Dajji's Ponderings

One more thing

2008-09-06T17:09:00.000-07:00

Also?

I read this that made me feel less like a psycho, and got me thinking about this.

What would I do without Stewart/Colbert and snarky politics blogs?

Let's talk about anything but the rain

2008-09-06T13:22:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here, attempting to postpone further the writing of my sermon. So far, so good! I'm also waiting to see how many of the trees around my apartment get blown down in the tropical storm. We're currently looking at two--one giant, one smaller. All this has freaked out my dog to the point that he won't go out the front door anymore. I think he might have the right idea.

I have been thinking this past week about (of course) Sarah Palin. Just like almost everyone else in this country.

Now, I don't like Gov. Palin. At all. I don't like her to the extent that I was ranting to anyone who would listen about her for the past week. I don't like her policies, her record, her way of presenting her record, her accent, or her pride in being 'folksy.' Really, I don't like her--and I was kind of disturbed by that. There are a lot of famous people I don't care for, but I tend to not obsessively dwell on it.

And the conclusion I came to was this. It wasn't just that her politics make my skin crawl and her hypocrisy is somewhat astounding. (Though, there is that too.)

This woman makes my life harder. Each and every day, she makes my life and my work more difficult. This is why I don't like her.

She plays into stereotypes that were hatched in 1950s sitcoms. Women must work to be pretty all the time--and the prettier they are, the more capable. But not too capable--heaven forbid they admit to ambition. No, they just run for the local PTA to help their kids. After all, their kids are their proudest accomplishment! And they don't worry too much about big problems like Iraq or global warming or pay equity or even decent sex education (probably a mistake, looking back)--they just praise the decency of the nice old man who gave them their job and smile and look pretty.

So, by playing that part so very nicely on a national stage, Sarah Palin just made it that much harder for everyone else. At work, the next time someone compliments my hair instead of my sermon, she made it easier. The next time someone tells me they're glad the church hired me because I am so young and cute, she made it easier. The next time someone tells me my sermons are too complex for me to give, she made it easier.

These people aren't malicious--they're just doing what their culture tells them to. And so thank you, Gov, Palin, for reinforcing all that for a new generation.

Oh how the pastries have fallen....

2008-05-31T05:41:00.000-07:00

Why, Dunkin' Doughnuts, why?

I used to like you a lot--your 24/7 operating hours, your over-hyped coffee that was still marginally better than deli coffee, your nice location on my way to work on Sundays, and the cheap addictiveness of your doughnuts.

And then you had to go all crazy on me.

Other people less lazy about blogging have already talked about this, but here I go anyway.

You pulled the Rachel Ray ad from your website after several wingnuts complained that the scarf she was wearing looked like a traditional Palestinian kaffiyeh, and thus advocated terrorism. You then posted an apology online.

SERIOUSLY?!

There are so many things wrong with this that I hardly know where to start. Let's start with the more esoteric, shall we?

The kaffiyeh is a traditional Middle Eastern head covering. It has enjoyed widespread use in many countries, not just the Palestinian territories. Generally, the color palette indicates the wearer's place of origin. (Black on white is Palestine, Red on white is mainly Jordan, white on white is the Gulf, etc.) And even then, no one can quite agree on the symbolism of the colors--different Palestinian groups favor different designs--the most prominent of which (in the West) was Yasir Arafat, who wore a distinctive black-on-white one. Along with the Jordanian kings, and the Saudi royal family--lots of pictures of them online--look them up. And Lawrence of Arabia, and anyone who had to walk around in the desert for a prolonged period of time. So there's no way the symbol is limited to the Palestinians, or stranger yet, Palestinian militancy.

But, hey, didn't it first really enter the American consciousness when Arafat showed up? He wore one! That makes all kaffiyeh-wearing wrong!

Yes, he did, in fact, the PLO wore them all the time, and so does Fatah (favoring the ones that Arafat used to wear.) But, if you haven't done your homework, then you don't know that Arafat wasn't an Islamist. In fact, he didn't get along well with them at all. They (Hamas, mainly) defeated his Fatah party in the recent elections. Remember the whole Fun in Gaza Summer 2007? Fatah doesn't get along well with Islamist political parties--they tend to fight to the death. Last time I was in Ramallah, half of the legislature had fled the city, in advance of the anniversary celebration of Fatah. They didn't want to get arrested as a celebratory gesture.

So really, EVERYONE in the region wears head scarves. No one color-coordinates with the people whose politics they endorse. It doesn't symbolize advocacy of anything, except the position of not dying from heat stroke.

Ok, then, maybe the simple scarf isn't so evil after all. It looks nice, keeps you cool in summer, warm in winter, what else could you want?

Oh wait, there's one more thing. One more reason why this is ridiculous. (wait for it.....)

IT WASN'T A KAFFIYEH. NOT AT ALL.

That's right. It was a lovely silk paisley scarf that terrified the wingnutty side of America. GOD.

There are SO MANY things that bother me about this--the implication that I'm being lectured to by a SCARF, the implied lumping together of all Palestinians, everywhere, always, into 'terrorists', or the fact that it was all a LIE to begin with. How paranoid do you have to be, how terrified of the big, scary Other, that you invent this story and run with it? Have we gotten so afraid of shadows that we start screaming stereotypes and wrong information whenever we find the least opportunity?

Belgium. I'm moving to Belgium.

Hallmark theology

2008-05-22T12:08:00.000-07:00

(am I blogging again so soon out of guilt for not blogging for a year? Or because I'm bored without furniture? You decide!!)

I have a younger brother, who works as a bouncer, at a bar, in Boston. (Apparently, it has other job benefits besides alliteration.) He wants to be a writer of some variety, or just to be the next Jon Stewart. He and I have certain things in common, including a tendency to get bored easily, and to amuse ourselves with random jokes and sarcasm.

His latest endeavor is Christian cards. At Christmas, he and I went to a local Hallmark store, and he asked this middle-aged woman where the religious cards were kept. I thought she was going to hyperventilate, she was so happy. She took him right over to the 'Inspirational' section, and proceeded to show him various cards that she found profound, and the boy just stood there, all thoughtful and respectful and whatnot. Little did that poor woman know that he was just going to get them home, and mock them without mercy or pity. (the Boy on the Creed: 'He will come again?' Seriously?! If I sleep with a girl, and don't call her, it's pretty clear I'm not coming back--how come we haven't gotten the hint after 2,000 years?!?')

So I've decided to share my graduation card with the interwebz, because it is one of his finer efforts. The actual card text is in regular, the Boy's comments are in italics.

(Front of card:)

GOD is with you as you Graduate!

What makes us special is the signature of God on our lives. --Max Lucado

(Arrow to Lucado quote) Taught Sunday school to 4yr olds; that's where the quote's from.

(Inside the card, front flap:)

"For I know the plans I have for you', declares the LORD, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11 NIV

If he didn't know his own plans that HE made, wouldn't that make you question if the Lord has his shit together?

(Inside card: text)

Wishing you a future alive with promise, rich with possibilities, filled with the wonder of His Love for you. Happy Graduation.

What I love about this card is that it only talks about God loving you. It makes no indication that the sender of the card has ever met, or even knows you. The jist of it is: " God loves a graduate, and Boy! does his plan involve you in some possible way!' While making no mention of 'Oh, by the way--this card isn't from God. It's actually from a person you've met before." Cards are stupid.

Gee, thanks brother! :)

Somewhere Different Now

2008-05-21T06:00:00.001-07:00

So, yes, I haven't posted in like a year. Can we just not dwell on that? Just ignore it in the hopes that the giant elephant will go away? Thanks.

In recent news, I have moved! To Virginia Beach, and a real (more than one room) apartment! It features amazing, unheard of luxuries---a freezer! A washer/dryer! Cabinets under the counter! It's AMAZING!!!!

But also, it has a new and wide variety of ways to terrify my dog. Now, as those of you who have been aroun

d in the past year (not me so much) know that my dog is a wonderful, affectionate being with a remarkable cuteness. You also know that he is a gaping hole of emotional need and fear. When he sees me come home, he doesn't run and jump on me, he runs and throws himself down at my feet, staring at me until I pet him. This continues until my arm cramps up, or I leave again, in which case, he lies on the sofa, miserable and dejected-looking. He is deathly afraid of anything stick-like, chihuahuas, people vacuuming upstairs, cats, grass, you name it.

So now that we've moved to a less urban place, my apartment complex surrounds a pretty lake, with pretty ducks, and a pretty fountain. See? (This is the view from my balcony. I have a balcony. Don't hate me.)

So now Bowie's new phobia is the water. He'll sniff right up to the edge, then leap back and cower. Then he'll do it again a few seconds later. While this is amusing to watch, it makes for really boring walks. Next week, I hope to introduce him to the ducks!

Also: this. My senior sermon from back in November. The reason that certain Filipino priests now run up to me and yell 'Surprise!' then laugh hysterically. (and yes, they did spell my name wrong. Oh well.)

Dead Turkeys and whatnot.

2007-11-20T09:25:00.000-08:00

(ya'll knew I had to work in a dead animal reference somehow, right?)

So it's almost Thanksgiving, that wonderful prelude to Christmas mania. A time to be thankful. Else how would we know when it was tasteful to start displaying all our Christmas paraphernalia?

I am going to my grandmother's house. I expect a rousing good time along the lines of a classic play, written by the love-child of Tennessee Williams and Edward Albee. (My great-grandfather was called Big Daddy. How I wish I was kidding.) So, I leave to you my senior sermon, which I delivered last week. It went well. Really well. Pretty much all sermons I give, I immediately want to rewrite so as to make them not suck quite so bad. This one, on the other hand, I enjoyed giving, and don't despise. See what you think. I believe I actually pounded on the pulpit at one point.

Isaiah 49:4-13, Matthew 28 (it will become obvious)

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be always acceptable in your sight, O God our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.

This passage from Isaiah is one of my all-time favorites. [ In fact, I have a huge, Religious-Studies-geek crush on whoever wrote 2^nd Isaiah, right up there with Cyrus the Persian, and Josephus the historian. I’m not proud. ]

2^nd Isaiah contains some amazing stuff, and he really earns his prophetic stripes. He’s right up there with Jeremiah, at times, in his willingness to say things that upset people—that over-turned everything they knew. In our time, today, I have a hunch we tend to forget how earth-shattering and shocking this passage would have been for the Israelites of the Exile. Isaiah to us has been mellowed out a fair amount by Handel and the overproductive Christmas card industry.

We have to remember that Isaiah is talking to a group of people who know themselves as the Chosen People. That is who they are! Never more so than when the going gets tough, and the Babylonians destroy Jerusalem and send them all into exile.

Did not God save them from the land of Egypt, when they were enslaved? Did YHWH not bring them into a land flowing with milk and honey, and aid their ancestors to defeat the current inhabitants of that land? Did not God give Moses the law at Sinai, to show his people how to live in holiness, as God himself is holy? This is a special people! A set-apart people! Inheritors of a unique relationship with the one true God. Everyone else can do their own thing—this is who we are.

Yet, here comes Isaiah, and says, “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob, and to restore the survivors of Israel. But I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.”

Surprise!!!!

In one fell swoop, the assumption that being the Chosen people, having a special relationship with God is a two way street gets blown apart. We belong to God—God does not belong only to us, and God can, and does! pay attention to whoever God wants. God is bigger—much bigger!-- than the claims of a small band of Near Eastern monotheists in the sixth century BCE, and God is bigger than our claims, and we forget that at our detriment.

When I worked with Sabeel—the Palestinian Christian Center for Liberation Theology in East Jerusalem, I was surprised to discover that many of the Palestinian Christian communities in the region had stopped using the Old Testament in their liturgies since 1948. Almost all of these were liturgical churches, so this was an immense and deeply- felt loss for them, but it was explained to me time and again that the familiar readings had become too viscerally painful. For, if you belong a group of people who trace your lineage back to the earliest Canaanites, through Jesus’ first disciples, how do you read, how do you hear, the story of the Exodus?

It becomes not a story of liberation, and God’s saving action, but the story of the Canaanites,--your people-- being once again driven from their ancestral lands in the name of a God they aren’t allowed to claim. The fall of Jericho becomes a tragedy, not a victory. And you know what that feels like.

All made worse, and more poignant, by the rhetoric, which flies from some of the religious extremists in modern Israel, who cite biblical precedent for plans to transfer Palestinian populations to other countries, or to expel further populations from the West Bank. Saul lost the kingdom because of his mercy toward the Amekalites, they say—we won’t meet the same fate.

One of Sabeel’s great missions, then, was to reclaim the scripture for the indigenous Christians. This was a living and Spirit-filled document, they believed, and the God they know was not like that, so how to explain this? And so, they turned to Isaiah.

They turned to Isaiah who sends the Chosen people out to all nations, as a universal symbol of God’s care, and calls a Persian king the Messiah of God, and they turned to Jonah, who was sent by God to the Assyrians, right after they pillaged the Northern Kingdom!, and they turned to Ruth, a foreigner—a Midianite!-- who became the mother of King David.

And of course, they turned to God, who so refused to be confined in heaven by human expectations, that he came to dwell among us in human form, and consecrated all human existence as holy and worth honoring.

And what was so humbling to me was that it is working. In ways few people could have predicted, the scripture, all of it!, is once again becoming a source of strength to these people as they struggle, as well as a place of common ground with Israeli Jews. It is the spirit of God at work—the Spirit that cannot be confined despite all of our ill-founded human attempts to the contrary. That can’t be confined to the claims of the Palestinians alone, or the Israelis alone—the God that works outside of context, and who ultimately unites us.

And that, is our saving grace. The God who refuses to be confined by our contexts and our narrow vision is the God who constantly acts to save us from them. Acting in ways we couldn’t have predicted, with people we are unfamiliar with, pushing us outside of our boxes and our boundaries.

This is what redeems us--because in the history of the Church, we have, to put it mildly, messed up quite a few times. We’ve given into our contextual blinders, and it’s led us into disaster after disaster. Translation problems led to schism, missionary zeal disguised imperialist intentions, and then, there were the Crusades. Not to mention that our track record with minorities is mournful. It has been so much easier to claim that we know what God looks like, acts like, believes, and we’ll form our church in that image.

But somehow, SOMEHOW, we’re still here. Despite our humanness, despite our human proclivity to do exactly, precisely what we know, somewhere, deep within us we probably shouldn’t be doing, the Spirit still moves. God is not confined those times we manage to get it right, or a scarier thought still--, to our mistakes. We belong to God—God doesn’t belong only to us. God is beyond our contexts, however blinded we might get. God works through even our mistakes to up-end history.

As Bp. Mark McDonald once said, “The Bible was given to the slaves to civilize them, and produced Harriet Tubman. It was distributed in Africa to create calm and it created Desmond Tutu.” Our misguided attempts to confine God, to recreate others and God in our image were eventually broken by the Spirit, and in ways that can be unsettling. After all, there are reasons we like to keep God in our small confinements—it’s comfortable for us! It makes life easier. Each time we face the Spirit of God, it’s a challenge. It’s a stretch. It’s a leap. We’re changed forever in sometimes-not-so comforting ways. God becomes bigger, less manageable. Less like us. More like God.

And this is ultimately why we’re sent to preach the gospel to all nations. Not to make them like us—that would fail miserably, and we’ve already tried that a couple of times. But we go in order to break free from our own confining ideas about God, and how God works, and who God cares about. We go and preach to learn more about God—how God works with other people. To learn more about each other, and to learn more about ourselves. To lose our blinders.

[]

There is a story from the Passover Haggadah that is read when the traditional ten drops of wine are spilled out of the wine glass, about halfway through the meal. The story goes, When God closed the Red Sea over the heads of the pursuing Egyptians, and the Israelites were saved, there was great rejoicing among all the angels in heaven. One of the angels noticed that God was not participating in the jubilation, and so he approached the divine throne. “Why are you singing?,” YHWH asked him, “My children are drowning.”

It is when we learn to spill the wine from our cups, when we learn that God stands above our partisan celebrations, When we learn that God is god of Israel and Palestine, and white and black South Africa, and everyone on this earth—then and only then, will we have fulfilled the great commission. Amen.

It's like, you know?

