On Wheat Fields and Wonder

For some reason, I've been thinking a lot about my home state of Kansas lately. I was recently reminded of the state motto, which I have always loved and cherished: "Ad astra per aspera" - to the stars through difficulty. As a child, I clung to this idea of limitless possibility. If I only worked hard enough, I could learn anything, achieve anything, reach any destination I set my hopes on.

I remember as a little girl, gazing at the wheat fields and the trees and the sky, thinking to myself that no one could ever truly know or comprehend every piece of grain, every leaf, or count every star... that there would always be beauty that no one would ever see... that no one could ever see an entire field or tree from every single perspective. And it made me quite sad... I did not like the thought that even one piece of grass would remain undiscovered, unappreciated. I felt trapped by these striking reminders of the limits of human knowledge and experience.

Within my academic life, I have come to embrace the idea that there are things that we cannot know, but also that there are perhaps things that we should not know, things that we should not try to discover, uncover, plunder, etc. Within my spiritual life, I have come to appreciate the value of mystery, not as something that needs to be overcome, but as something that is important for humanity, something that necessarily reminds us of those limits I used to fear... but also something that offers hope and the possibility of continuous transformation.

And so if I were to summarize in fortune cookie fashion, I would say: "Embrace mystery and be thankful for the unknown." Some limits in our lives are meant to be challenged, and some are meant to be respected. May we have the wisdom to discern between them.

On Politics and the Parish

Politics, politics, politics everywhere… from Capitol Hill to Gospel Hill and everywhere in between. In preparation for the recent elections, and the recent annual church conference, my mind (and perhaps yours, too) has been preoccupied with issues of power, authority, justice, bureaucracy, economics, etc. And it occurs to me that church polity and national politics have much more in common than I’d like to believe… 

For instance, there are perennial struggles between small and large units of governance: state v. nation, congregation v. denomination. Which unit should control what policies? What happens if the smaller faction disagrees with the larger? To what extent does the smaller defer to the larger? And then there is the task of prioritizing issues: institutional maintenance v. institutional reform, focus on caring for “us” v. considering the welfare of “all.” A statement like “I always vote Democrat” is obviously political in nature, but so is “All Christians ought to attend church.” 

And so I will pose the question to you –participants in both congregation and country: Where do your truest allegiances lie? With institutions? With particular types of people or schools of thought? With a particular way of life? With the goodness or survival of humanity? And are your convictions consistent between public and parish life? I do not ask to judge, but rather to raise consciousness. I consider it part of my civic duty... :)

Peace Be With You?

I'd like to briefly address one of the most contentious issues related to Sunday morning worship. Though it always a rather sensitive topic, it becomes even more so during the winter months. Some of us are gung-ho about it, and wish we could do more of it... some of us generally go with the flow, not really caring one way or the other... and some of us are highly uncomfortable with it, preferring to eliminate it altogether.

I am speaking of that liturgical element commonly referred to as the passing of the peace. In my favorite British comedy, The Vicar of Dibley, the chair of the parish council complains in a pretentiously whiney tone, "Am I alone in preferring not to shake hands with the malodorous creature sitting in the next pew?" To which another council member guffaws, "Heh heh, I rather like that bit..."

I'm guessing that for many of us, the issue is less THAT we do it and more HOW we do it. Do we shake hands, do we hug, do we bow or wave, do we (horror of horrors) actually offer a biblical kiss of peace? Do we say "Good morning," or "Peace be with you," or "Hello"? And if we're ill or
generally uncomfortable with being touched by strangers, how do we communicate that without creating a disastrously awkward social situation?

The thoughts below may either clarify or complicate. Regardless, I offer them in a friendly spirit, with the disclaimer that I have not yet completed Emily Post's liturgical etiquette training...

- The intention is to somehow convey to your neighbors that you wish for God's peace to be with them.

- The gesture ought to be authentic to you, yet respectful of your neighbors' comfort level.

- Part of sharing "peace" entails not causing excessive anxiety regarding germs or other situations causing physical discomfort (overwhelming fragrances, gigantic bear hugs during flu season, etc.).

- The gesture is symbolic. Peace will still be upon those neighbors you don't manage to get to in the time allotted, I promise! But take care to intentionally seek out those who may be new to the community, those who you don't know all that well, and those who may tend to be overlooked during
this time.

