but i do. because when i can't hate you like
i want to
it breaks me open.
it breaks my heart
when i see you take communion
when i see you carry your children
when i see you hug each other
or hold hands
when you argue, when you lie
when you cry over deciduous tree leaves falling the same way i do.
and i see your lovely swollen eyes and
runny nose
i break open and see your shame
like a little spark and you hold it out
cupped in your hands like water to drink and you tell me
this is all that is left of Fantasia
one tear
we are so sad
you must invent more
we have so much sadness yet to come
take room for our tears
make a room
make it in the house of your hearts because, and i know it isn't good for your broken down hopes to say it: 'you can't go home you can't go home'
yeah, i like the one about space a little better too, but i really edited that one for hours. this one, what you see is what you get. and i'm practicing being less ashamed of things for now, if i start to shake and cough i'll just return and edit. that way you can watch how it changes too. won't that be fun? sigh.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 3:50 PM | Comments (0)
16 de Octubre 2008
non-violence policy
from the brochure i wrote about the nursery:
Our nursery has a non-violence policy. Toy guns or other toys that shoot, slice, or otherwise intend to cause bodily harm are not permitted. Our plastic dinosaurs are friendly and our toy police car is mobilized only for retrieving kittens from trees.
nightmares notwithstanding, this is pretty much how i like to live my life.
last night i had another one i couldn't wake from.
i think it was about my mother. i'm sure it had to do with my inability to behave violently toward her.
oh, but aren't they all?
speaking of nonviolent protest:
all saints day is coming and i have decided that if i am ever up for sainthood i would like to be:
Patron saint of
the lewd barista,
sympathy sex for seminarians,
children who no longer believe in God,
television addictions
those with eating disorders
and
poetic break up letters.
i could talk God's ear off on those subjects.
on a more violent note:
is there a book out there about break up letters? there should be, it should be part sample, example and part how-to. if there is, then i think we should do a new edition every few years and really keep up with all the heartache out there. we could include text messages and email and lost and found and personals. and i'll bet i've written a few good ones and they aren't published yet so... a second edition may be a good idea.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 11:05 AM | Comments (0)
15 de Octubre 2008
poet on poet action!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
On Donne's Poetry
``With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots,
Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots ;
Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue,
Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw.''
this is what you say when you know your friend needs you to admit that you don't know what he is talking about but you really love that he just keeps talking.
it is also like this: when things seem to be changing for the ancient mariner, but not quite enough, just yet, because it takes such a long time to undo a very big wrong. sometimes the birds begin, like friends trying to help, but there is still so much and you must repent.
"Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing ;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning !"
Posted by crymytinyflood at 10:36 AM | Comments (0)
13 de Octubre 2008
maybe this will help:
Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today, and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine.
-from Bonhoeffer's 'Who am I?'
which was in a footnote for one of the theology texts... there have been quite a few of the old poets in theology this year, it is fairly helpful to have read them.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 9:43 PM | Comments (0)
ihate practicum
and it isn't just because i hate everything. it is just because i really hate practicum.
hatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehate it
Posted by crymytinyflood at 2:47 PM | Comments (0)
11 de Octubre 2008
on the hug
i never know who to hug or what to do with my arms or hands. i don't know when to stop or what to do after.
if i went with my preferences i would shake a lot of hands and give a lot of high fives and be done with it.
but i never go with my preferences. and i never know why. so for the past 28 years i have racked up quite a few problems with all the seemingly required hugs i have had to give or take.
and then this happened:
Ames and i were out for our tuesdaynight pre-studyhour pints and i think i had one too many because on the walk back to the car i saw a pack of parlaiments on a streetside table, the kind of parlaiments matteye turned me onto before he cleaned up his act and went premed
and i really wanted one of those nic sticks.
i didn't really register whether the owner of the pack was creepy or not but we were in belltown so as soon as i stopped long enough to address the guy Ames was sure something was going to get messy.
i asked for what i wanted and he answered, 'i'll trade you one for a hug'
images of all the greasy men i've ever known or seen or who have ever tried to give me the eye flashed through my mind. and then i thought of the way i must look in my hippie jacket and pilling sweater and couldn't figure out why anyone would want to hug me. i hesitated but Ames was two steps ahead of me. and the next thing i know Ames is hugging this guy like he is her lost frat brother.
just so you can imagine this scene a little better, the seattle governance requires that restaurants fence off the outside eating area so Ames was leaning in over the waist high fence, hugging away and she looked so happy and glowey and she even said something like, 'hugging is fun!' which sounded crazy but i really wanted the cig so i leaned over and wrapped my arms around sigma chi alpha or whoever he was and then proceeded to chat him up as he tapped out the cancer stick in question.
he lit it, not in his own mouth thank gawd, and i may have exhaled right in his face for all i know, (but probably not) and then we said our goodbyes like gentile acquaintances are wont to do.
as the nicotine kicked in i felt snug enough to ask Ames, who really does honestly love hugging, which is why i love her, 'why do people like hugging?'
she saw right through it.