2007-11-17T17:37:00.000-08:00

(ya'll remember that TV show? The girl from Dirty Dancing was in it, only she had a nose job, and no one recognized her any more. So her career suffered. Ironic!)
So I'm still alive, and have finally survived most of this insane semester. This is no mean feat. This semester has featured, for me, the following:
-numerous interruptions of my class schedule, to the point where I show up for the wrong class, at the wrong time, on the wrong days.
-Dying relatives, accompanied by predicable familial meltdowns, in the style of Tennessee Williams. (Hey, we are a traditional and a highly literate people, even in our dysfunction. Respect!)
-the annoying return of Headaches from Hell, which have been persistent since roughly August.
-These, in turn, result in the equally annoying return of Prophetic Visions! And while it has a cool title, it's not that fun. Julian of Norwich and Hildegard of Bingen may have enjoyed seeing multiple copies of things, and zooming lights, but I am not a fan. Neither are the people that I am talking to when my world splits double. Evidently, it is unnerving to have me start tilting my head from side to side in an ill-fated attempt to have your image revert to its solitary self again, while jabbering on about atonement theory. Or something.
But! On the happier side of things! The semester is almost over, which means I get a nice long break.
Also, I've spent the last week hanging out with extremely cool conference people, as part of my official part time job. (This should not be confused with my Work-study Coordinator job, or my Field placement job. Or my taking-over-the-world job.) The conference was on the intersection between catholicity and globalization. Which sounds odd, but turned out to be very interesting. I was the liaison between the Conference center at the seminary (still not done, but one day! Inshallah.) and the conference participants. We had present the IFI (Philippine Independent Church), Church of Sweden, old Catholic churches, and Episcopalians.
And it is times like these when I remember how closely life outside of high school mirrors high school. And yet doesn't at all.
Much of the ecumenical work of the church is political backstage work--who's talking to whom and why, what might upset that relationship, how can we avoid that, should we send a gift? What kind of gift? How should we phrase this bit of text so as not to offend anyone, and if we stop talking to this person, how will that affect all our other relationships, because if person A is in close communion with person B and we stop talking to person A, then person B will cut ties with us. (Like most parties I went to in middle school, someone inevitably ends up in a corner, alone and in tears.)
But! At this conference, it turns out that all that stuff (which, don't get me wrong, is important in its place) is prelude so you can actually talk to people! And the people are doing incredible things! Which, I think, is actually why we were talking to them in the first place. Not so much because we wanted to line up theologies to march in pretty rows. That's never going to happen. But the actual basis of these things is that you honestly like the churches you work with--you respect what they do, where they do it, and you want to help out as you can, in your own unique way.
Next up: two sermons. Promise!

Rules of Life 2007

2007-10-23T13:43:00.000-07:00

I got a Facebook message from a friend from high school notifying me that she had unearthed something I had written way back then. I had a habit of compiling random and amusing (I thought) quotes from different sources, and dubbing them 'Rules of Life!'. And I then collected them all into one uber-book upon graduation, as I recall. My friend had recently found her copy, and apparently found it quite funny. Her favorite rule was 'In the eyes of the Lord, we are all ostriches.'
Which, is no doubt true, but I don't quite recall why I thought it was so profound when I was seventeen.
There were others, though. Classics from years before: 'Silly putty is not intended for use as ear plugs.' 'A refrigerator is not an exit. Do not be fooled by signs to the contrary.' These sound random and nonsensical to me now, but they made sense at the time. There is actually a warning on the back of Silly Putty (the brand name stuff, mind you) that says that it is not, in fact, to be eaten, or used as ear plugs. Imagine the law suit that prompted that! And in high school, because I got bored in class almost every second of every day, and had no wireless internet to distract me, I carried Silly Putty with me. And learned these things.
Similarly, in the basement of the community theatre where I performed a lot, there was a refrigerator, above which there was an exit sign. There used to be a door there, but now, there was a prop refrigerator, and no door, just an old exit sign, that mislead people, and the fire department. Again, boredom makes a lot of things funny.
But thinking back, these were the rules that were elucidated. There were all the other high school rules that weren't, and were just as important. 'Carry saltines with you at all times, because bomb scares will close the cafeteria, and you'll spend six hours sitting in a packed gym with no food.' 'The more hall passes you have stored in your backpack, the better off you are.' 'There will be people who will never talk to you on principle. There will be people who will always talk to you. Discern the difference and let it go. Questioning it is for college.'
I think the rules of life we live by change with every period of our lives. There are different rules I live by now; rules I've changed, and rules I've added and rules I've thrown out. Rules different people have taught me, and rules I've decided are better left not followed.
What are your current favorite rules of life?

Modest Proposal

2007-10-09T06:38:00.000-07:00

Due to my recent upswing in meta-Episco type activities, I've taken to reading more Episco-type blogs. (You must believe it if it's on the interwebs--Also, I've been using break to catch up on 30 Rock. Yes, and?) The results have been intriguing.
There seems to have been a spate of disturbing and somewhat outlandish accusations towards my little Church by people who you'd think would know better. Or, at least, people you'd think would phrase it nicer. Or, at the VERY least, people you'd think would make better word choices, or recognize sarcasm when they heard it.
Take for example, the Revd. Canon David Anderson, recently elected (or appointed, I'm not sure how they function) a bishop in the Nigerian Church in these here United States. Also, he's the president and CEO of the American Anglican Council. Clearly, he's a busy, busy man. As quoted recently in a letter posted on the Episcopal Cafe, he compares the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Vichy government during the Nazi regime, accusing him in part of "allowing the pantheistic and homosexual agendas to flourish."
Whoa there, fireball.

Look at the guy, does he look particularly vicious?

Granted, maybe the beard doesn't work in his favor......

Ok, look.
Back to my point.

First thing, smaller thing first: Pantheistic?! The hell you say! I spent most of yesterday being unreasonably bothered by this, before I figured out a Theory. Behold my theory!
In an American Western context, being called 'pantheistic' is like being called primitive, being called heathen, uncivilized. It pushes similar buttons. Pantheistic, after all, is what we all were before Abram got his talking to. From a religious studies standpoint, there is a long-standing bias against those traditions that are pantheistic, that has only recently been named and fought against, seeing them as somehow lowest on the totem pole. (No Pun intended, but you see?!) If religious development is evolution, then pantheistic traditions are unevolved, and got left behind. Cute though they might be, there's the belief built in that we've moved beyond them. So, with all that baggage, it's a pretty upsetting thing to be called, and in this context, not a nice thing to say to people who also took the baptismal covenant.
(This is bracketing the fact that pantheism is actually really cool, and works really well for millions of people. However, I strongly doubt any of them belong to TEC, so the name doesn't fit. Some people are pantheists, and are very good at it. We shoudl hire them to fix global warming, on account of we suck. Some people are Christians, and are very good at that, but occasionally do incredibly stupid things, like accuse other Christians of being different religions. The divine loves and dwells in everyone, and that's probably why David Anderson just called me a pantheist, as we'll see in a bit.)
Setting all that aside for a bit, what I think Canon Anderson was attempting to convey, albeit with the sublety and grace of a hippo performing Martha Graham, was that we place too much emphasis on the immanence of God. And he got that confused with pantheism. And in that case.....
There's not a whole hell of a lot I can do. Some one failed you, sir. Someone with a dictionary.

Pantheism is the belief that all living things have a spirit that is divine. i.e. a separate divine force for each thing. Ex. "I worship the spirit of the tree. Not the spirit that unites all living things that I find uniquely visible in this tree in it's tree-like form, but this tree!"
Immanence is the belief that God is present throughout all creation by the very act of creating living things. God, despite being transcendent (totally other! sui generis!) also decided to create a world that lives, thus imparting spirit and life into the world. (This also involves fun things like contingency. Find a systematic theologian and make them explain it all to you one day, grasshopper.) Thus: "I worship the spirit of God I find in the tree, that spark of life I find here that unites all creation, and me with it. (so goes a non-denom theist) That spark of life that also occasionally has been known to get incarnated in unwed teenage girls in 1st cen Palestine and get killed as a criminal then get resurrected. (so goes the Christian version.) " So. Like pantheism, in that we believe the divine is in all living things, but not like pantheism in that we believe that it's united, and in God, and also not limited to living things.
And about the whole Nazi thing.....can we just agree not to call people Nazis? Let's just not do it. Especially when they're in your own church. (Especially when it makes no sense. Who are the Jews, in this scenario?!) Especially, when you're supposed to believe that God lives in them, just like God lives in you, just like God lives in everyone.
And have you heard? We also eat our babies and drink their blood in some sort of ritual sacrifice! I expect a full color flyer about that one to come out within 6 months.

In Which We Discuss Music you should listen to

2007-10-04T13:51:00.000-07:00

For the past two or so years, really since I left college, I've made playlists of new music that I listen to repetitively in any given period. There's been an upswing in this lately because in college, I used to have helpful/similarly obsessed friends who did this for me, and now it's rubbed off on me. It was a good way to find new music, this trading of playlists with people, and also, in retrospect, to figure out what sort of mood I was in over any given season of my life. (This was how I discovered that CPE-summer was much angrier than I had originally known. No one listens to that much hard rock for that long for no reason.) So in that spirit, here is my current playlist, in no particular order, composed of whatever I've been playing a lot this summer and this fall.
Ahem. And I can pretend that I'm as cool as those people with the celebrity iTunes lists.
1. Feel to Believe-Beth Orton
(It doesn't sound like anything else on that album, somehow very cool.)
2. the Times, They are a changing- Brandi Carlile
(yes. She didn't write it. I know. But her cover of it is very good, and as I've told a number of you, I like Dylan songs better when Dylan himself doesn't try to sing them.)
3. Burning Down the House-John Legend
(I'm on a covers kick, and how awesome is it that John Legend covers a Talking Heads song?!)
4. Four Winds- Bright Eyes
(Yeats reference! Whee!)
5. Antichrist Television Blues-Arcade Fire
(Apparently it's about Joe Simpson and Jessica's deranged career. That, however, manages not to diminish the radical awesomeness of the song for me. A statement of how much I like this whole album, actually. Listen to the whole thing, in order.)
6. Through to Sunrise-Girlyman
(They're so cool. I'm going to miss NYC....)
7. Still Beating- Josh Ritter
(If I were interviewed by James Lipton, and he asked me what other career I would most want to attempt, I would want to be a singer/songwriter, but then I think of Josh Ritter, and I know I would FAIL MISERABLY, because of the sheer contrast. This and 'Girl in the War.' Gah.)
8. Picture of Success-Rilo Kiley
(Don't know what this song is about, but I like being unreasonably pissed at Mexico, and having really good shoes. And ruminating about death. And feeling oddly emotional about weird things. Like Mexico and shoes. Dude! It's like seminary!!!!!! :)
9. No Bad News-Patty Griffin
(I saw her in concert last spring, and it was awesome. And on my way, I saw Taye Diggs on the subway. Best. Night. EVER.)
10. Angels Hung Around-Rilo Kiley
(I, for one, like the new Rilo Kiley CD. Possibly because I was never a big RK fan prior to that, and don't know any better. Anyway...)
11. Cinnamon Road-Shawn Colvin
(Oh! Since there are enough scary conspiracies out there to freak me out and depress me-i.e. Christian Zionists and red cows in Texas, Heritage Foundation funneling money into my church, etc, I consider musical conspiracies to be the antidote. Consider please, Patti Griffin and Shawn Colvin and Mark Knopfler, I think?, singing a Patti song to be a pretty strong dose.)
12. John Saw that Number-Neko Case
(There should be more joyous songs about the eschaton. And Neko Case would be just the person to provide them, assuming that Regina Spektor is otherwise occupied. She just sounds so damn intrigued by the whole visions thing.)

So go! Run to iTunes, or BitTorrent, and play! And also, send me your recent listenings. That's the only way this works.
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Now playing: Brandi Carlile - Again Today
via FoxyTunes

Theology will kick your ass.

2007-09-30T17:02:00.000-07:00

[Yes, I haven't posted in a while. We're bracketing that concern.]
So, I was told by numerous people in college that my mania for theological conversations and concerns and overtones was nonsense. "It's too heady!" they told me. "No one cares about that stuff! It has no relevance whatsoever to daily life, or what people actually care about!"
And, silly me. I listened for a while. Right up until I got some of that wonderful thing termed Life Experience and decided that these people were Full of Crap.
Theology, actually, is what the stuff of daily life is made of. Whoever said we couldn't talk about religion and politics was really smart. There is, in fact, nothing else to talk about.
To prove this statement, I offer the following examples.
Example #1: Ultra-orthodox Judaism in Israel!
According to Ha'aretz the other day, the election of a more conservative Orthodox party to the Chief Rabbinate has been causing some problems in the agricultural industry. Due to a Levitical law that calls for the land to rest and lie fallow every seventh year, technically the crops now being produced cannot be licensed as kosher by the Chief Rabbinate, which threatens the economy of Israel severely, since it heavily relies on a steady influx of locally grown kosher food. So: religious law and politics causes economic crisis, to the point where more moderate rabbis have formed a splinter rabbinate, in order to certify food. (Kind of a back-alley kosher thing. Oh, the jokes that could proceed.)
Now, here's where it gets interesting. Formerly, the law was dealt with through a provision in halakha (Jewish law) that allowed the land to be ritually sold to a non-Jew for the year. Kind of a loophole written into the law. However, being that this is a new regime, they aren't fans of that kind of reach-around, and won't license ritually bought/sold food.
But that leads to my point. The assumption built into the law, and its halakic interpretation is that of co-habitation with the stranger, which is all but lost today (hence a whole 'nother set of problems for Israel.) Dude. Of course you're going to starve if you let your land sit for an entire year. You're going to have to get pretty friendly with your neighbors, and this assumes you have some, and that they are growing food. The midrash goes a step farther and assumes that they are friendly enough to help out, and ritually buy your field from you, even if they do odd things like mangle the pronunciation of the glottal stops in your language, and enjoy the taste of matzoh way too much. But you know, they try.
Example #2: House of Bishops!!
Ok, so from far-off Israel, we come back to my own One, Holy and much Press-Released Church. If you've been following the press releases, then you know there's been some excitement as of late in the HoB. Yes, minions, it was like a school dance. Progressives on one side, conservatives on the other, and the ABC travelled all the way from Lambeth to stand in the middle and try to play tempting music for the dancing. ('In your Eyes', Rowan! Works every time! Why do they never listen?!)
Anyway, the statement they released was an interesting exercise in the crafting of a statement. For a really, really good wrap of....pretty much everything, go here. Occasionally, she even has some slightly snarky commentary, which, as we all know, can only help.
And what is my take? Because, for all the people now voicing their opinions to the highest heavens, surely I want to add fuel to that infero right?
Hmmmm.
Here is my initial thought: Read it several times, because it is theology, and theology is hard to understand, and dense.
Have you seen the US version of 'The Office?' Watch season two, the episode where Dwight has to give a speech. Jim tells him that in order to give a good one, he should be true to himself. Therefore, he should bang his fists, and wave his arms in the air, many times. He also attempts to be 'helpful' by giving him several speeches of history's great Facist dictators. Thus, the result is that Dwight gives a rendition of the Workers of the World, Unite! speech aimed towards paper salesmen and -women of Northeastern Pennsylvania, with randomly banging fists and wildly flailing arms, in complete discordance with his context and surroundings. (...You just have to see it. Trust me. BitTorrent it or something.)
I think the statement from the HoB is like that, somehow. There are randomly banging fists and flailing arms, and the sense that we're trying really REALLY hard, and really believe what we're saying, but it...doesn't...fit.
It doesn't fit to say at the beginning of a statement that you will withhold consent from the consecration from a particular group of people, but they are full members of the church just the same. It doesn't fit to say that a group is entitled to full civil rights, but not full ecclesiastical right, or the right to public union.
It's just an uneven statement; but at the same time, it's a true statement. The truth is that's where we are as a national church; struggle as we might, and come as far as we have. Anyone really think that if a gay or lesbian candidate gets elected to be bishop tomorrow that it won't be an issue before the Standing Committees? The bishops don't have power on their own to change it, though they might want to go back or forth (and though they get to tack on language to bitch-slap the foreign primates a bit, and good on them for that.)
And, honestly, all the unevenness and the contradiction and the frantic arm-waving implicit in the statement makes me having a grudging respect for it. (That, and the fact that seemingly no one in the secular media can figure what the hell we did. Hee.) I guess it's the equivalent of the Church writing some sort of adolescent diary entry, then sending it to the primates, then all holding hands and hoping that they don't hate us too too much when they read it. (Though, let's face it folks, some of those guys were foregone conclusions, right? Take the poster of Akinola off the wall, girls. Dreamy he may be, but he's not coming home.)
Next time: I explain what kind of music you should listen to!
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Now playing: Rilo Kiley - Picture Of Success
via FoxyTunes

Home again, home again

2007-08-27T11:02:00.000-07:00

And she's back! Back again, from the wilds of wherever she went!