In the end, of course... peace-perfect-peace is not ours to give, but rather ours to reflect as our deepest hope.  And it is this hope which we pass on to our neighbors.

On Revelation and Rest

Several months ago, a Mormon colleague of mine was telling me about the work that he and his wife do with young adults in their religious community. He was clearly enthusiastic about the opportunity to serve, and he began to tell me about one particular gathering he had recently facilitated. "I shared with them my surefire method for receiving a revelation!" he exclaimed. "It's very simple, and it never fails. All you have to do is answer three questions..." By this point, I admit, I had begun to tune out. Words like "surefire" and "never-fail" send my mind into used-car-salesperson territory.  And to be honest, the word "revelation" also made me a bit skeptical. But, I listened politely just the same. He continued: "Just go with the first thing that comes into your mind when answering these questions. 1) What do I need to stop doing? 2) What do I need to start doing? 3) Who needs my help?

I'll be honest - the questions greatly moved me. I liked that instinct was given an important place in the process of revelation, as I strongly feel that this is one of the ways God works in and through us (instinct, gut feeling, sixth sense, nudging of the Spirit, whatever you wish to call it). But I also greatly appreciated the order of the questions. For me, it is highly significant that the first question invites us to give up rather than to take on. It is a common symptom of shrinking mainline Protestant churches that a small number of people end up taking on the majority of the work, resulting in serious burnout. And still, when considering strategies to revive and refresh the church (bearing in mind that the church is a people...), much of the language centers on doing more, being more, adding more programming, attracting more people. In other words, adding more stress and strain to already overburdened lives. But if we're already at full capacity, we can't begin to think of taking on more unless we release some things first. We can't nurture properly unless we ourselves are being nurtured.

And the spiritual practice that speaks directly to this predicament is that of Sabbath. Are there areas of your life and ministry that need a rest? Are there tired ministries within our congregation that need a sabbatical? It may seem counterintuitive in this age of productivity to encourage people to stop what they're doing, or to step away from ministries that have potential to help and heal. But even God rested on the seventh day... and there are plenty of biblical mandates about letting fields lie fallow after a time, giving the land time and space to simply be for a while. Sabbath is not about doing nothing. And to rest from our labors is not a sign of weakness or failure. It is a serious (and sometimes difficult) discipline that can bring balance to our lives, thatshifts us away from speaking and giving and creating... toward listening and receiving and standing in reverent awe. It paradoxically shifts our focus away from ourselves and our own abilities toward God, the ultimate life source on which we depend. And so my prayer is that we might be a Sabbath people... for we cannot live lives of faithful discipleship otherwise.

On Faithful Living and Dying

After the recent loss of my paternal grandmother, I find myself thinking about what constitutes a life well-lived, and a death well-died.  When we're looking back at a life, especially a very long life, what "counts"?  What do we focus on as the essence of a person's existence?  Are we permitted to include not only virtues, but vices and flaws as well?  Do we look at the uncorrupted years of youth?  Or middle-adulthood, when one's career was in full swing?  Or do we fixate on the last days and the manner of death?  Does dying well make up for a life lived poorly?  Does dying poorly trump a life lived well?

I suppose the most fitting response to the question "What counts?" is yet another question: "For whom?"  The individual herself?  Those of us left behind?  God?  And I've come to believe that it's never too early to ask these questions.  What is it that is most meaningful in my life?  In what ways is my life meaningful to others?  Am I spending my time and energy doing what I really feel called to do?  How do I hope my loved ones will respond to my absence?

As always, it's easier to ask the probing questions than to answer them... especially since these are questions that only we can answer for ourselves.  But as a community of faith, we are graced with individuals in our lives who can help us to discern our gifts and passions, our fears and our growing edges.  We are called to be resources for each other, to be mirrors of God's image, to inspire and to be inspired.  And if one thing is certain, it is that we cannot do these things alone.

On Spiritual Disciplines

One of the most important documents within United Methodist tradition is the Book of Discipline.  The title can be rather offputting, as the term "discipline" has acquired a slightly negative connotation.  We typically think of it in the context of being disciplined by someone else, and - pray tell - who among us has fond childhood memories of being punished or chastised?  While the word can be used to indicate punishment, it is more closely related to the idea of training behaviors through instruction and exercise.  In this sense, a discipline is something that helps us achieve a particular way of life.