'who wouldn't want to hug you? you're so cute and sweet.'
the next few hugging incidents are not as creepy but they contribute to my growth and development as well as any potentially traumatic cure for the soul.
for one:
recently i tried to sneak out the back of the cafe after open mic, and my new friend, nathan (the south carolinean carrot muncher), sweating like the tardy cyclist he often is, made a face or a gesture and it seemed like i was suppposed to hug him and i did and it wasn't awkward... and then justin was there and i figured it wouldn't hurt to hug him either, and it didn't.
and then i had a little bit of a vacation from this new not-problem until i realized that people at church really like hugging too so last week at the passing of the peace i started going in for hugs even when they extended their arms to shake hands... and that didn't kill me the way i thought it would. in fact, they seemed to really like it, it seemed really human and kind of fun like how Ames describes it.
so i told nathan
and now he is in on the experiment. i told him that there were people in my youth who criticized the way i just stood there, i think they were trying to tell me that it was hard to eff up hugging but i had managed to do so. and he seemed to understand why i don't really know what to do about all the hugging that comes with the life of a seminarian.
i figured that if i told him about all this he would let it lie, i think i hoped he would get nervous about whether or not i wanted a hug and then he would just give up. and it wouldn't be wierd if he did because there is, in my limited brokendown experience, a sort of statute of limitations on hugging and i thought, until now that everyone sort of knows not only how long to hug once its happening but also how long into the relationship the greeting or parting hugs are abated. and so he had an out, or maybe lots of outs.
but he didn't let it lie.
he didn't let me sneak out of Makeda this morning, he didn't follow the rules so i could slink away thinking thoughts like 'why in the hell do we have to do the whole, 'i'm so glad to see you hug' the first few times we meet if we're just going to quit as soon as i get the hang of it next month?', damnit.
so now there are three of them (people i really like to hug)
jenfox: the one who will just stand there and let me hug her. i tell her 'do the thing' and she brings her arms to her sides and lets me put my face on her shoulder and wrap her up and that has never bothered me, in fact i really really like it.
and Ames: who seems to know that i am in charge of the hugging and can't help myself when she is in the building, i just have to go hug her. and that is like crack cocaine, it is so good.
and nathan, who i could deny, if i really wanted to. but i am becoming more convinced that each time i hug him, at his gentle prodding, of course, it unties some knot in my heart, or head (he says feelings come from our brains, not our hearts) and then i want to hug other people because it is finally making sense why people do this sort of thing.
and you're probably wondering about where martin falls in all this: i don't hug him because i am in lurv with him--get it? good. because that is the best i can do to explain all that today.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 2:25 PM | Comments (0)
8 de Octubre 2008
if you don't have anything nice to say
here is the bio to be printed in the bulletin this week:
As children and family minister here at Phinney my job is to facilitate faith formation for the church family. I take very seriously my call to come alongside congregants of all ages as they struggle with what it means to be the family of God. I remember you all in my prayers, especially as you experience seasons of grief and growth. I work specifically to support parents and children from conception to confirmation in their call to share with each other the love of God.
I spend most of my 20 hour work week with the staff and volunteers who support Bread for the Journey, Sunday School and Vacation Bible school as well as develop curriculum for these programs. I plan intergenerational events for Advent, Lent and other seasons of celebration. On Sunday mornings, it is my pleasure to give the children's word, and then catch up with you over a cup of hot cocoa in Fellowship Hall.
and here is what my boss wrote back when i asked him to edit it:
It looks pretty good to me. I'll add a few capital letters. What is it with your generation and capital letters? Are you all afraid that we will run out of them that you all use them so sparingly? You need to be the Children and Family Minister writ large! It's your title. Relish in it.
and here are some other nice things to say when you don't have anything nice to say:
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. it is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. it's not just in some of us, its in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." Marianne Williamson
And here is a tzitzit prayer
Whoever wrapped in a tallit in one's youth will never forget:
taking it out of the soft sack, opening the folded tallit,
spreading it, kissing the border along its length (sometimes embroidered
and sometimes embossed). Aferwards, a great sweep over the head
like the heavens, like the huppah, like a parachute. Afterwards, folding it
around one's head as if playing hide and seek, and then wrapping
the body n it, tight tight, letting it fold you like a cocoon
and then opening it like wings for flying.
And why are there stripes and not black-white squares
like a chessboard? Because squares are finite without hope
and stripes comes from infinity and go on to infinity
like the runways at the airport
so that angels may land and take off.