Where did I go?
Right there!
I was there! Isn't that awesome?
(I love travelling!) I came back and stared at the cover of the Istanbul Grill's takeout menu, at the picture of the bridge over the Bosphorus and thought, Hey! I've been there! And, indeed, I have!
So yes, I was in Turkey for a bit over a week, travelling around and being all interfaith and save-the-world-through-dialogue-y. The group of us from the seminary were sponsored by a magnificent group of Turkish Americans who feel that it is essential to their understanding of Islam to help others outside of their faith to better understand their native land and their faith...so they sponsor these trips to Turkey for leaders from America in that spirit.
These people renew my faith in humanity.
Everything was taken care of for us, and everything ran smoothly. We saw everything. Hagia Sophia, Blue Mosque, Suleiman's Tomb(a really big deal for me. He was on index cards for a year for me. Suleiman the Magnificent! Suleiman the Lawgiver! The Turks called him Suleiman the Significant, which I found amusing. Such a nice empire, the Ottoman one, as these things go.), Rumi's Tomb (another huge deal), the caves of the Cappodocian Fathers and Mothers (now I know where the Nicean compromise happened!), so much stuff. We even saw a newspaper which decided that it would start writing the news without political influence or bias for the first time in Turkey (and what would that be like, I wonder?). And had dinner with a Turkish family, who were the most gracious hosts I've ever met. Oh, and we met the Ecumenical Patriarch of the Orthodox Church, which was pretty awesome.
And no, I wasn't on the hijacked plane. We were on an earlier flight out of Istanbul that day, and a different gate!, as we told ourselves proudly. So no mortal danger for me on this trip. Whee!
So now it's back to the grindstone. Classes start the day after Labor Day--my last year of classes. Ever. I am having trouble believing it, on one hand, but on the other.....
I've been halfway around the world several times. I've been held at gunpoint several times. This summer, I've held down the fort in a church where I wasn't expected to do much, and rose to the occasion (and corralled two of the front-runners for Most Onery Clergyman of the Year Award.) I've pulled an effective "Yassir Arafat" on my CPE peer group, and hey, I have my very own dog, who is almost unpastorally cute at times. So maybe I really am ready to be out in the world on my own.
Maybe.

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Now playing: Rilo Kiley - Under the Blacklight
via FoxyTunes

Home again

2007-08-12T16:59:00.000-07:00

Well, folks, I'm back in the city again. And I'm sure the poor city noticed my absence. I arrived in my apartment yesterday afternoon, and noted that the two subletters, while managing not to burn the place down, and vacuuming the main room very nicely, had grievously neglected to do the same for the bathroom or the kitchen. Also, I think they were under the impression I would be returning in a few days? So they graciously left me milk. And bread. For over three weeks.
Bless their sophomore-ian collegiate hearts.
(See, I did learn something valuable in my time spent back in the South.)
Actually, the subletters were very nice, and sweet, and left me a happy note, with money to buy dinner! So I won't complain about them. I am far too busy being happy about returning to New York to complain about soap scum. Or almost passing out from the soap scum remover. (Dude, that stuff is strong. I had no idea. They weren't lying about the not inhaling. Whew.)
But scummy showers or not, it's so nice to be back in a nice big city with happy people who don't berate me for reading the NY Times or the BBC. Where stores are open on weekends, and past 6pm! Where I don't have to live in a constant state of low-level panic about whether or not my car will turn on that morning, or which semi-functioning car I will be forced to beg, borrow or steal that day in order to function myself. (I finally took AAA off speed dial. It was a glorious moment.) Where I don't have to think "Does this sound like something a Communist sympathizer would say?" before I speak. (Though, granted, that rule should probably stay in place a while longer.)
In short, while I honestly loved the people at my church in Virginia Beach, and I did love my time spent there, despite a few road bumps along the way, it's good to be home. If only to stop living out of a suitcase, which, I've discovered, I really hate after a while.
Anyway. Here's my last sermon from the beach, given on my last Sunday. I should warn you, the texts were difficult. But I soldiered on, nonetheless, and went with the second OT reading.
Here we go:

There are some weeks when I wonder about the wisdom of the lectionary. I had a friend, growing up in Newport News, who was Southern Baptist, and never understood why we Episcopalians stuck to a schedule of readings and prayers. She was sure she’d get bored, if she came to church with me every Sunday. It’s weeks like this that I wonder if she didn’t have a point. Our lesson lineup is somewhat less than uplifting.
We start with Ecclesiastes---or Quoheleth in Hebrew, meaning the Preacher, who over the course of the book, comes to the conclusion that life is nothing but vanity, and a chasing after wind. Nothing lasts, and nothing is new, everything just goes round and round in a circle so there’s no real use in anything having to do with this mortal life.
Then we come around to the Gospel story, after Paul sternly reminds us not to get too invested in the ways of the flesh, and Jesus adds his two cents. He tells us of a man who was rich, and very prosperous, after working very hard. And then, after achieving all this wealth and prosperity, he promptly dies, and cannot enjoy it. We are sternly warned yet again about the frailty of this earthly existence.
It’s not a cheery day in the world of the lectionary, what with everything being vanity, and people dying all over the place. But maybe it is days like today that the lectionary was designed for—because these are probably the lessons that we would skip over if we could. These are the lessons we would prefer not to read. These are definitely the lessons I would prefer not to preach on.
These lessons remind us that our lives are frail. They aren’t permanent. Our lives, in this world, aren’t eternal. Like the rest of the world around us, we get sick, we get old, and we pass away. We aren’t permanent. Only our lives with God, in Christ, are permanent.
And for most of us, or at least, myself, though this may be true, it’s not a comfortable reality. We really don’t like to think about that, because it’s really frightening for us. We hate to think about getting older, getting sick, especially in our society. Think of how much of our society is structured around staying young, staying healthy, staying fit. Think of how many magazines alone are based around the idea of looking 10 years younger! We love the idea that we could live here forever and ever. Turn on the TV, and there will be, at any given time, several different ads for face creams that promise instant youthful results, and hair dye that will cover those greys. And of course, there’s definitely more pressure on women than there is on men.
My grandmother, for example, could easily pass as a woman in her late 50s, early 60s. She loves to wear very high heels, and knee-length skirts. I don’t believe I have ever seen her wear pants a day in my life. Her comment, once, upon hearing a suggestion that she move into a retirement community upon reaching her 78th birthday, was that ‘She didn’t want to be around all those old people.’ It’s funny, but it’s sad. She’s terrified of aging, because of what aging means.
But we, as faithful people, who have heard the good news, what do we do? While the rest of the world is shouting that we should pretend that we are eternal beings, do we have another choice? Do we have a better way?
This is our challenge as Christians; we don’t have forever here, so how should we live? We have two choices, it seems to me. Either we choose to live in fear of what’s coming, the coming end of the line, or we choose to not.
Either we choose to dread what we know somewhere in us will eventually come to everyone, either we choose to postpone it and deny it as much as we can, either we choose to act like it will happen to everyone else EXCEPT US!
Or we choose not to.
Because the other side of that coin is where the joy is. The other side of that coin is where hope is. The other side of that coin is where Christ is. We are Christians, after all. We believe that death is really nothing to be afraid of. We believe that death has been conquered once and for all by God Incarnate in person!, and the waters of baptism.
God will provide for us, because God loves all of creation so much that everything has been taken care of for us. All we have to do is step out and take the risk.
So really, acknowledging, embracing that we have limited time can be incredibly freeing! It frees us up to do those things that God has called us to, that seems frightening or overwhelming. It takes away our excuse that we’ll have time later, we’ll have more resources later. It enables us to live our lives the way we know God has intended us to live right now, with no restraint. Because we have nothing to fear. Not even death.
The man in the parable today is a tragic figure, because he spends all his life doing just what he’s supposed to, working hard and providing for himself. And just when he assures himself that he finally has enough, that he is finally secure, he dies. He never gets a chance to relax. He never gets a chance to enjoy the results of his work, or become anyone other than the man who worked so hard, and struggled so much. He never felt secure. All his life was consumed with worry and struggle. What would have happened if he had relented a bit? Followed the call of God? What would have happened if he had said to himself, ‘Soul, we’ve got a surplus this month, so let’s donate it to the surrounding widows and orphans. It’s entirely too much trouble to build new barns right now, and Lord knows, I’ve got more than enough.’
Chances are, he still would have died. His death wasn’t a punishment for his poor decision-making skills. But he would have been rich toward God—that phrase Jesus uses. Being rich toward God, not rich toward this world, I’d say, means being focused towards doing the will of God in our lives, right now. Following the call of God in our lives, wherever it might lead. Turning away from our normal focus on self-preservation at all costs, and turning towards doing the will of God.
Because, the goal of this existence we have is not survival here. It’s not to cross the finish line with as many things as we can get. It’s not to cross with more spare time than anyone in history, or even more friends than anyone else, either. Those things are taken care of. Our goal is just to do the will of God while we’re here, as best we can. It’s just to fulfill our part in the reign of God while we can, with as few things holding us back as possible.
It’s just a change in emphasis maybe, just a shift in focus. But what a world of difference it makes. Suddenly, we’re not consumed by worry over whether the bank account will be full enough in the morning. Whether we’ll have enough energy tomorrow, whether enough people will agree with us or our opinions. All we have to do, in the time we have, is do the will of God, and luxuriate in the love we’ve been given. All the worry, all the fear, washed away. Just as we are washed in the waters of baptism, we are washed free from our fears and worry, and enabled to live in joy for God.
In the mid-14th century, a Sufi mystic named Hafiz was writing poetry in Persia. One of his poems, I think, sums up the freedom and joy we find in our baptismal life in Christ quite well. And I’ll leave it to you now.

If this world
Was not held in God’s bucket
How could an ocean stand upside down
On its head and never lose a drop?
If your life was not contained in God’s cup
How could you be so brave and laugh,
Dance in the face of death?
Hafiz,
There is a private chamber in the soul
That knows a great secret
Of which no tongue can speak.
Your existence, my dear, O love my dear
Has been sealed and marked
“too sacred”, “too sacred”, by The Beloved—
To ever end!
Indeed, God
Has written a thousand promises
All over your heart
That say,
Life, life, life
Is far too sacred to
Ever end.

Amen.
-Poem “God’s Bucket” By Hafiz, trans. Daniel Ladinsky from The Gift.

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Now playing: KCRW.com - Cake - Thrills
via FoxyTunes

Another one!

2007-07-30T10:47:00.001-07:00

So my friend sent me this interesting online quiz. Which I had to take, and then it rather freaked me out. See as follows:

You're The Giver!

by Lois Lowry

While you grew up with a sheltered childhood, you're pretty sure
everyone around you is even more sheltered. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, you were
tapped on the shoulder and transported to the real world. This made you horrified by
your prior upbringing and now you're tormented by how to reconcile these two lives.
Ultimately, the struggle comes down to that old free will issue. Choose
wisely.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Jack McCoy vs Benny XVI! Cage Match!

2007-07-29T17:16:00.000-07:00

So here is my sermon from two weeks ago. It went over very well, with certain exceptions. (There were some angry e-mails. Apparently, my honeymoon stage has ended at the internship. Several people have caught on to the fact that I am somewhere to the left of Cuba on the political/theological spectrum. Bless their hearts.) However, the vast majority of the congregation loved it, and they even applauded! Spontaneously! Awwww.
I should tell you, my favorite part of this sermon is that I manage to work Sam Waterston and the pope in there at the same time. I feel proud.

Text is Luke, the Good Samaritan story.

Lawyers are an interesting group of people. They have a pretty ambivalent reputation in our society, which frequently veers into the negative. Lawyer jokes are frequent, and much-laughed at. There’s that Shakespeare quote from Henry VI that’s quoted in times of strife—First thing we’ll do, let’s kill all the lawyers. Lawyers are popularly seen as the source of much bureaucratic red-tape and mischief in our society today, and somewhat akin to politicians on the scale of “people that cause great annoyance, but we should probably put up with anyway.”
However.
Have you noticed that the Law and Order franchise of shows enjoys unprecedented success? I have lost count of how many Law and Order shows that are now getting made, except that I know that they film all of them on the grounds of my seminary, and the guy who plays the District Attorney is now the chief spokesman for our fundraising campaign. (Yes, Sam Waterston is an Episcopalian! Who knew?)
As many shows as run on prime-time television, more and more of them seem to be about crimes committed and people solving them, according to the Rule of Law. Lawyers stepping in! Triumph of the legal process! CSI! The Closer! Boston Legal! The Practice! All those Law and Order shows! Sit for a minute and think about all those crime shows you can name—Matlock, Columbo, Murder She wrote, etc etc etc. We love these shows. Even more so now. In those shows, if you follow the rules, then the bad guys (easily identifiable!) are defeated and caught by the good guys. Who play by the rules. Because they are good.
So scoff as we might about lawyers, and tell as many lawyer jokes as we might, there’s a solid reason that TNT will show a 24 hour marathon of Law and Order reruns. There’s something about us, our culture, that thrives on the idea of order. The idea of boundaries. There is a way in which we are all lawyers—we all strive after that ideal of perfect order.
In our gospel story today, Jesus gets accosted by a lawyer concerned about…..the law. It makes sense. He would like to know, please, how to inherit eternal life. What should he do, exactly, in order to succeed at this game of life? What’s the secret?
Jesus answers, here in Luke, with an excellent summary of the Jewish Law. Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself.
That’s it.
But, this doesn’t quite cut it for our friend, the lawyer. He keeps going after Jesus. He wants to clarify the language, he wants footnotes, addendums, he wants add-ons. He wants specifics. He’s a good lawyer,it sounds like.
Tell me, exactly, please, If I am to gain this valuable thing, known herein as eternal life, by loving an entity known as ‘my neighbor,’ then who, exactly, please, is ‘my neighbor’?
He’s sure there must be a trap in there somewhere and he wants to find it. It sounds entirely too broad a Rule of Life to be practical—Love God, Love your neighbor, and that’s it.
So it is in response to this questioning that Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan, which is a familiar story to us now. Most of us, probably, could recite the basics of this story blindfolded, upside down and underwater, so familiar are we with the characters and the plot. But many times, that familiarity can obscure what’s actually going on in the story itself.
In the story, we hear about a man who goes on a journey and ends up in trouble. Beaten and left for dead. Unable to help himself. He’s lying there, on a dangerous, desert road, where few people ever go, all bloody and broken, and he looks half dead.
Into this picture come a few ‘stock characters’, almost. A priest, and a Levite. They, like the lawyer!, know the law. They can recite it backwards, forwards, and in several different languages, and have devoted their entire lives to keeping it…which is precisely why they cross on the other side of the road.
Because, according to Mosaic law, to touch a dead body is to be defiled, and would require a lengthy process of cleansing. To come in contact with another person’s blood is extremely bad—blood symbolizes life itself, which only God has control over, and messing with someone else’s blood has extreme consequences. So touching blood is unclean. Is not done. So the priest and the Levite, both of whom know the finer points of the law, as does our lawyer friend, pass by, so as not to be defiled. They look, and they see a dead body, and the priest and the Levite follow the law.
But the Samaritan—who is not Jewish, who is part of a religious sect so hated by the Jewish people that the lawyer at the end of the story won’t even repeat his title—is not knowledgeable of the law. He doesn’t know any of this. So he wanders up, and discovers something that the other two never did. What they had taken for dead was, in fact, alive. And he fulfills the law as well, the law to love your neighbor as yourself.
There is an essential irony in the story of the Good Samaritan. The people we expect to do the right thing, to solve the problem, to catch the bad guys, to bring forth justice, don’t. The specifics fail. The loopholes let us down. The Law and Order method doesn’t work here. As much as the lawyer, and we, want the priest and the levite, the stereotypical Good Guys, to save the robbed man by virtue of the minutae of the law, it doesn’t happen. Instead, a bumbling Samaritan does. One of the other guys. And this makes us uncomfortable.
Because we liked those specifics so much. We like our boundaries and our boxes. We like the details, and all the little rules. It makes us more comfortable, because then we can tell at a glance who’s who. Who’s in and who’s out. Who’s one of us, and who’s not. When Jesus tells us that all we have to do for the reign of God is to love God and love our neighbor, that’s not always comforting. We are left without a sense of what EXACTLY we’re supposed to do. And it can be frightening.
If we are just to love God, how EXACTLY do we do that?
If we are just to love our neighbor, how EXACTLY do we do that?
We’re used to dealing with definitions, with boundaries. And we define things by opposing them to other things. We know what black is because it isn’t white—it’s the opposite. We know what the shore is because it isn’t the ocean. We know who we are because we do things differently from that other group.
When we are told that all we have to do is love, and everything else important will follow after…..all our precious, safe boundaries evaporate, and then where are we left?
The point here is not that our boundaries are bad. It is just that they are human-made. They are secondary. They are fallible. And when we forget that, and we hold them as divine, they hold us back from Jesus’s offer of eternal life. Life all around us. Life more abundant.
They restrict us from seeing the image of God in the other creatures of God that we encounter. They restrict us from seeing the image of God in ourselves. The priest and the Levite missed the life that was still in the man lying in the road. The Samaritan didn’t.
This past week, as I’m sure many of you know, Pope Benedict XVI issued a document that, in his words, reinterprets one of the major documents of Vatican II. I have been thinking a lot about this for the past few days, because the document states quite explicitly that the Roman Catholic Church is the only true church, and that other churches cannot be called so, in the eyes of Rome. Our bishops, our priests are not valid, and so, our church is not valid, says the pope.
This is deeply troubling—not only to be told, in public, by a generally respected leader of a huge worldwide church that your beloved church doesn’t really exist, even if you don’t agree, but for me, because of my host of Catholic relatives, whom I love dearly, and who have always supported me without question in my journey toward the priesthood.
I don’t quite know what the proper response is—it would be easy to dismiss it as a typical pronouncement of a hierarchical church that has just gotten worse and worse. But I know too many faithful, generous, heartfelt Catholics to be able to do that. And to go down that path would be to make the same mistake as the priest and the Levite on that desert road to Jericho. The same mistake that I think the Pope has made—to not see the life of God still present in another, despite all our categories and warnings. And think of all the life liable to be missed in this little church alone, not to mention our countless other sisters and brothers of other confessions!
We are called to see beyond boundaries. We are called to see outside of boxes. We are called to see the frailty and faultiness of human categories. We are sent to the other side of the road, to find the life still hidden in the dust. So let’s get going! Amen.