Some of us take on disciplines related to our physical health.  We exercise our bodies, we are careful about what foods we ingest, or we make sure that we get regular checkups from our physicians.  Some of us have disciplines that help us to be more balanced emotionally or socially: honoring a regular time to be with friends, setting aside time to simply be alone, being attentive to our thoughts so that we don't fixate on the negative, etc.  And as a faith community, we can help hold each other accountable for personal goals like these - the early Methodists certainly did!  But the Christian tradition also has a long history of attending to the spiritual disciplines.

From the monastic rule of silence to the practice of saying grace before mealtimes, Christians have placed significant value in the idea of regular spiritual practices.  Whether taking nature walks to clear the mind and commune with God, or writing music or poetry or pure thought, or abstaining from particular foods or substances for religious reasons, spiritual disciplines can help bring us closer to God, closer to each other, and closer to being the people we feel called to be.  The beauty of it all is that by voluntarily binding ourselves to these disciplines, we are made free to be and to become.  By submitting to these habitual practices, we are empowered.  I encourage you to consider the role of spiritual disciplines in your life - those which you already have, or those which you may wish to take on.  Healthy disciples make healthy congregations, which in turn can bring healing to a broken world.

"Hands to work [or rest or play...], hearts to God"

Throughout my life, I have consistently struggled with two things: rest and play. For whatever reason, I am plagued with guilt whenever I attempt either. What is it that makes me feel I always ought to be working? Perhaps a Puritanical streak from my paternal grandmother's side, or that Midwestern farmer's work ethic from my paternal grandfather's side, or maybe that relentless perfectionism from my Thai Buddhist heritage... Or, maybe it's just me. Regardless of the source, the pressure to be productive is always there. And I suspect it's the same for many of you.

I don't know how many times I've either heard or read that Americans are just plain terrible at relaxing. Entertaining ourselves is one thing. But really resting - simply sitting, spending time doing (seemingly) nothing, watching the world go by, allowing ourselves to be quiet and still... this is less familiar territory. Similarly, we often have difficulty letting ourselves play, as in taking delight in life just because. It's almost as if the only legitimate activities are those that make money, save time, or otherwise serve some useful function in society. And if we are encouraged to rest or play, it's so that we can in turn be more useful after we rest and recharge. The end goal is still productivity.

But what if we moved away from "guilty pleasures" toward deep joy? What if, instead of simply putting in required face-time with friends and family, we relearned how to delight in each other's company? What if our rest enabled us not only to get by, but to feel truly restored and in touch with our core passions? Let us take our cue from biblical examples of feasting, from Jesus' call to come away and find rest, from the "uselessness" of art, from the centrality of silence in monastic life. Believe it or not, our Christian tradition is richly endowed with a spiritual joie de vivre. I encourage you (as much as I encourage myself) to make rest and play an integral part of your schedule, your self-care, your spirituality.

A Theology of (my fear of) Jazz

I imagine we can all think of situations that push us to the edge of our comfort zones, those challenging experiences that we try to avoid out of fear, or even just plain laziness.  One such activity that always tops my list is... performing jazz music.  I'm a completely classical, on-the-page sort of musician, in the same way that I'm a straight-laced manuscript preacher.  The thought of open space, the absence of page, the lack of visual prompt... the need to create on the spot... to respond artistically (whether verbally or musically) with just a second's notice... this terrifies me.  And the theological implications of this fear only pile on more guilt (shouldn't I welcome these opportunities for spontaneous inspiration?  shouldn't I be more open to the mysterious workings of God?  what does this lack of trust say about my ability to be in any sort of relationship?  am I really such an incurable control freak?  ahhh...)  But in my more sane moments, when I am able to rationally reflect on this fantastic opportunity for personal growth, I understand that for me, jazz is clearly symbolic of not only my innate fears, but also my profound hopes and longings.  Humor me for a moment:

• Jazz is forgiving.  In jazz, two wrong notes make a right note.  There's lots of space and freedom to make "mistakes."  They're easier to cover, harder to hear, and quite frankly, rather difficult to make in the first place.  The only true sin in jazz is hesitation.
• Jazz is flexible.  It's entirely permissible, and even encouraged, to deviate from the plan.  This means that you can change your mind mid-thought, that you can respond instantly to your own emotions and the overall vibe from those around you.  This can make the experience more relevant, more authentic, more meaningful.
• Jazz is empowering.  A jazz musician (in my opinion) has significantly more artistic license than a classical player.  You not only get to take some liberties - rather, you are required to make use of this creative freedom. 