When you wrap yourself in a tallit you cannot forget
coming out of a swimming pool or the sea
and being wrapped in a great towel and casting it
over one's head and wrapping in it, tight tight
and shivering a little and laughing and--blessing.
from the new prayer book at the temple beth am in seattle.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 10:40 AM | Comments (0)
4 de Octubre 2008
you asked for it
here is the eucharist reading from vespers, thanksgiving 2007
It was Passover. The time for thinking about the blood of the lamb on the doorposts telling the angel of death to pass by, Passover.
13 men huddled, perhaps hiding away together. As the sun set they looked over the food before them. Each dish a familiar symbol.
But that night Jesus refused to give them the tradition they had hoped would comfort them.
He stood up and they thought of their fathers reciting the traditional Passover blessings, telling them to remember their past.
He took the bread in his hands and asked God to bless it, he broke it, the way his earthly father had done so many times, but this time he said
"when you eat this bread, don't remember running from Egypt, don't remember fear or death. Remember me. I will nourish you."
And they ate. They probably spoke carefully to each other. Perhaps Peter told a weak joke or two, he was always embarrassing himself.
As they felt their bellies full and leaned away from the table Jesus stopped them,
"I want you to remember me. I want you to think of me when you pour wine. Today is a day to think of blood when you see the deep red that you so freely pour on holy days like today." He asked God's blessing on the wine in his cup and said "Don't think about the blood of lambs anymore, think of my blood. Think of the days I taught you that you must shed blood for your brothers. Think of the good that comes from pain, from sacrifice. Think of my blood, the human blood that runs in me now. It is just like yours and it hurts me to bleed for you but I love you; I would do anything for you--remember that!"
As we eat this meal together remember there is redemption in this food. Come to this table with your hunger pangs and heartache, bring your sadness and anger with you. Fill up your angry spots with the blessing of Broken Bread and the sweetness of the Bitter Cup.
The table is set, the bread is broken, the wine is poured out. The blood has been shed from arms, legs, a heart that felt real human pain. Remember that God has experienced our pain. God knows how to nourish us.
Feel and feed the painful places, eat, drink and be satisfied, in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 2:53 PM | Comments (0)
my dad says
once you serve communion, really serve communion, you're ruined forever. it drives you. the service, the community, it drives you to want it more, to live it more.
he says that you have to work out the ordination stuff in your context, rather than allow preparation for ordination to force you away from where you are called to serve right now. he said that when you are ready to move into more responsibility in your ministry you will know, even if you know because your boss is goading you. he said that there is a reason why a pastor should bring the sacraments and why i might not feel it yet, but that one day i will and i'd better be ready to say yes. and that that is what all this is about, knowing when and how exactly i am ready to say yes.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 9:52 AM | Comments (0)
3 de Octubre 2008
in case this is news to you too:
cynicism is born of disappointment
Posted by crymytinyflood at 11:59 AM | Comments (0)
2 de Octubre 2008
city arts
something you should know: CityArts is a new free arts mag in seattle and i like it.
here is why:
How to Write Right
Advice from our Copyeditor
Had a long day? Feel like laying down? Wait a moment. "Lay" needs a direct object (a person or thing that is the object of the verb's action). So you don't lay down, you lay something down: you might lay your firstborn child down in her crib but you lie down if you're doing yourself. We call verbs like "lay" that need direct objects transitive verbs, while verbs like "lie," which don't take a direct object, are intransitive verbs. So next time you're tired, take a deep breath, lay down whatever you are holding, and lie down.
a good friend once tried to explain this to me in the middle of a very embarrassing activity in which i told him to lay down, and he profoundly objected. but it was such chaos that i have often wondered if our entire friendship would have been different, easier, less painful had i understood just a little more, about lots of things. so there's that
(nothing like a good eight years or so to clear a few things up). but, and i'm not making excuses for bad grammar, if none of it had gone down, i would not be writing any of this. and that is what it means to have a found a true bosom friend, i suppose.
i think anyone who tells you you should find your soul mate is crazy because if you're soul is anything like mine, it probably won't end well, if it ends at all, and how long can you really deal with someone who knows so goddamn much about you?
find someone who's soul doesn't reach out across the country to touch yours. find someone who can't possibly imagine what it must be like to know all the things your heart will say.
find someone who knows only tiny little things about you; so that you are a sort of a universe, a whole system of tiny sparklers that might burn him up if he gets too close because the mystery of it will draw him close, he will get close, regardless of the danger. and he will get burned, and then he will come into the bathroom while you're crying in the shower and say something very helpful like: do you want me to come hang out in there with you?
and it will be good for him to have to ask
and it will be good for you to have to answer
but whatever you do, don't date a writer, unless, of course, you like your love life to be splayed across the page. i'll never live any of this down, my only consolation is that it will be well written, perfect grammar, every comma accounted for.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 8:53 AM | Comments (1)