Anything but the rain

2007-06-28T10:38:00.001-07:00

When I went on my very first round of pastoral visits, wayyyy back in the summer after my freshman year of college, in Atlanta, I visited this one very nice old lady. "Come back and see me," she said, "and we'll talk about anything but the rain." I like that phrase, mainly because it sounds pretty, and says a lot about Southern avoidance techniques.

In the past two weeks, I've managed to do pretty well for myself here, back in the South. (It's funny--when people ask me where I live, I say NYC, then they kinda glaze over, and I have to hastily add that I grew up here in Newport News, in order for them to snap back into friendly conversation--Yes, Virginia, I am one of you.) I'm running an adult education series on Wednesday evenings, showing a movie, and discussing faith-based elements in it. So far, we've talked about O Brother, Where Art Thou? which is happily full of stuff. It's all about baptism. Really. Watch it, and see if I'm lying to you. Next up, I think, will be Romero. Because I think it makes perfect logical sense to move from George Clooney acting like a Southern Depression-era fool to Mr. Addams dressed up as a Salvadoran martyr in the 1980s.
This week I've also participated in two Eucharists with deacons (real ones!) at local nursing homes. One of the deacons went through discernment with me, many moons ago, and now is finally a deacon herownself, so I get a kick out of seeing her all done up in a collar, and stole, and doing diaconal things. I also preached the sermon today--and managed to get some sort of response from a group of about 30 very old people, mostly suffering from various stages of dementia. (this I consider to be a positive thing. It makes them more fun to have in church--though less willing to sing along with hymns.) It was an index-card sermon, and one of those cases where I completely forgot to look down at my index card, in my concern to say what I wanted to say, and in my waving of my arms around. I think I even turned a bit Baptist there for a bit--though my emphasis was 'follow Christ' rather than 'follow Jesus'. My evangelical vocab still needs tweaking.

In any case, here's the sermon I preached on Sunday. Bear in mind the remarkable counter-scheduling: the 400th anniversary of the founding of Jamestown was occuring the same day. At the same time. With the Presiding Bishop, and every other Episcopal and Anglican dignitary in the Commonwealth present. I lose!
Lectionary was this

Monday was my first day off since I’ve been here working at Emmanuel, and I went to the beach. And I confess to you, here and now, that I haven’t been to the beach in years. Last summer I was working as a hospital chaplain, and never found time to go, and before that, it seemed like I was busy with other things. So I was looking forward to Monday.
So I drove down to the beach, all excited about my day of relaxation. And? I promptly got lost. Horribly lost. I ended up, not on 87th street like I wanted, but hurtling rapidly down Rt 60, and I ended up at First Landing National Park.
Oops.
It wasn’t too bad, though. I got myself turned around, and headed back, and got myself on the right fork in the road. And I eventually found my friend.
Getting lost, though, that was an interesting way to start my day. I realized, as I sat there on the beach, that I was sitting pretty close to where everything started for us about 400 years ago. All those people, coming into the unknown, all with their varied reasons, setting into motion such a huge story. Walking onto the beach that first time, those hundred or so Englishmen surely had no idea what they would find here. They didn’t know about the current inhabitants of this land, or how their interactions with them would color our story for generations. They didn’t know that the very act of holding Anglican worship on that beach would set the precedent for the Anglican Communion that we belong to today. They didn’t know hardly anything--This was wilderness for them, in every sense of the word. And the wilderness is not particularly warm and relaxing, despite my plans. It’s where a person can get lost.

In our reading this morning, Elijah is having a rough time of it. The life of a prophet is generally not an easy one, but Elijah is having an especially hard time. The current queen of Israel wants him dead, after he had publicly embarrassed her and killed about seventy of her closest personal friends and religious confidants.
Oops.
It was probably not the smartest political move Elijah had ever made in his life as a Prophet of the God of Israel, the taunting and slaughter of the prophets and priests of Baal, but so be it. Now they were dead. Killed on Mt. Carmel, after Baal had mysteriously declined to answer their prayers and ignite their offering to them. Queen Jezebel was displeased about their deaths, since she was a Canaanite, and devoted to Baal herself. King Ahab was also less than thrilled about the situation because he wasn’t the strongest king in Israel’s history and Jezebel basically dictated policy, both public and religious. And here Elijah goes, taunting her favorite religious advisors and then killing them on one of the Canaanite holy places.
So he gets in trouble.
He gets in big trouble, actually, and flees. He runs all the way from Mt. Carmel, way in the north of the country to Beer-sheeba. In the southern tip. He runs out of the kingdom of Israel. Today, this is about a four-and-a-half hour car ride on modern highways. Lest we underestimate the fleeing powers of Elijah when he panics—let the hearer understand: the man runs as far away from Jezebel and her death sentence as he can physically get.
So he ends up in the desert, basically. Out in one of the Hebrew scripture’s favorite places—the wilderness—and doing another time-honored tradition of the prophet: he sulks at God. The prophet job was not working out. He had done the right thing—he had fought against idolatry and the enemies of God, and things had not turned out correctly at all! So, he hits the panic button and heads for the wilderness. And waits for something to shift.
Out in a similar place is the demoniac we meet in today’s gospel. Like Elijah, he’s in the wilderness, but with an important difference. Elijah fled to the wilderness, and the demon-possessed man was thrown there by others. He’s kept in chains because he’s so violent. He’s too dangerous to be around other people. He doesn’t wear any clothes and he scares anyone who comes near him. Society has kicked him out, and he ends up living in the tombs—absolutely forsaken with his problems. He’s not in Israel either—Jesus and his disciples leave Galilee, notice, and cross to the country of the Geresenes. Jesus is leaving his country. We’re out beyond the boundaries of ‘acceptable’ people. This demoniac is an outcast among outcasts.
And now, Like Elijah, he is Another one in the wilderness, in the very midst of death, waiting for something to change.
No matter how we get there, the wilderness is that place where we end up when nothing else is working. It’s the realm of spiritual chaos; it’s where everything is falling apart and we’ve thrown in the towel. It’s where we get lost.
It’s not an easy place to be. There are tombs. There is heat. Rocks. Scorpions. No water. The Hebrew Scriptures line up the wilderness with the desert, and just think about all the time the Israelites spent wandering around in the desert wilderness before reaching Canaan after the Exodus. All the stuff that happens out there. It’s a tough place to be.
And yet….the wilderness has a redemption. Out in the wilderness, moping in a cave, Elijah hears a voice: “What are you doing here, Elijah?”. Promptly, Elijah spills out the whole story: “I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away!" the people of Israel have messed up! Now they are angry at him! And it’s really not his fault! He did the right thing!
Then God passes by. Not in the way you’d expect maybe. Not in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire, but in the sheer silence.
Now the prophet of God has met God, has seen God, but not in the way he expected.
This is a prophet who called down fire from the sky in the name of Yahweh, who slaughtered the prophets of Baal in the name of Adonai. That was his experience of God. This silence, this quiet. This was not that. This God was something else. This was a wilderness God.
For the demoniac, raging about the tombs all day, the relationship with God was off the table. When Jesus appears, the man expects pain, suffering, torture. After all, he had been cast out of his village. He had been thrown out of his family, and also, he’s not even the right nationality :”What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God…I beg you, do not torment me.” Even the demons within him react with fear to the Divine in Jesus, expecting punishment, or revenge. {Luke’s in good Greek dualism mode here.}
But that’s not what he gets. Jesus responds with mercy, even for spirits of questionable character. When the demons ask not to be sent back into the abyss, Jesus sends them into a herd of pigs—bad for the pigs, good for the demons, who would rank higher for a Jewish Messiah than pigs anyway. Like Elijah, the Gerasene man gets a wilderness God who doesn’t do what he’s expected to. This God confounds expectations. This God is merciful even to demons.
The wilderness, as messy as it is, is a place of last resort. And we run there looking for something, after everything else collapses and we have no other choice. Sometimes we’re even cast there, by other people. But that thing that we find out there is usually not what we thought that we would.
The God of the wilderness, our God, is wild. The God of the wilderness talks to the wrong people, uses the wrong languages, acts in completely inappropriate ways, and asks us extremely difficult questions. When we come out to the wilderness looking for something, looking for relief, looking for God, When we end up there, we should be prepared, because there’s no guarantee that we’ll be comfortable with what we’ll find. In fact, we probably won’t be.
The wilderness is a place of uncomfortable revelation, disturbing restoration. It’s a place that fulfills the Rolling Stone’s lyric ‘You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find you get what you need.’ God brings us healing and relief in the wilderness, just not in the expected way.
But we don’t get to leave it there. As my seminary librarian once commented, “No one gets to live in the wilderness. If they did, we’d call it something else. We’d call it suburbia.” Once we are ransomed healed, restored forgiven, in all those new and unnerving wilderness-like ways, we get turned around again. We get sent back to civilization that needs a bit of wildness to it.
After his healing, the demoniac wants to stay with Jesus to be a disciple. He wants to stay as he was, in a sense, cut off from his community and the person that he was before his wilderness experience.
Jesus says no.
He sends him back, to his hometown, to those people who knew him to be damaged, to be broken. Those people who now needed to see a healed, renewed person with good news to share, and a new life to lead. Those very people who cast him out in the first place, because those people needed to see him back again. They needed a revelation of the Wild Divine themselves.
And Elijah, up in his Cave of Sulking, after his epiphany of the wind, the earthquake and the fire, then the silence, hears the same question once more: “Elijah, what are you doing here?”
Poor Elijah, mind really blown now, gives the same answer he did before, probably in a more subdued tone of voice this time, and hears the response: Go back. Go back to a new place, to a new people, and a new strategy. Your work is not finished yet, and we’ll give it another try. But go back. We aren’t done yet.
We are healed for a purpose. We are restored for a calling. We get what we need in the wilderness, but we get it in order to share with the world, which needs to experience the rush of God as we have. The reasons we ran to the wilderness are still back there; we were restored in order to return to them. Our healing is not just for us, it is for everyone in our communities that we are sent to.
I have a plaque, hanging on the wall of my apartment in New York, just as you walk in the door. It’s up over the light switch in the hall, so it’s the first thing I see as I walk in, and the last thing I see as I leave. I bought it on my first trip to Jerusalem—it’s a copy of a drawing found underneath the current Church of the Holy Sepulchre, dated back to the 2nd or 3rd cent. CE., done by some of the first pilgrims who came to the site, because it was then, and still is, tradition among pilgrims to inscribe a cross, or some other sacred sign on the site that you made pilgrimage to in Jerusalem, among the Orthodox. The ancient pilgrim drew a boat, and wrote an enigmatic phrase in Koine Greek, which loosely translates, ‘Lord, we are here.’ It also could read ‘Lord, we will be going.’ What a perfect way to sum up a wilderness pilgrimage. Our flight out into the wild places, waiting for the restoration, however it might come, and our returns back into the civilization, never one without the other.
Lord we are here. Lord, we will be going. Amen.

Where is Megan?

2007-06-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

I have a post for all of you, who, no doubt, have been huddled breathlessly over your computers, waiting anxiously for a new update on me. I am in Virginia Beach. Working at my summer internship parish, which is fabulous. Or at least, has been fabulous for the past week in which I have been working here. The people are nice, they charge up to me without provocation and yell, "You must be Megan! Our Seminarian! Hi!" and shake my hand vigorously, and try to feed me things with much sugar, fearing for my health. My introverted self appreciates this greatly, since it reduces the amount of energy I have to expend in the transaction.
However, the trip down here was less pleasant. Those of you who know me, are aquainted with The Saga of The Car. It is a sad tale, known to many as a tale of Woe, Weeping and Grief, provoking anger among several, and mirth among few.
There have been casualties, in this Saga.
The most recent chapter begins on my trip down to Virginia, on Friday. I was driving the exalted 1989 blue Ford Tempo, celebrated in saga and song, and owner of 200,000 miles. It had been purchased for me by my parents, from a friend of a friend, who was a mechanic. Earlier, let the reader understand, the car had died in Trenton, in the middle of an intersection. Earlier, it has also ceased to function several times on one simple trip to church. Earlier, judging from these, and other experiences, we had replaced the distributor, and hoped for the best. I had now had the car for a week.
I stopped for a soda (because the AC had also ceased to function, joining the fuel tank lid, the rear window and the gas gauge) and the car decided that it would travel no farther. It would not start. Here the cursing begins.
I found the mechanic at the rest stop's gas station, who tried to jump the car. "It's interesting," he said. "Y'know, the starter's not even trying to fire. How long have you had this thing?" "About a week." I said. He looked at me, the way one looks at a horse with a broken leg, and tries to remember where one left the shotgun. "Ah. See, you got a couple options. You say you just replaced the distributor? Either on the drive over here you broke the distributor again, or the car's junked." "Ah," I replied. "Fuck." "Yeah," he said.
So I called AAA, and my father. AAA came, after 4 hours of sitting with the car, in the lovely environs of the I-95 Delaware Turnpike rest stop. After this extended period of time, the man got the car to start up again. His advice? "Don't turn off the car again."
"But I kinda think that I might need to, at some point." I said.
"Well, how far you gotta go?"
"Virginia Beach."
He scratched his chin. "Yeah, ok. When you gotta get gas, or somethin', just leave the car runnin'. Cause if you turn it off, it ain't gonna turn back on."
"What happens when I get to the beach?"
"Yeah, then you gonna have a problem."
Luckily (or not) then my father arrived, with the red minivan. The Tempo still running (and Al Gore still weeping for the fossil fuel I was wasting), he helpfully advised me on how I should be showing more gratitude for the car (Tempo!) I had been given, since we were going for 'minimal functionality,' something evidently not including the power to stop or start at will, or to follow any of the Fire Marshal's regulations regarding how to safely fuel a vehicle. He did, however, agree to exchange cars with me for the duration of the trip, until such time as the Tempo's temper was soothed somewhat. This was possibly prompted by my assertion that I was not leaving the Damn State of Delaware with that Damn Car, because I feared it would try to kill me in my sleep. Or something. Dad has Decided The Car Will Work, and who, after all, is the car to argue back?
So I continued on to Virginia Beach, where I now operate a large red Ford Windstar. It starts. It stops. It has AC. It has operational brakes. Opening the fuel tank doesn't require pulling on free hanging wires in the trunk....I LOVE THIS CAR.

Preaching Camp

2007-06-06T19:30:00.000-07:00

I'm at preaching camp! Did you even know they had such things? Preaching camp, or the Preaching Excellence Program, closely resembles boot camp with sermons. We bring a prepared sermon to preach to a small group and get feedback, then write another sermon while we're here. It's a really good program, and I feel like I am learning a great deal. From the things that people are actually attempting to teach me. Also? The preaching at GTS? Utterly wonderful, and I have a new-found appreciation for it. We rock anew!
So I'm spending my days sitting in small groups and giving feedback, and laughing inappropriately at the hideous (HIDEOUS) Vatican II art in Villanova's chapel, where the conference is being held. My God. I appreciate the theology of that period in the RCC's history, but man oh man. Did you put all your energy into reform and neglect asthetics?! There is a giant white limestone crucifix hanging at one end of the room, on a Gold. Shiny. Mosaic. Backdrop.
I am talking HUGE. I have named him Shiny Happy Jesus, and he has adventures, mainly with Shiny Happy Mary to his right and Shiny Happy Joseph (to the Left, to the Left). Together, they are.....Shiny Happy Holy Family!!!! TV show coming soon.
Also, I preached this sermon. This was my 'prepared' sermon, which I wrote one afternoon at Starbucks. We were supposed to write something on reconciliation (with no lectionary texts given?!? Who does that?!?!) And I went Colossians 1:11-20, because I wanted to talk about knitting. The sermon actually went really well, despite my huge misgivings about the large spectrum I was crossing in one 10 minute span. See what you think.