I won't spoil this reflection by imposing some weak metaphor about society or the church.  I think I'll just let you finish the song on your own...

A Psalm in Times of Threatening Weather

O Holy Being, the waters begin their approach.
The beating of my heart rivals the pounding surf...
Every muscle tense, every breath aware that it is numbered.
Where are you to be found?

Ascribe to the Lord all thanks and praise, I know.
Mark all creation with the citation of Sacred Authorship.
Lie prostrate before the mighty "acts of God" that are the wind and the waves.
Yet where is the logic in this destruction?

I try to take refuge in your omniscience and omnipotence.
Perhaps you test, you teach, you toughen through devastation.
But what reward, what lesson, what strength is worth lives which you carefully crafted?
I find none.

I fail to distract myself from my fear with these unanswerable questions.
What I wish I could say, what I wish I could sing, what I wish I could pray...
What I long to know, to believe, to sense in my innermost being, I speak into existence:
Be here.

Love in Parable: On Authentic Experience

If asked to name my first true love, and if pressed to be completely and brazenly honest, I would have to name that dangerously alluring siren - music.  Music and I go way back.  In fact, I cannot recall the moment of our first encounter.  It was simply always there.  But my initial expressions of interest surfaced at age three or four, when I would compose delightful songs about animals while sitting at my grandmother's piano.  I then made my compositional debut as a kindergartner performing in the elementary school talent show.  Since then, music and I have had a complicated history, though never lacking in passion.

Sure, there were times when I felt I didn't understand it at all.  There were certainly tears of frustration when it didn't respond the way I wanted it to.  I remember welcoming the arrival of new music teachers who would help me achieve delicate nuance and technical proficiency, and mourning those relationships during times of transition.  I still wince at accusations of being "instrumentally promiscuous" (I simply could not choose between flute and piano, to say nothing of my on-again-off-again flirtation with the organ).  But it mattered less who was doing the coaxing or through what medium the music was channeled... so long as I could have the experience of being one with the Sound.

In a recent church visioning retreat, I and the other participants were invited to consider what sort of "experience" we as a community hope to provide or enable.  Something about this question resonated deeply with my life, my aspirations, even my dissertation.  Because that's really what makes life worth living, isn't it?  That's really what makes us human.  Not intellectual understanding or superficial titles and categories, but authentic experiences that demand to be shared.  Encounters that are worth talking about, singing about, praying about.  In other words, it's all about keeping it real.  May this search for authentic relationship guide us in our daily lives - at home, at work, at play, at worship.  Amen.

Inked for Life

For Christmas, my aunt gave me a book called Sacred Skin. It’s about the ancient Thai tradition of tattooing, called sak yant. These special tattoos aren’t just eye-catching designs or even a means of individual self-expression. It’s actually almost the opposite. People who get tattooed develop a relationship with a tattoo master, who is often a Buddhist monk. The master establishes a set of rules for the disciple to follow for life. These rules usually include the Five Precepts of Buddhism, the equivalent to the Ten Commandments. There are prayers said during the tattoo ceremony, and if all goes well, the tattoo should protect and bring luck to the disciple. But the power of the tattoo is only effective if the one who bears it lives according to the rules. Yes, the tattoo is a reminder of promises that have been made, but if a disciple’s life and actions don’t reflect that, the image is useless. When the disciple does follow the rules, though, the ink is very powerful. It changes your entire being, and it symbolizes that the disciple and the master are bound for life.