Prepared Sermon #1:

Recently in seminary, I’ve gotten back into an old hobby of mine. I taught myself to knit in college, for reasons I can’t remember any more, though I’m sure they were extremely important. And now I’m back into it.
It’s a good seminary hobby: it doesn’t take much abstract thought, I don’t have to exert pastoral authority over the yarn, the yarn doesn’t ask deep probing questions of the nature of God or the universe of me, and doesn’t ask that I remember what occurred at the Council of Nicea or Constantinople. All that is required is that I sit there and play with the pretty pretty yarn and the two sticks. And make loops. Lots and lots of little loops. Loops and loops and loops and loops. And at the end, I have a nice, concrete end product that I can prove exists. This is no small feat.
There is a catch though.
The magic of knitting is also its downside. The magic is that You get to turn one solitary piece of string into a three-dimensional object, and feel like the smartest magician-like person in the world. However, should you make a mistake at the beginning, all the way at the bottom of your lovely sweater, your perfect scarf, should you drop a stitch and make a hole in the toe of your sock…..
You’re completely screwed.
You have to unravel everything, all the way back to the problem and fix it. All the way back. All those rows. All that work. Because the problem with knitting is that you’re working with one piece of string to make all those loops. All those loops are connected, in ways you can’t see until you mess up. That one piece of yarn is a tight rope. It’s either a great performance or a disaster. Everything is connected. What you do in one place will affect the entire piece. So it really is a lot more complicated than you’d think.
In our church recently, we talk a lot about reconciliation. But as with many things, reconciliation is possibly one of those words we use without explaining what we mean. It looks great on a bumper sticker, but try to go past that, and we get confused.
For my part, I’d say reconciliation is much like fixing a dropped stitch. Reconciliation is getting back to that common thread that held you together in the first place. It’s remembering that something, in fact, did! hold you together in the first place. Some common experience maybe, some link, some common heritage. Or maybe just common humanity.
We forget that link exists. We pretend that it’s us versus them. That there are ‘other people’, and that God is divvying us all up on some huge gameboard somewhere. In the letter to the Colossians, the author pulls us back from that: Christ “is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, for in him al things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things and in him all things hold together…for in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.” (Col. 1:15-20) In Christ all things hold together, are knit together. –if you want to play around with the Greek a bit-- All creation holds together in Christ, and we come together in him. When we break apart, when we cause division and separation, when we throw up walls, we deny this. We act like it’s not true.
Reconciliation is a remembering of what we truly are. It’s a remembering of who we are, where we are. It’s coming home.
It’s not like it’s easy. It’s not like it’s painless. Lord only knows the problems in the church, in the world, are real, and they aren’t over small matters. They are emotional and heart-felt, and people are hurting for real. They aren’t going to go away any time soon. (Though, to be fair, it’s not like going home is always easy in reality either…)
Reconciliation, though, isn’t about shoving things under the carpet, or hugging it out, or singing Kumbaya in a happy circle til the endorphins flow. I’m not even sure it’s about fixing the problem. Reconciliation looks across the chasm and sees another child of God as an equal. Sees another creature beloved of God, just as you are. It’s just a change of perspective.
But, at the same time, that’s massive. It’s a huge change, to recognize someone you thought was the enemy, the Other, as someone who could be you, had circumstances been different. They are human, all of a sudden. They are like you. They are reconciled.
Three years ago this week, I went to live in East Jerusalem for a few months. Towards the end of my stay there, I decided to take a day trip back into Bethlehem with two friends, fellow American women. We took the normal route into the nearby city, via two taxis and an Israeli military checkpoint: less thorough for us because we were Americans. On the way into the city, I saw three Palestinian boys selling gum. We stopped, and I bought gum from them, and learned that they were from D’heisha Refugee camp: the eldest was 9, the youngest was 7. We kept going, and I didn’t think anything else about it—everyone’s poor, lots of people sold stuff, and we were busy. The day passed, and we saw the sights: the Nativity church, the Milk Grotto, the Olive wood carving shops, and everything, and then it was time to leave. On our way back to the checkpoint, there were the boys again.
The youngest wanted me to buy gum again. I did, and kept walking. We had to meet our taxi on the other side. He kept following, demanding that I pay him more. Now I had run out of money, and we were approaching the checkpoint. The soldiers started yelling.
The problem with being a refugee, or raised by refugee parents, or in a camp is that you don’t have identification papers. You can’t pass a checkpoint. The children couldn’t pass the checkpoint, and now they were too close.
The soldiers yelled for us to get in the metal chute to the side of the road, and one young soldier ran in front of us, ran to the center , dropped down behind a pile of sand-bag pile and aimed his machine gun back down the road where we had just come. I kept my eyes on him, because I kept thinking that I couldn’t imagine what happens to a person when they watch a child shot. I didn’t know I could deal with that. It was happening too quickly and all I could think of was those three boys, selling their gum, and getting too close to a metal shack on a dirt road.
The soldier released the safety and that’s the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.
Then something else,
The soldier suddenly got up, ran back to the side of the road, and ran back with his helmet.
He yelled something in Arabic, back down the road, and I suddenly thought of his mother, sending her son off to a horrible, dangerous job. I thought of her telling him to remember to wear his helmet, because it was the least she could do, this nameless woman sitting somewhere worrying about her teenaged son, barely done being a kid himself.
The soldiers gave us the all-clear, and waved us through. Apparently it was over.
But not really. It was the kind of experience that takes the snow globe of your life and shakes it firmly. You don’t know which way is up anymore, and start to strongly suspect that maybe no way is permanently up.
There are those little kids, with no way out of Bethlehem, and at the wrong end of a machine gun. All because they sold me Arabic Chiclets. And there’s that young soldier, who looked the same age as my younger brother. Who ran back in the middle of a stand-off to get his helmet, like he was remembering someone’s advice to stay safe. And he did the best he knew how. I don’t think there was any enemy that day; it was boys shooting boys. The only thing that placed one on one side of the gun was an accident of birth. A twist of circumstance.
In the end, we ended up in the same place. All of us standing on a dusty road in Bethlehem, the four boys, the three women. All beloved by God. All bound together in Christ. All equal. Everything else fades into the background.
That’s what reconciliation is—it’s that chaos of the dusty road. It’s that flipping around of everything you thought you knew. All those neat assumptions I thought I had about right and wrong and in-between that day got tossed out the window. Reconciliation reminds us that, in the end, we’re all there. We’re all human, vulnerable, and standing on the same road. Holding onto the same rope. Bound up in the same God. And once we get up enough courage to look around and see everyone else here with us, everything else will follow.

Now announcing....

2007-05-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of blogging recently. Life has been chaotic. Possibly more on that later, but for now....
I'd like to announce my official Candidacy for the Priesthood in 2008/2009! It's official! I will, of course, be running on a solidly Democratic/Socialist/verging-into-Communist-without-the-strident-atheism-since-I'm-pretty-sold-on-the-whole-God-thing platform, and I would, as always appreciate your full support in the continuing campaign, since your help has been so important to me thus far. Financial contributions, especially, can be sent to my NYC address and are tax-deductible! :)
Yes, dear friends, the COM has decided that I can continue on to the next phase in this delightful Process of Ordination and become a Candidate. So now, I no longer can introduce myself like Maria von Trapp; I have a Hilary/Obama thing happening: "I'm Megan, Candidate for Holy Orders, and how are you?"
The interview actually was fun. And I can hardly believe I'm saying that. Considering that I can hardly remember the postulancy interview because I was so terrified, and everyone was so panicked because there was a rather large episcopal coup d'etat in the works, this was fabulous. The committee, many of whom are new to me in the last 2 years, were great, and really supportive, and had read my file, and LAUGHED AT MY JOKES. Even the bishop.
Note please that this last part is huge. Hence the caps. The LAUGHING AT MY JOKES. In case you haven't noticed, I tend to lean on sarcasm a great deal, possibly as a coping mechanism, but also just to give my mind something to do so it doesn't fall asleep. (other people enjoy sodoku? I've heard this.) The more I panic, the more coffee I consume, the worse it tends to get, and occasionally innocent people are frightened. (Ahem. Ethics Prof. Ahem.) I used to censor it out, but CPE did a number on my brain filter, and it hasn't been the same. The end result is that I said many many things in the Candidacy hearing that I NEVER would have said at Postulancy. I compared CPE to a heinous Bat Mitzvah but without the Hebrew. I said that I strongly suspected Jesus might live 24/7 at the soup kitchen where I worked. As I kept talking, I kept thinking that it was entirely possible that I was getting myself into really deep trouble. (You aren't supposed to say that a surprising number of well-educated people are insane, are you?) But I have to say that it was fun. And my moment of vindication came when one member of the committee asked me if I thought I was witty. I was completely confused, but he was laughing, and he said that he thought I was hilarious, and that this was the most enjoyable interview he'd had all day. I pointed out that I wasn't doing it on purpose, and he was perhaps confusing wit with a defense mechanism? But he thought that was funny too. Clearly, his PT training was lacking. (poor man.)
Anyway, I'm a candidate now. And apparently, a humorous one. Though my family didn't believe me when I told them that story. They do not believe me to be a funny person, or skilled in joke-telling at all. Sigh. Ah well, we shall write this up as another triumph of the Bow-Tie Club. Rock on, Sheep!

Jerry Falwell...he dead.

2007-05-15T16:32:00.000-07:00

I found out in the library this afternoon. I felt a surge of triumphalism, then a surge of guilt...probably just as Falwell himself would have wanted.
Truthfully, though, there's not a whole lot to say. This was a man who built his life (and a whole lot of other things) on an absolute, unwavering sense of who was right and who was wrong. Who was loved, and who wasn't. Who was safe and who was damned. Now, he gets to roll for all the marbles, and find out how much bigger everything actually was.
There's an old story about a man who dies and goes to heaven. He meets St. Peter who gives him the tour.
First, they come to a group of people dancing in the streets, having a great time, making a ton of noise. "Who are these crazy fools?" asks the man. St. Peter replies, "These are the Hindus. They like their festivals."
Then they come to a group of people around a huge table, in the middle of a huge feast, laughing up a storm. "And these people?" asks the man. "Ah, these are the Episcopalians. They get really into their group meals."
Then, after seeing every group under the sun, all having a blast, they come to a huge brick wall, soaring up into the sky, stretching as far as the eye can see into the distance. "What in the world is this?" asks the man, bewildered.
"SHHHHHH!" said St. Peter. "These are the fundamentalists! Poor things. They don't realize anyone else is here. They haven't come outside yet.
Don't spoil it for them."

Megan Make Fire!

2007-05-14T16:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I got to do something new and exciting in my life.
What was it, you anxiously inquire?
I GOT TO MAKE FIRE!!!!
Yes indeedy, one of the added bonuses of Episcopal worship is flaming things! [insert poor joke here.] These include thuribles!
See? It is, as I called it in my youth, a Swinging, Smoking Smelling thing. They are used most frequently in the more Orthodox churches (i.e. liturgically-inclined) to symbolize prayers rising to God, as in Psalm 134, and to sacralize certain spaces and things. It's an idea seen in other religious traditions as well; like Native American sage-burning or smudging, Chinese practices around ancestors, various Hindu traditions, etc. Old idea, different twist. Burn smoke, and set whatever it is apart, because intentionally lighting something on fire, and inhaling smoke is not something humans generally are inclined to do. Normally we avoid it like the plague.
As I have a horrid phobia of fire, this was actually not a pain-free experience for me. The closest I had ever gotten to one of these things was as an 8-year old boat bearer. Back then, my job was to trail obediently behind the thurifer, inhale large amounts of the incense, and pray that he or she would not get careless and whack me with it, or set me alight.
On Sunday, I showed up early, so I could be trained. My teacher was excellent, possibly the best teacher anyone could ever EVER have--he's a former RC monk, and extremely patient, and he's been smoke-slinging for years. The great secret is to use the wrist. It's all in the wrist. If you are waving your arm all around, you look like you're having a seizure, the Lamb is slain anew, and you're more likely to set a congregant on fire during the gospel procession. (my inference from his teaching.) In this way, the thurible is much like a giant yo-yo. Only super hot. And on fire. So don't fear the fire-pot, with its smelling, its smoking, the gunpowder-laced charcoal, and the incense gluing the whole damn thing together so as to make it nearly impossible to open--rather, give it the respect it deserves. But enjoy it. How many other traditions get to light crap on fire at every worship gathering and send the local fire chief into a panic?

I didn't want to have to do this....

2007-05-08T06:43:00.000-07:00

Ok. All together now. Line up. Be quiet. Listen up!
For the last time.
I didn't want to have to do this. I put it off for as long as I thought I could, hoping it would go away. But alas, no. Yesterday, we hit double-digits of people asking me about this, and so I've decided to address it.
Yes. Jim McGreevy is coming to my seminary in the fall as a M.Div student. Yes, he has started the process to be ordained. Meaning that: in the Episcopal Church, you have to go through a process. It is long, arduous and much like Army boot camp, only minus all the physical weapons. (We use mental, emotional and spiritual ones.) My process, to be approved to start on the road to possibly, maybe, be one day a priest was 3 years long. That was before seminary. It involved a semester-long internship, 8 weeks of psychological evaluation, background checks, sex-abuse prevention training, anti-racism training, and lots and LOTS of meetings. Discernment committees of various kinds, Commission on Ministry meetings, vestry interviews, discernment with your rector, discernment to the point where you hate the word and your eyes glaze over. It is long. It is thorough. The Episcopal Church has the longest process by canon of any Protestant Church in existence (though I'm pretty sure the Methodists are right up there as well.)
For most people, this happens before seminary, and is a pre-requisite. What it seems like is happening with this guy (and I don't know for sure, so DON'T QUOTE ME) is that he is doing the process while in seminary. This is not unusual. Your bishop can request this for you, and many people do this. If you go to a non-Episcopal seminary, it's not weird at all. For example, all the sweet, slightly wacky and non-decisive people at Union tend to do this a lot. So if it turns out, during the discernment process that you actually are called to something else, you still have a theology degree to show for it. Bonus! Extra masters degree to show for the insane amount of time you just invested!
And what do I think?
My immediate thought is that I don't have one. I wish I had found out another way, other than discovering news trucks outside my front building and watching a live broadcast, then having to answer questions, and read the front page of the NY Post with a photo-shopped image. But that's pretty minor, all things considered. Crazy-ass things happen on the Close all the time. Today, we have an Aeropostale photoshoot here, so I'm stepping over bored models all day. That trumps news vans as an annoyance.
My second thought is that really? We all have stuff. Granted, not all of us have hugely public cover-of-NY-Post level stuff, but we do, in fact, all have stuff. If you listed the damage that everyone else that I go to seminary with in a newspaper has done, including myself, I guarantee you it would sell. If you listed the damage anyone of us does from day to day, all the small stuff, it'd be amazing. But the point is, we try to do better, and at least we cop to it. We sit around, we hash it out, and we stick together until we've gotten it fixed.
So points in the favor of this guy for copping to everything. If he continues in this way, he should do okay around here.

The positive stuff

2007-05-01T06:38:00.000-07:00

So I'm almost done with classes for this year, which is a good thing, considering that this year has pretty much sapped my Will to Live. Whoot.
I'm almost done with this 12 page Church history paper, chronicling the creation of my diocese, in which I discover that Nothing Ever Changes. Bruton Parish requested for 2 years straight to leave Southern Virginia -by themselves!- and return to the Diocese of Virginia, on the basis of the facts that "all our associations, as well as the ties of blood, connect us with the residents of the old Diocese, as the Episcopal population moving from this section emigrated nearly always to that portion of our state north of the James River, and they have left to our care the graves of their ancestors, and we do not think that any artificial lines should interfere with these old associations and memories."
Wow. so all those times someone at Bruton started to talk to me about the sanctity about the graveyard, and the possibility of the bones of someone from the 18th century rising up to smite me, I suppose they weren't kidding. Behold! There is a venerable tradition of fearing those damn graves!
Also, I have pictures of my glorious finished socks!!!! Check it out:

Aren't they gorgeous? You can't really see the lace pattern from the flash, but trust me. The beauty is there. and I made them with my own hands, which is the best part.
Now I'm making my mother a pair from this cool blue and white yarn that apparently contains crab shells? Tofutsies--yet it is kinda stretchy, and soft, and smooth, and fun. only it smells a little odd. Hopefully they'll be done before her birthday/Mother's day. Luck to me!!!!

Communal effort

2007-04-29T18:39:00.000-07:00

So here's my sermon from today. After much agonizing, it went really well, thanks to my fabulous sermon-writing internet seminary compatriots. (First homiletics, then the world!!)
It's times like this that I dearly love my field placement. There are precious few places I can think of where I could go nuts with personal relationships with Jesus, but Holy Apostles is one of them. Then we all sat around and listened to the associate clergy sing 'Angel from Montgomery' at the newcomer's party. My day was awesome. :)

Sermon:
Text: Mainly John 10:22-30, but also Acts 13: 13-17, 26-39

Since I’ve moved to New York, and started seminary, something rather odd has kept happening to me. Once or twice, and I wouldn’t have minded so much, but we’re headed towards double-digits now, and I have concerns. I will be walking down the street, or strolling through Central Park. Either here in the city, or back in Virginia, it surprisingly doesn’t seem to matter, a friendly person will strike up a conversation with me. “How am I doing today, am I new to the area, etc etc.”
Being friendly myself, I usually respond, until we reach the sticking place. “Am I a Christian?” or, better yet, “have I been saved, or Have I found Jesus?”
Well, yes. I am a Christian. And I explain dutifully and with a smile that I am actually studying for the Episcopal priesthood.
And Here is my problem, and my quandry: Because No one I have yet met seems to take my explanation as valid. “Yes! But do you have a personal relationship with Christ? Have you been born again?”
And here my friendliness screeches to a halt into confusion, because apparently, a lengthy discernment process and two years of seminary has beaten the Christianity right out of me. How disturbing.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this question, the more it is asked of me, and I’m not sure that I agree with it, because I don’t know how to answer it truthfully. I have a personal relationship with Jesus. I have a personal relationship with God, and with the Spirit, but that seems oddly limited. We none of us have just a one-on-one mentor-type relationship with Jesus to the exclusion of everyone else on the earth. Our faith is built on the communities that we belong to, that shape us, with the experiences we share.
In today’s gospel, Jesus gets into another fight with the crowd, with his community. He has come to Jerusalem for the Festival of the Dedication, otherwise known as Hanukah, and nationalistic fever is running high. The entire Jewish nation is in the process of remembering when Judah Maccabee led the Jews in a successful revolt against the Greeks and rededicated the Temple, and re-established a self-governing Jewish State….until Rome came in and took over. Nationalistic fever is running high, and to add fuel to the fire, Jesus is standing in the Temple itself, the site of all fighting a hundred years before, when this conversation takes place.
And what does the crowd want? They want a messiah. They want a savior like Judah Maccabee again, to save the nation. It’s Chanukah, after all. This would be an appropriate time. But Jesus deflects: “I have told you, and you do not believe. The works I do in my Father’s name testify to me, but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep.” He points them back to what they have seen him do. He points them back to their shared experience as a community.
There is no straight answer. There is no straight yes or no. The Johannine Jesus doesn’t operate like that, in fact, he pretty much wrote the Gospel of circular logic. This Jesus doesn’t give sky-written messages of affirmation to anyone. Instead, we have to rely on other things.
This Jesus asks us to rely on what we see around us. In the time we’ve seen him in this gospel, we’ve seen water turn to wine. We’ve seen sick people get well, for the glory of God. We’ve seen blind men healed and restored to the embrace of the community. We’ve seen demons cast out. We’ve become a part of a community formed around the transforming of the world in God’s name. We’re asked to believe because of what we’ve seen around us, in the people around us.
Something similar happens in Acts. Paul and Barnabas preach in the synagogue, in much the same way that Jesus gives his monologue in the Temple. And they give themselves as proof of what they say. They tell the story of Jesus, his life and his death, and finally his resurrection, but ultimately it is their testimony that the story rests on. It is their presence in that synagogue, and their witness that moves the people to faith and to action.
It is our relationships with each other that shape who we are, and what we know. We are incapable of operating in isolation. We are unable to function without one another. The crowd that day in the temple responded to Jesus with such a mix of hostility and hope because of their collective history. A holiday dedicated to political liberation coming during the Roman occupation, and Jesus refuses to give the easy answer. Instead, he points them back to everything else they’ve known together.
It is tempting to reach for the easier answers: the arrows in the sky, the giant hands coming down from heaven, the day-glo lite-up Jesus figures that will sit on our dash boards and protect us as we ride through the night. But the truth is that we don’t always get those. Some times we do, and those moments are intense and amazing, and something to be treasured.
But more often than not, what gives us faith is each other. It’s our experience of the people around us. Our experience of the works we see God doing in this community around us. God working in your life, and in my life, and in the life of this parish, and in the life of the Episcopal Church, and, dare I hope, the Anglican communion,: in these communities we choose, and these communities we get thrust into.
These communities teach us about kindness, and faith, and love. Whatever we know about the nature of God and the nature of Christ, whatever we know about what it means to love one another, we learn in relationship with one another. It is by watching the Spirit work in the lives around us that we grow, and we learn what it is to live lives as Christians together. We learn together: I look at the spirit working in your life, and you can see the spirit in my life, and we together form the church. We offer ourselves as witnesses to what God has done in our lives, and we keep showing up, week after week, to see what God has done in other people’s lives.
For me, this watching for God in the people around me has been a transforming process. In college, my campus ministry was comprised of a close-knit group of people, and I was shocked to discover them-- other people my age who still went to church?! As a shy eighteen year old who thought she was called to priesthood, I was pretty much convinced I was insane, and everyone around me would agree. Imagine my surprise to find a community where there were others my age who not only still went to church, but even some who thought that it was cool that I might be clergy! Even a few who wanted to be priests themselves. It was those relationships that got me through. A friend wrote me a note early my first year, telling me I would make a good priest. It arrived on a day when I was convinced that I was incapable of much of anything… and it was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. I heard the divine speaking in the encouragement I received, just when I needed it, and in the encouragement I was able to give, as other friends later discerned their own calls. Watching God work in their lives reminded me that God was working in my own, even if the evidence, at times, seemed shaky.
So maybe all those people accosting me on the street were right to question me. Maybe I don’t have a personal relationship with Jesus, at least not a purely personal one, or one that matches up with their description. Instead, I think Christ comes to us through other people. Christ comes to us through the physical experience of the bread, wine and water in our sacraments. Christ uses our world, and our experience of it to speak to us.
Because now nothing is off-limits to God. We don’t just experience God in quiet contemplation, or in a disembodied encounter with our soul: We can encounter God in everything, in everyone. The God who became human for us shies away from nothing, and floods our world with light. God surrounds us, and every experience becomes an opportunity for a meeting with the Divine.
Our relationships with each other are something to treasure. Our interactions every day, with everyone we meet are incalculably precious, because by our actions, we have the opportunity to show them something about God, and we have the opportunity to be taught ourselves. The image of God in each one of us illumines the path to God for each other, and it is that responsibility that we knowingly shoulder when we enter this community. May we carry it out with humility and grace, to the glory of God and the reconciliation of creation.

Nothing

2007-04-25T15:16:00.000-07:00

This is a blog post about nothing. Nothing exciting is happening. Nothing nothing nothing. But, I have resolved to continue updating the blog so here you go.
Things in my non-exciting life:
1. $25 Bag o'books sale at Cokesbury. It was a feeding frenzy. We scared the manager.
No really. This is true. He was frightened of our zeal for the cheap, cheap books, and I got some good stuff: (non-geeks, avert your eyes) Blackwell's Companion to the Hellenistic World, Moltmann(!), Virtuoso Theology, Writings by Advocates of Peace, One Electorate Under God?, Simone Weil (!!!), Daniel Berrigan(!!), Taking Back Islam by Michael Wolfe!, the Christian and Anxiety, Marilyn McCourt Adams(theodicy!yay! last copy! there was a tussel, but I always win theodicial throw-downs), and Antagonists in the Church, written by Stephen's Ministry guy. All for $25. I win
2. The bird's nest is no longer in my window.
The pigeons, living in the alley on the one side of my building have become increasingly violent and desparate, possibly depressive, as the year has gone on. They have started throwing themselves into this one alley-window, where my AC unit is with ever-increasing velocity, and vigor, to the point where they broke the plexiglass panel on the one side that was BOLTED into the windowframe, and dislodged it. Now, mind you, it was only bolted by 2 bolts, but still. BOLTED. METAL.
Anyway, after their Flights of Doom into my window and air conditioner, the pigeons started to build a nest in the space between the AC and the wall. I thought this was a somewhat alarming development, since these are apparently emotionally unstable New York City birds that will risk death in order to get housing space. (or they're just like normal New Yorkers. hmmmm.) Either way, I didn't want small baby birds that close to whirring AC blades. So it got cleared out today. So long, kamikaze pigeons.
3. I finished one sock! I am sock knitting genius! And I'm almost half-way done with the other sock, so soon, they will be a pair. Just in time for the weather to be too warm for me to wear socks. This was clearly genius planning on my part. However, they look lovely. You should be sorry you can't see through your computer.
I preach on Sunday, so a sermon will follow shortly.

No Bad News Today

2007-04-20T08:20:00.000-07:00

See, sometimes it's good to set boundaries with the Universe. The Universe needs to know past which points it cannot push, because then? It Does Not Transgress them, but chuckles heartily at us small minions.
Yesterday, the day after I decided I was Done With This Week, the World Sucked, People Were Stupid, I went to a Patty Griffin concert. (whoo!!! Insert awesomeness here) It was, of course, fabulous.
For those of you who don't know, I aspire to be like Patty Griffin, at least in the singing category. I try to chant like her, sing traditional Anglican choral music like her (three guesses how that usually turns out; Latin does not lend itself to soulful belting. Tallis is somewhere shrieking at me.) and I walk around my small apartment pretending that really, it is not out of the realm of possibility for me to chuck the whole priesthood gig, and instead hit the road as a traveling minstrel.
Last night, I got to sit way way up in the back of this really old theater and watch this really tiny woman sing her heart out for almost two hours straight, with no sign of a break. It was better than middlin' church.
Or, to be fair, it was a pretty excellent description of what church is supposed to be, when it's doing its job properly; a group of people getting together, reflecting together on the deeper parts of what we know about being human, and, hopefully, getting better as a result. All led by someone who's brave enough to walk on out in front of us and be really really human up on stage for us to see, so we can take notes.
Hey, maybe I can do that after all....

Ok! That's it.

2007-04-18T14:24:00.000-07:00

This has not been a good week. It has been a bad week. Any way you want to measure it, I declare this week bad. And I am hereby Done With It.
I submit the following reasons for your inspection:
Two days ago, still in the thrall of the nor'easter that was attacking New York, and causing water to stream down my closet wall ('towels!' was the helpful suggestion of the maintenance crew), I was waiting for the uptown 1 train. 20 minutes, and no train. I would now be late for my 3pm appointment. The rain, apparently, had caused the subway to implode. So I leave the station, lose my fare, and hail a cab, driven by a friendly Russian man, who will take me up town.
And we listen to the radio.
And I start to hear things about Virginia Tech, which I am familiar with.
So I ask him to turn it up. The details are sketchy, but there's been a shooting. 'Yes, did you hear? Someone shot up the school!' he exclaims. 'Probably some Mohammad guy. Let's hear what Bill O'Reilly has to say.' He changes the station to Bill O'Reilly.
I'm having trouble breathing. My migraine from earlier returns.
I wonder who I know at Virginia Tech still, from when I was in college. I wonder who I know from college with friends there. I try to make lists in my head.
I wonder if I can jump out onto Broadway, just tuck and roll away, evade the zooming traffic, and Bill O'Reilly's yapping.
I watch the meter, and figure out how much less of a tip I can give the suddenly-much-more conservative cab driver and still leave the cab intact.
We arrive, and I jump out, still not sure what happened, and more angry than anything else.
Slowly, over the past two days, the seminary has processed it, in various seminary-like ways:
the prayers at the beginning of classes, brief conversation in PT, and a whole talk in Liturgics.
Confronted with the prospect of being the rector of a church outside Blacksburg somewhere, we had to plan a service for that night, on a few hours' notice. What would we do? What choices would we make? How would the sermon go? What liturgical resources would be appropriate? As pastors, as priests, what was our first move?
More than anything, that was helpful for me, but in a surreal way. While everyone else in the class could approach this with some level of disconnect, I'm still struggling.
My reality is that I probably will take a church somewhere near Blacksburg. Many of the people I will minister to have been profoundly affected by this, and many of my friends have already been affected. I was the person in the class who pointed out that the first thing you should do is find out what happened to your people. You can plan a very moving liturgy, but if someone from your parish has landed in the hospital, or has died, and you don't know about it, everyone else will have checked out.
So, basically, I'm done with this week. I'm tired of it. We need to have a new week, and it needs to happen now. The weather needs to get nice, and it needs to actually act like spring, and the world just should go along with it. (and also, I should have the power to decree stuff like that.) It is decided!

Hee....

2007-04-16T08:40:00.000-07:00

Yeah, it's a bit disturbing, but it's funny as hell. Enjoy!

Easter recap

2007-04-09T19:16:00.000-07:00

My Easter resolution (like Lenten ones, only with more joy!) is to update the blog more frequently. Hence this post.
Holy Week went well, with its usual march of services, craziness, rehearsals, caffeine and exhaustion. Once again, the liturgical church successfully commemorated the suffering, death, and resurrection of Christ, and in my little corner of it, it went swimmingly well.
At the seminary, us singing precentor folk sang things with no organ and no instrumental support, and somehow managed to make it sound like music, through the extreme power of the pitch pipe and some major positive thinking. We also managed to beat back what has become known as the Great Plague of 2007, which had me, and the entire soprano section, in its evil clutches for over a week, and ended up with an extreme case of laryngitis. Seriously. I was squeaking and croaking for over a week and a half. I would open my mouth, start the air flow, and.....nothing. It's the stuff of nightmares.
Luckily, my voice returned to me by Wednesday, and none too soon, for the marathon of preaching, and singing, and talking of the Triduum.
At Field-Placement Extraordinaire (FPE), the Vigil was great. I was the first crucifer, meaning I had to carry the Big-Ass Cross (technical term. In Latin, for you unReformed, pre-VatII types, Largus Assum Cruxit) . This resulted in my having a back-ache for the duration of Easter, but it was so worth it! We were smoked, and sprinkled, and sung at to the best of everyone's ability, all culminating in a mass sing-along of the Hallelujah chorus (music and parts provided!) . Best part: I did not burn my bulletin, alb, hands or face with my little candle. This is a major victory for me, since I'm not good with those things.
In other news: I finished my shrug that I was knitting! I am a knitting goddess! It only took a month (compared to the last sweater which took 2 years.) and was harder, as it featured cables (so fun!) and picking up stitches.
Am now knitting: socks (pictures to follow, I think) and a shiny purple scarf. Because who doesn't love the idea of a shiny, purple, ribbon scarf?

Two! Two! Two posts in one!

2007-04-04T20:04:00.000-07:00

Day, that is.
So this is the sermon that I preached tonight, as promised. And while I'm at it, a thought.
The sermon turned out well, in that I liked the idea, and I felt like it went well (as opposed to me standing up there and talking ever faster to try to cover the fact that I was pretty sure I was spewing utter swill.) And the congregation liked it---a lot, as it turns out. But they also were kind of flabbergasted on my subject. The rector commented that he had never heard, in 30 some years of ministry, a positive sermon on Judas. So I was now kind of famous.
Really? I mean, as I think about it, he's right. I've never heard an out-and-out sermon on Judas either---mainly it's a throwaway reference to 'he's not in hell because no one is, so take heart' type thing. But it still surprised me. Because, we're Episcopalians (and Christians, besides, but that label isn't worth so much these days). Aren't we supposed to go to great (and occasionally absurdist) lengths to rehabilitate things everyone else has given up on? Wouldn't Judas be at the top of that list? How has no one gotten around to this yet?
Anyway, here's the sermon. Tell me what you think, please, and if you, too, were shocked by my lack of piety. Because I think I'm going to make this my new mission: one sermon on Judas per year!