Jeremiah 31:33 - "But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days says the Lord: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people." God’s tattoo is what we find when we get to the bottom of our hearts. A permanent marker of our relationship with God, of our identity as people of God. A sacred image that reminds us of how we should live and move while on this earth. We each have one, and I imagine they all look a little bit different. Some symbolize our responsibility to care for others, to promote justice and equality, to place our hope in the possibility of radical transformation. “People will always do bad things and rules will always be broken, but as one master pointed out, the sacred tattoos are silent and powerful reminders of a righteous path that all of us, whether we wear yant or not, should aspire to follow.”

[Quote: Sacred Skin, http://www.amazon.com/Sacred-Skin-Thailands-Spirit-Tattoos/dp/9628563793
Image: http://www.soravij.com/showcase/yantra/yantra.html]

On Authentic Encounter and "Positive Materialism"

So I’m a young adult, not quite thirty. A proud member of the generation that recalls with fondness slap bracelets, New Kids on the Block, and mismatched neon socks (please tell me the socks weren’t just me…). Though my family acquired our first computer somewhat later than most other families I knew, I began my love-hate relationship with technology at the age of eight. My second grade education initiated me into the joys of the floppy disk, which I used primarily for completing Accelerated Reader tests and playing Oregon Trail. You might think that as a music lover, a professional student and an avid pleasure reader that I would be well-equipped with all the latest technology for the ears and eyes: Kindle/Nook, an iPod less than five years old, iPad loaded with apps customized for people just like me, etc. But I’m not. Not even close. My television screen is only slightly larger than my laptop. I don't subscribe to cable. I don’t even subscribe to a data plan for my phone (which means that my phone is not even “smart” enough to require a data plan). In short, I’m a veritable Luddite for the modern era. And as such, the demise of the paper book causes me much fear and trembling.

I’m well aware of the benefits (I hesitate to say “advantages”) of the e-book: instant access, readability across platforms, ability to highlight, earth-friendliness and whatnot. But for me, reading is not simply about absorbing ideas – it’s a multi-sensory experience. The physicality of the book matters. Is the print set deep into the page? Is the paper smooth and glossy, or thin and brittle? What color is the exterior? Does the book lay flat with little persuasion, or does it stubbornly insist on closing itself? Does it smell new and inky, or ancient and moldy? (No laughter, please… the best-smelling book I ever read was a new copy of Thomas Merton’s Thoughts in Solitude.) As much as I deplore the evils of excessive materialism in present-day American culture, I require something tangible to complement invisible ideas. And I require the same from my religion.

In its quest to categorically distance itself from Roman Catholicism, Protestantism has generally steered clear of pungent smells, vivid images, and gestures of any kind. But how can one understand the mysteries of death and rebirth without being washed in water? How better to understand the pain of self-sacrifice than witnessing the loaf of bread being torn asunder? How can one feel a part of a body/community without physically reaching out? How can one express one's deepest joy and pain without making a sound? I’m not content to simply know or believe (not that either knowledge or belief is necessarily simple). I have to feel it in my bones. I can’t just think transformative thoughts – I need to experience transformation in full, from head to toe. I resist cerebral, virtual relationships, preferring instead to exchange a glance, to feel the brush of the hand, to hear a breath and a heartbeat. Authentic encounter grows out of these singular moments, moments that do not sync across platforms. Moments that cannot be replicated. I’m not saying that I fully embody these lofty aims. Rather, I place my hope in the possibility that the best things are worth my full mental, spiritual, emotional and physical engagement.

Epiphany 2012

Matthew 2:2 "Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage."

On this day we observe Epiphany, the appearing or manifestation of Christ to the three magi. On most other days of the year, though, we use the term “epiphany” to denote a sudden revelation, or a flash of insight. For a long time, I have thought of epiphanic experiences as rather passive. I go about my day, doing my ordinary activities, when all of a sudden a startling vision materializes before my very eyes. I did nothing special to cause this epiphany, it simply happened to me.

But it has recently occurred to me that epiphanies are just as much about the reception of visions as the spontaneous manifestation of them. How do we make sense of what we see? How do we understand that which is before our eyes? How do we reconcile what we have sought with what we have found (or perhaps with what has found us)?

I think the magi would have understood this. They were astrologers, after all. They made their living seeking truth from the stars – constantly searching, finding, interpreting, and eventually proclaiming. On this particular Epiphany, the star reminds me that the task of meaning-making is one we all share.