Text(for reference. If you're a die-hard, you can look it up.): John 13:21-25

If Judas had a feast day, it would be today. Though, to be more precise, it’s not much of a feast--There’s too much darkness and silence for it to be a feast-- It’s more a day of remembrance for him, for what he did. For what happened to him and around him. Because he’s too important, has too much of an impact for this story to be told without him.
And truth be told, I’ve always gotten along well with Judas, in some way. Maybe even more consistently than I’ve gotten along with Jesus or any of the rest of his intrepid followers. (Judas, after all, never gets co-opted in the name of war, never gets blamed for tsunamis or buildings collapsing, and never tells me that ‘its all for the best’, and never wanders around confusedly, like Peter, James or John.) When I was 6 or 7, my parents gave me a bootleg taped copy of ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’, and I was utterly entranced. I literally wore it out—it was the first musical I ever fell in love with—and I rented the really retro 70’s movie from the video store every week, til I saved enough money for my own copy. I would spend hours with my brother, climbing around on our bunk beds, acting out the story. But as the oldest, I would pull rank---and make him be Jesus. And I would perch up on the top bunk and sing ‘Heaven on Their Minds’ for hours---All the anger, the fear and the frustration in that song was fascinating, aiming it at God was doubly so. Judas was so human.
And he is: there is a lot about Judas that is terrifying. After all, he sells out his leader, his master, the one person he gave up his life for, and that lurking betrayal is disturbing. But most terrifying of all, on some level, is that he’s human. Maybe more than the rest of the disciples in some way, Judas is a part of us.
Judas is that little voice who protests, who wants an explanation for the suffering and the pain, who refuses to be mollified by being told to wait. Judas wants it to get better now. All through the gospels, the things we’ve heard from Judas, he’s the one who argues back. He’s the one who protested when Mary spent all her money on perfume for Jesus’s feet. And couldn’t the money have been better spent on the poor? He argues? Judas is a zealot, a radical. Scholars look at his last name—Judas Iscariot—and think that this indicates he was a member of the Sacarii, a secret militia-type group that assassinated Roman military leaders of the occupation of Palestine. His life, prior to following Jesus was about freedom for Israel, with no master but God. Jesus is a shift from that, and probably a frustrating one, when all you can see around you is occupation and oppression, who wants to wait for a final, distant, transcendent Kingdom? The Kingdom needs to happen now. All the suffering, the poverty, the oppression needs to stop now.
Judas is the one who voices that. Speed it up, Jesus. People are dying. There are poor people, sick people, crippled people all around you, what are you waiting for? He’s that frustrated voice in all of us which raises our fists to the heavens in exasperation.
And through it all, Judas was right, in a way. Technically, yes. That perfume could have bought a lot of people a lot of food that day. Technically yes. Jesus as the Son of God could have kicked the Romans out of Palestine without breaking a sweat. He could have created an earthly utopia of peace, love and joy and installed himself as king, I suppose. He could have avoided all the martyrdoms of the disciples, the persecution of the early church, the excesses of the Crusades, all of the pain, all of the suffering. Technically, Judas is right. He was, after all, called to be a disciple in the first place. There’s something there that we need to hear.
But the thing about being a radical is that you get tunnel vision. Technically Judas is right, but that’s not quite the point. The point is larger than that. What Jesus does on the earth is larger than restoring the political Kingdom to political freedom. It’s larger than physical healings, and social commentary, though those are a vital part of it. Those things point the way to the larger framework of Jesus’s work, but Judas is consumed with everything else and doesn’t see it. Maybe the others do, or at least, they have more patience with trying to figure it out than Judas does.
And it’s the combination of these divergent voices that form us: the radical voice that protests, refuses to calm down, that stands in the desert hills and wails in frustration. That draws our attention to human suffering again and again. And the voice that urges us to wait, that reminds us that God isn’t done with the world yet, that more is going on than we know, and that looks for the glimpses of a suffering Savior in all the creation around us. That combination that works in the rag-tag band of disciples also works in us, and the push-pull keeps us walking forward on our journey, because running to far in one direction leads to disaster.
That’s what we remember tonight. Judas leaves. He leaves the balance of the other disciples who at least checked his impatience a little, and departs, into his own frustration and anger and terror that nothing would ever get better. So he isn’t there for the things that come after, for the trial, the death, and the resurrection. He’s not there for the Great Commandment, the beginning of the movement, or the coming of the Holy Spirit. He loses the community that kept him sane, and --Just as important-- they lose him. There’s no one sitting in the corner, reminding everyone about the poor, or the Romans anymore. His leaving is a tragedy, for him, and for those of us who stay, because ultimately, we need both of those little voices. John’s gospel describes it perfectly: he immediately went out. And it was night—for all of us. Amen

And you thought I had died or something.....

2007-04-04T12:35:00.000-07:00

No such luck! In fact, I was just swallowed by the insanity that is Middler Year. (otherwise known as Year From Hell.) So there has been much class taking, much organizing of things, and much field-placement-ing. (yes. i invented a word. deal.)
I'm working at a lovely church down the street with an insanely large soup kitchen program. Upwards of 1100 people a day. Seriously, it's like a semi-scary feeding machine in there. And I trot myself in, and lead Morning Prayer and a Bible Study for the guests. Because that's pretty much all my skill set allows me to do. I provide coffee, I pray, and I can explain in great detail the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, and also the Q Source Theory, but that's about it.
But this church is great, and they enjoy my odd little skill set. So much, in fact, that they let me teach a Lenten series on the Israeli/Palestine conflict. (hahah! Mortals. They know not what they do.) And my bible study group is fabulous. Example:
One day, I come in and sit down, and notice that we have a new face among us. I say, "Hi, I don't think I know your name!" New Face Guy says, "No, I can't tell you my name. Because the feds are after me. But you can call me Tree."
I think Oh boy . We have entered a med-free zone.
I say, " Ok. Well, no one's after me, so you can call me by my name."
We continue, without incident, looking at that part where Jesus lists the 2 greatest commandment hits (love God, love your neighbor, tada!). Suddenly, 'Tree' slams down his book, causing some alarm to me. (See above comment about my skill set. It doesn't include stopping non-medicated people from throwing things. I'm not a large person.)
Quoth 'Tree': "Man! This Jesus stuff is hard!"
Me, not sure where he's going: "Yes, Tree."
Tree, continuing as if I had not attempted CPE-style affirmation and failed miserably, and very serious and earnest: "I mean, I thought doing my bid was hard, and you wouldn't know what that is, Teacher, you bein' a preacher and all, but that was rough, with the knucklin' and the fightin' and people bein' all up in your anus, but this! This is harder than that!"
Me, trying not to giggle maniacally at poor Tree: "Yes, Tree. Christianity is hard."
Tree, again, to hell with my affirmations, and thankfully, my fighting back the laughing: "I mean, you gotta figure out who the good people are, and you can't go to clubs no more, and you can't be with your bad friends.....Shit! I mean, ....shit! can i say that in here, Teacher?"
"Sure, Tree, cut loose."
By this point, everyone else was staring in consternation at poor Tree, who was having some sort of spiritual something-or-other, and I was trying to figure out how to build on the concept of Christianity-is-harder-than-a-jail-sentence, without getting totally derailed. Sometimes I love my job. :) Though how i'm going to work poor Tree into a sermon is currently beyond me. Tweaking the language just makes it lose all its original impact.

In other news, I think I'm going to start posting my sermons on this blog. I got the idea from a fellow classmate, and it seems like a good idea. (And of course, you people need more sermons to read, right?) Also, it cuts down on the emailing and the sending of sermons that I do. Less work for me!!!!

Update

2006-06-25T14:59:00.000-07:00

I realized today that I haven't updated this in quite a long time. About a month, to be exact. And much has happened in that time. For example, I have adopted a dog. A ridiculously cute dog, whose name is Bowie. Behold the outrageous cuteness of the dog! He's adjusting well to life in the big city, and overcoming his fears of dogs, cats, people he doesn't know, noises, etc.
In other news, I've started CPE at a hospital in Far Rockaway, which is at the very end of the A train line. This means I have an hour and a half commute to work each day. This is not as bad as it seems though. My iPod and I are good friends now, and the train isn't crowded. I enjoy the chaplaincy work, and am finding that aspect to be very fulfilling. Again, not quite what you'd expect. I spend the day talking to critically ill people and the elderly about everything that's wrong in their lives. And I don't fix it. So it's exhausting, but somehow enjoyable--people do respond to it. I'm the one person in the hospital who's not coming at them to poke or prod them in some way, so really, my popularity skyrockets for good reason.
However. CPE is also giving me flashbacks of the psych evaluation from the OEP in SoVa. 8 weeks of sitting in a group and being analyzed by shrinks. Gah. Only this time, the people doing the evaluating aren't actually shrinks, and my group is continually confused by my existence. It is a group of very evanglical Christians from all over the world, who are my parents' ages, already have careers as ministers, and degrees, etc...and me. Thus, somewhat understandably, I am a conundrum. The 22 year old skinny white girl who's crazy-progressive and Episcopalian. Everyday, someone in the group asks me if 'my church allows even women to be ministers.' This is becoming more and more annoying, since the program is now almost a month old. However, thankfully, I can explain that my church has been ordaining women since 1979, and just elected the first female Presiding Bishop. (Btw, how cool was that!?) But, still, it's lonely in my group. I tend to forget, in my happy liberal bubble of Manhattan Episco-ness, that the rest of the world isn't here yet.

Damn Idolatry Prohibitions!

2006-05-01T19:27:00.000-07:00

Ok, this is a short post. But it's important. Stephen Colbert hosted the White House Correspondent's Dinner last night. As a result, he has earned a spot on my short list of people that I will gladly worship, if that rule against false idols ever gets repealed. Seriously, check it out. You'll thank me later.

Why I Love McSweeney's

2006-04-20T15:17:00.000-07:00

I found this today in the Lists Section. Check it out.

What God Does in Her Spare Time.

BY JAMIE KILSTEIN AND ALLISON KILKENNY

- - - -

Minesweeper

Slipper shopping

Sudoku

Baking

Practical jokes on James Dobson

Watching the news and crying

See? McSweeneys rocks. Go ahead. Check out the link.

Bouncy Christ

2006-04-19T19:22:00.000-07:00

So Christ is risen. Alleluia!
It always feels so nice to get that word back in my vocabulary again, because liturgy geek that I am, I usually do go for most of Lent without saying it. But now it's back, with great pomp and circumstance, having arrived late Saturday night, in clouds of incense and candlelight.
Holy Week was as Holy Week ever shall be, world without end, amen: terrifying, depressing, quiet, then jubilant again. And for those of us who help make the church world go round, there's an extra layer of stress and anxiety on top of all that. Will the hole in the bottom of the pascal candle be big enough? Will the thurifer ignite the book bearer? Will the new fire of Easter actually burn down the church, in what will not only be a horrific tragedy for the community, but a horrible, horrible metaphor? These are the things that go through our little heads, and try as we might, we can't stop them. Most of us, though, do learn to contemplate the inscrutable mystery of Christ's death and resurrection while running the universe at the same time.
After the vigil, though, it is time to go drinking. Because, as I was told by more that one person, 'Nothing says, "Christ is risen!" like getting drunk.' Which is a philosophy I heartily subscribe to. I helped organize a post-Vigil party at the seminary, complete with champagne and food from Manhattan's brand-new Trader Joe's . (Yes! We have our own now! And oh, how I've missed thee! With thy cheap gourmet food, and thy cheap white wine, and thy chocolate covered espresso beans that increase my rate of speech exponentially!) However, I could not partake, since ma famille was in town.
A note, here, about ma famille. They go to church. They brought me up in the faith. They support my being in seminary, the whole nine yards. But why, ask you now, did they come to visit their only daughter and sister on this, most holy of weekends? To celebrate WASF. My mother's made-up holiday. For indeed, far be it from ma famille to travel the collective 5 hours to gather together to see each other for a normal reason. Otherwise, no dice.
The legend of WASF has been passed down now for, oh many months. And by many, I mean roughly twelve. According to the legend, when the disciples gathered together on the first Holy Saturday, the day after the crucifixion, they gazed at one another in despair. Simon said to group, "Whatever shall we do? They have killed Jesus! We've been following him for 3 years!" Andrew responded, "I know! I gave up my boat!" John echoed, "I gave up my house!" The other disciples chimed in, the one after the other, until there was a mighty chorus of frustration and lamentation. Finally, Thomas, who is called the Twin, silenced them all. He raised his voice, saying, "Let us face the truth, and not turn away. Brothers and sisters, we are so fucked!" Saying this, he clasped his left hand to his forehead and moaned. The other disciples did likewise and echoed his groan.
And so, it is on this day that we gather together, in remembrance of their despair. We clasp our left hands to our foreheads, and say, in loud voices, "We are so fucked!" In remembrance of Thomas, who urged his fellow disciples to face their situation, we eat Indian food. Thomas, according to local tradition, went on to later found churches in India. Hence the Mar Thoma church. And we go out drinking, because if you'd been following someone for 3 years, and they'd just gotten executed as a political criminal by the occupying government, chances are you'd want to get smashed then, too.
While I take pretty much every opportunity to mock WASF, there's something to be said for one day set aside to remember when it feels like everything's lost. Good Friday is too loaded with other stuff to do the job, but Saturday just sits there, for most of the day at least. So we can sit there, and remember how it feels to be truly, utterly fucked. And let Christ sanctify that too, when Easter dawns the next day.

Rules o' Life 2006 ed.

2006-04-08T13:46:00.000-07:00

It is a time-honored tradition of mine to compile lists of helpful rules of life. Things such as "A refrigerator is not an exit," which comes from tested life experience, or "Never meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup" which comes from a bumper sticker. I believe that since we have reached Holy Week once again (good Lord almighty, really?!) it is again appropriate for me to share with you my thoughts on life, the universe and everything. (42.)
1. The day you put down grass seed will be the day the turkey shows up.
Inveritably, it will be. Who knew, but that the Close, in deepest, darkest Manhattan, had a reoccuring turkey that appeared every spring? And yet, the day that the intrepid maitenience department re-seeded the lawn was the day that the Turkey reappeared. Tis a mythic thing.

2. Never underestimate the staggering drawing power of the Garden State.
This comes from Dogma, but it is still a Rule o'Life. I was forceably reminded of this the other day at lunch, in discussions with a wonderful and fabulous scholar of various religious traditions. She was listing off all these different esoteric groups that had their American headquarters in New Jersey: Mandeans, Zoroastrians, the Drews, various Sufi and Sikh sects, the Antiochene church, a wide variety of Southeastern Asian Shi'a Muslim groups. Because if you're going to be a tiny tiny religious community, best get started in the Middle East, then move to New Jersey!

3. Sit next to people with senses of humor. Otherwise, life sucks.
I put jokes in my notes. Lots and lots of jokes. The more boring I think the class is, the more jokes appear in my notes. This helps me to study later, and helps me pay attention. (Though occasionally, I do crack myself up. When I constantly refer to Cyrus, King of Persia as 'Dreamy!Cyrus' in my notes on Second Isaiah, or begin to compose a theme song for the Antiochene 'Logos-Man!' in CH1, then it becomes too distracting.***) However, I type notes on my computer, and so they can be easily read by whoever is sitting next to me in class. When/if that person doesn't appreciate my occasional joke, pop culture reference, or perhaps, use of vulgarities, then the class is not as much fun.

4. Choir stall seating has MAJOR disadvantages on days when the lectionary is humorous.
So one day, for Morning Prayer, the reading was Proverbs 30:18-20, 24-33. Go ahead, read it. Look it up. This is possibly the most random reading in all of scripture. (A foretaste: "If you have been foolish, exalting yourself, or if you have been devising evil, put your hand on your mouth. For as pressing milk produces curds, and pressing the nose produces blood, so pressing anger produces strife.") First off, it was 8am. No one had had coffee yet. And I give full credit to the reader, who was truly rocking this reading, and kept a total straight face, through the talk about ants, and badgers and curds, and kings and lizards (I am NOT making any of this up). But as soon as eye contact was made across the aisle, the entire congregation lost it. The assembled body of Christ was lost to laughter for a good minute out of the service...And the Lord was truly praised. :)

5. Everyone needs a little Valium.
Seriously. Seriously. Seriously. For varying reasons and in varying amounts. Some of us need it every time we look at a class syllabus. Some of us need it every time we open our e-mail Inbox. Some of us need it every time we check the news (can I get a big Amen?), and some of us just need it period. (Some of us force-feed it to our animals, but that's a whole different thing.) The point is, we should not judge our different tendencies to freak out. We all have them. Some of us just push the panic button a little more in public than others. Seriously.

Coming up next on Dajji's Ponderings: It's Holy Hell Week! And WASF with the Family!

*** Ok, for the theme song: Sung to the tune of 'Spider Man', Here's what I have so far:
Logos-Man! Logos-Man! Does whatever Logos can!
God and human
were combined
to form one
master-
mind
Watch out!
Here comes logos-man!
Any thoughts for a second verse? Leave comments!

Spring should be sprung by now...

2006-03-22T17:58:00.000-08:00

I reach a point every year where I walk outside and think, "Why isn't it warm yet?" I announce today, mes cher amis, that I have hit this point. I have held out much MUCH longer than usual, but it was supposed to snow today, and thank the good Lord and all his little chocolate bunny minions it didn't. I would appreciate some nice spring-y weather right about now. I'm sure it would help with the head cold.
But I was helped enormously by my fabulous spring break. I got to spend 5 days in Richmond, VA, where it was sunny, and gorgeous and in the 80s. So I walked along the Canal, bought Edward Monkton cards in Carytown, and spent wayyyy too much money on used books. (1880s history of Jerusalem and a first-ed of 'Ash Wednesday' by TS Eliot!!!!) I got to see college friends, some of whom for the first time since graduation. We're a barrel of laughs as a group and I think we scared the proprietors of the Mexican restaurant where we went for dinner. No group should drink that much sangria.
Another high point was getting my friend MaraJade addicted to Grey's Anatomy. I'm like a drug pusher at this point. Come to me for Sports Night, West Wing, Gilmore Girls, mystery novels featuring priests who make poor romantic decisions, whatever! Seriously! If I'm your friend, you'll never do another day's work again! (There will be a t-shirt in the future.) This particular sales job went easier because 1. we both have a serious weakness for Patrick Dempsey (who doesn't?!) and 2. I'm convinced our friendship, at times, mirrors that of Cristina and Meredith, though I can't tell who's who. MaraJade, at one point during the week, did announce that she was a large, handsome black man, resembling Isaiah Washington, trapped in the body of a shortish white woman, which might indicate that she was Cristina, but who can tell. Swear to God, that comment made a lot more sense in context, but I have no clue what the context was.
In other news, I'm back at school. There are many midterms to take. I really, really hate midterms. And that pretty much sums it up. On a happier note, however, I got a preaching gig, rather 3 of them, for the summer. I'll be preaching in Norristown, with dates to follow. The church seems cool, and it'll be nice to have a chance to stretch my sermonizing muscles again.

It wasn't me.

2006-03-04T07:12:00.000-08:00

It wasn't me! I swear! I've been over here on this side of the planet the whole time!
See, this is the kinda stuff that you can start when you cause loud noises on purpose in sacred spaces. Me, I just do it accidentally.

In other news, and totally unrelated to the above, I'm really looking forward to Spring Break. I'm going to get to see many many friends from college, and hopefully take pictures for the posting on the blog. So y'all will have something else to look at besides just my lengthy rants. So to Richmond I will go, followed by 2 days in Philly, then back to Va for 2 days in NoVa, to dog-sit for the Peaches' Valium-addicted dog. (Sorry, not a dog. She's my new cousin with long ears, since Cricket has gone to her final reward). Whew. Lots of travelling, but so long as it's a break from classes, I'm all for it!
Now if I could only survive this Church History midterm...

And to think he was on my Christmas card list...

2006-02-25T14:40:00.000-08:00

So the Archbishop of Nigeria is an interesting man. And I say 'interesting' in the same tone of voice that one might use when saying, "That tiger just consumed six live antelope and is headed for where my family is standing. Should they move?"
According to the editorial of the bishop of Washington DC,
he has thrown the support of his office behind a new bill that would outlaw all same-sex relationships in Nigeria. Not just marriages, though, rest assured, those would also be illegal, but relationships, public displays of affection, assemblies of GLBTs, anything you can think of. Even newspapers would be forbidden from running ads that publicized gatherings of gay and lesbian groups.
So not only is Archbishop Akinola in serious (SERIOUS) violation of numerous articles in the UN Charter for Human Rights, but he has burned clean through pretty much any statement that the Anglican Communion has EVER put forth on how it believes homosexual persons should be treated. For example: the 1998 Lambeth Statement on Human Sexuality, which has been quoted ad nauseum, states that though no one can really make up their mind what to do about gay marriage, the conference"calls on all our people to minister pastorally and sensitively to all irrespective of sexual orientation and to condemn irrational fear of homosexuals." So I'm left wondering how you can howl your head off when a group of people halfway around the world consecrates a lawfully-elected bishop who happens to be in a committed same-sex relationship because it violates the 1998 Lambeth Statement, but you feel no problem when this law comes up for a vote? Telling people that they can't gather in groups or advertise in a newspaper does not seem to be to be pastorally sensitive.
But this is also the man who threatened the Muslim population in the Northern reaches of his country that if they continued to do things that angered the Christian population, that he 'may not be able to contain his angry youth.' And now, there are riots. And the death toll continues to rise. And his choice in all this, is to attack the smaller minority. There's nothing like a scapegoat. But you're a Christian, and you really, really should know better than this. And yes, I'm a rich Western American, but still. Some things are self-evident, right?
You're getting a very pissed-off Christmas card this year, Peter. And Mary's going to be wearing a hijab. Deal with it.

Fun with cabbies

2006-02-23T15:38:00.000-08:00

Gasp! She's not dead!
Nope. I was just wandering randomly amidst the bricks on the Close, pondering the nature of my soul and divinity. Far too busy with heavenly things to worry about such prosaic things such as posting to a silly blog. Ha!
Or more like I was away at my Diocesan Council meeting (Motto: Proudly pathological since 1607, but we are so damn nice.) And then I got snowed in. Because the one time I try to leave NYC, we get record-breaking snowfalls. Clearly, God finds this amusing. Clearly. And then I had to spend the last 2 weeks getting caught up and sane again. Council will take it out of you, and then falling behind will too.
But it's not like I didn't have a good time. I got to see all my friends from SoVa, whom I love dearly. I got to corrupt innocent minors, in grand Brutonian clerical Council tradition, or at least try to. I got to get completely bitch-slapped by my retiring bishop, along with the rest of the Diocese, and when his farewell address is posted, I shall link to it. Because everyone should really know what it feels like to get whacked with the crozier once in a while. It's a special feeling. ;)
But really, the highlight for me were the cab rides to and from La Guardia Airport. Now, despite what you might have seen on Sex and the City, not all New York residents take cabs. Only the rich ones do. Which definitely excludes me. The only time I take a cab is when I'm desperately late for something, or going to La Guardia.
The other possible exception is when my grandmother is in town, and convinced that my walking 5 blocks will get me raped, mugged, and pillaged. Then I take the $40 she hands me and take the cab 2 blocks, and walk the rest of the way. This is how I afford coffee for the next 2 weeks. She's sweet, but old, is my Naw Naw.
Anyway, this trip involved 2 fun cab drives. Drive #1 was at 7am in the morning, which is not a time that God wants me to be awake. However, I woke up quickly when the two cars ahead of my cab decided to merge into each other on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The cabbie swerved, and we avoided the collision, but rather than thanking his appropriate deity and moving on, the cabdriver slowed down, and opened his window as he pulled alongside the wreck. He leaned all the way out of the car as he pointed and yelled at the now-damaged mini-van, "HE WAS WRONG! HE WAS WRONG!" After ever-so-helpfully pointing this out several times at a high volume, the driver sped up, and off we went, as he continued his monologue to me, about how the drivers in America were crazy, and would kill us all. I sat motionless and crouched down low, sure that the driver of the mini-van would come back to shoot up the cab, full of early morning road-rage. Do you want to point out that someone was wrong in the middle of a highway? Is this a wise move, especially in the middle of New York City, and most crucially, do you want to do this while the meter is still running? Because, if you die, it is important not to be charged for it.
Which brings us to Cab Ride #2. After finally making my way back to NYC, a day later than anticipated, due to massive (27.9 inches!) amounts of snow, I waited in line for a cab for an hour. Outside. In the Cold. the Bitter. Bitter. Cold. When I finally got a cab, he didn't know where he was going in Manhattan, which I found upsetting. (It's a grid! My address is an intersection of 2 numbered streets! How hard is this?!) Then there was traffic. Then the toll was higher because we took a different bridge. So when we finally got back to Manhattan, I was disgruntled already, on top of my tiredness and annoyance. And also, I should point out that in the city, there is no place to plow 3 feet of snow. It just makes the streets slushy and narrow, and the traffic worse. So my driver was agitated and cursing the traffic in several varied and intriguing languages, which I find fascinating now, but not so much at the time. Then, he decided to turn left. Unfortunately, this was highly illegal, which he figured out about a second after he completed the turn, and a second before he noticed the police behind him.
Now faced with a situation that would test the mettle of any professional driver, my driver promptly buckled. He panicked. He floored the gas, and tried to outrun the police. All the while cursing the government, the law enforcement, and the traffic, and that's only the stuff that I could follow in English. We slipped and slid for a while until he determined that the coast was clear, and I had determined that cabbies truly were sent from the devil to test my nausea tolerance. And again, this poses the question: If you are going to die while trying to evade police capture in a high-speed chase in a snowbank, shouldn't you turn off the meter? Food for thought.
I made it to my destination safely, and now I am safely home from my travels. Until spring break, that is, when I will be heading back to Pa, for a time. Possibly down to Richmond, as well. The lesson I have taken from all of this is: public transit is the way to go. Seriously. Screw cabs. The subway is my friend. Sitting there, with my iPod playing chirpy Arabic pop music, all is right with the world. Now if only I could convince people that I'm not crazy when I dance along....
Edited to add: Did I say Arabic pop? I meant that I play 'Let the Eagle Soar!' Also I enjoy most Toby Keith songs! Alberto Gonzales, you're dreamy! :)

Understanding the Palestinian/Israeli Conflict

2006-02-04T10:04:00.000-08:00

One week of classes has past and my brain is hurting. Literally. But I feel the need to share this with you. Everything you ever needed to know about the conflict over Israel/Palestine/Israel-Palestine/the Occupied Territories/Greater Syria/Eretz-Yisrael/the Holy Land/whatever you what to call it. So get a day pass and check it out.

Bishing about Bishes

2006-01-29T10:56:00.000-08:00

So my mother called this morning to inform me that the Standing Committee of the Diocese of Pa, (which shall be known as SCDioPa), has called for the resignation of their bishop, calling the lack of trust in his leadership 'paralyzing to the function of the diocese.' Damn, people!
I feel like Typhoid Mary--is this casting out of bishops contagious? DioSoVa, my own lovely jewel of political contention, just went through 7 years of this particular brand of fun and excitement. I went back to SoVa from DioPa thinking that it would be more stable. (And the Lord did grin. And the people did feast on breakfast cereals, and sloths and fruit bats, etc.)
I don't know the specifics of the situation in DioPa. I don't know what their bishop has done or left undone. But this is the kind of thing that makes those on the outside of the church marvel at our seeming hypocrisy. And it's the kind of thing that makes most of us on the inside wonder what in the world makes us stick around for so long. I'm getting ready to go back to my diocesan council for a weekend of debating more resolutions about sex, and whether or not we still believe in the foundational nature of Scripture. (This last one baffles me. Did some priest wake up this past year and say, "Wait. The Bible--really just a load of garbage, or a series of good life lessons? Let's vote, because I can't decide!")
After everything that has happened in this country in the past year, the tsunami, Katrina, Rita, the spying, the perversion of Christianity with Justice Sundays, the IRS going after All Saints in Pasadena, I would think that we would have more to talk about than another round of resolutions about sex. We have become a weird sort of ecclesiastical Linus, and homosexuality is our security blanket. If we cling close enough to it, we don't have to deal with the larger issues that might scare us more: authority, justice, power, and everything else that's behind this one issue. Instead, we just yell back and forth about sex, and the Bible, and we throw things. I don't know if we'll ever put down the blanket. In time, we will probably just switch to a new one, once this one becomes too ratty to hold onto any longer. Maybe we can argue vigorously over paint colors!

In which Dajji gets up on her soapbox, and not for the last time...

2006-01-27T11:12:00.000-08:00

So, if you've been watching the news, or reading the news, or listening, or corresponding through ESP, or whatever your particular preference, you probably know that Hamas won the elections in Palestine yesterday. And that the international community took this opportunity to have a major flip-out.
"Yipes!" said Our Glorious Leader, On Whom No Aspersions Can Ever EVER Be Cast, "Democracy... who'd have thunk it?" He got this bemused expression on his lovable little face (NSA, this one's for you!) and said encouragingly that while we always support those who choose their own leadership, we might object to said leadership when it disagrees with us . And we might be tempted to say, cut off foreign aid. And stop negotiations. And not recognize the government at all. But we love democracy! Yay!
But see, here's the thing: the people of Palestine did not wake up on Election Day and go unilaterally ballistic, decide all of a sudden that the calm, nationalistic, secular approach of Fatah had failed, and to do away with the state of Israel. Fatah has been screwing up for a while now. For years and years, the situation on the ground in Palestine, for the average Palestinian has not improved; in fact, it has gotten worse. Oslo was supposed to be the magic bullet, after the first intifada, but after all that, nothing. Unemployment is sky-high, the refugee camps are a nightmare, with no end in sight. As far as the average person can tell, the negotiations haven't worked, except to enrich the few at the top of Fatah while the people on the bottom starve.
Meanwhile, Hamas provides social services, especially in Gaza, one of the most crowded places on earth. These people didn't vote for suicide bombers; they voted for food, and doctors, and jobs, and an end to corruption. Hamas didn't campaign that they were going to blow Israel off the map; they campaigned that they were going to clean up the government and stop people from dying in the streets so much. When your kids are getting shot at every night, you could honestly give a damn about grand and glorious ideologies of right-to-exist.
The worst mistake the world could make is to isolate Palestine right now. Cut off foreign aid (not that we give them that much in the first place) and you give them one more reason to become desperate. This was the government they elected; if you negotiate with them, you force them to become pragmatic, which a majority of the population wants anyway. Make real progress towards a just peace, and chances are, the next election will go better for everyone.
PS: one more thing: we won't negotiate with a party that has 'an armed wing'?? Mr. President, have you met the NRA? Allow me to introduce you sometime. Also the IDF, I hear, is a great group of guys. Little on the militant side, but what the hell....

2006-01-25T20:03:00.000-08:00

Random: but this is in Venice, from this past summer. It's one of the famous churches there, but Venice blurs together for me--lots of canals and prettiness. One of the only times in my life I've managed to pull off taking a pretty good artistic photograph!

2006-01-25T19:39:00.000-08:00

This is an icon from the Eastern Orthodox shrine in Nazareth, showing the Holy Family in flight to Egypt. I like it, because the little Jesus is playing piggy-back with Joseph, while Mary walks along behind. No donkey riding for her! The God-bearer can walk on her own steam, thank you very much! And Joseph's other child leads the donkey--so clearly, this is a mixed family. Definitely not an iconic depiction you see every day, and definitely not on this side of Christianity!

The Name

2006-01-25T17:05:00.000-08:00

So about this dajji thing.... when I was in Nazareth, I visited one of the shrines of the Annunciation. (There are 2. or more. Lots of those things over there. Popping up like daisies.) The Eastern Orthodox have a really pretty little shrine, over a spring, which was the one that I liked, and the Roman Catholics have a HUGGGGGEEEEEE one built in the 1960s, with murals of Vatican II all over it. Because this is what you want, on a church dedicated to Gabriel's visitation to Mary. Also it lacks a well.
So that's where I was, down in the bowels of the church, at the spot where Gabriel evidently showed up. The floor of the church is made of stone, and steps down to the lower altar and the lower shrine of the Annunciation. I was standing down there, clutching my cherished Nalgene bottle (hydration! gotta have hydration!) when I decided to gaze up at the domed ceiling, thus loosening my grip on the Nalgene.
*****CRASH*********
Immediately, I grabbed the errant, but still well-beloved Nalgene, and fled the scene of the crime, as my reverberations echoed throughout the church. But as I scrambled, three little monks darted past me, chattering nervously in Italian. One concernedly pushed me out of the way, and roped off the grotto where I had dropped my Nalgene, while anxiously consulting with his equally concerned collegues.
The rest of the monks began to clear the church, and my tour group gathered at the front of the building. My friend, who had seen the whole incident, wanted to know what on earth I had done to offend the protectors of the holy shrine. "Nothing!" I yelped, "I dropped a closed Nalgene!" She grinned, "Abuna, [Father in Arabic]," she asked the leader, " how do you say 'crash' in Arabic?"
Thus, I have earned my nickname. I have a freakish ability to shut down holy shrines with sheer force of will and a mere water bottle, envied by other mortals! Dajji is a terrifying force!