the problem with "pre-Christians"

As part of the "All Things New" paperwork, I have been asked to think about times recently where I have engaged and entertained "pre-Christians".

The first time that the phrase was used, I answered the question... kind of. Instead I talked about post-Christians. I encounter quite a few of these... they once went to church and now they don't. They find church to be... too... rigid, too closed, not meeting them where they are. I get these people. Truthfully, I see their point and have felt the same way. At times, I feel that I could slip away and be at home with that life. I expect a lot of the church, it is the body of Christ after all, and there are times when I feel that it has lost sight of who She is supposed to be. The church seems filled with personal agendas, and God I pray that they are not mine.

The second time that that phrase was used in a question, I didn't even attempt to answer the question. Instead, I ranted about the phrase. To call someone who doesn't believe in Christ a pre-Christian makes it sound like Christianity is their destination. As if, we are all on the road to Christ. As if any other path to God is invalid and illegitimate. Those days of us as outsiders thankful to be grafted are long gone... clearly.

The Barna group* posted a study a couple of weeks ago citing why young adults are leaving the church. Leaving. There are some there despite what you might hear on a Sunday morning. One of the reasons why they are leaving is because of the exclusive claim of Christianity. The walls that have come to surround the city make the light that shines within not visible.

I don't like the phrase "pre-Christian". I find it offensive. Offensive enough that I am willing to tell them why. I am willing to write it down and have it go in a file that will follow me everywhere I go. Every time that the cabinet sits down to make an appointment there will be this document in a folder with my name on it before them. And so despite how stupid this seems,  here is why I won't actually answer their question...

it does us no good to talk about Christ in ways that are not gracious (exclusivity is not gracious)
if the only reason why we are engaging people is to help covert them, then we have sadly misunderstood what relationship is about
I believe that we no longer live in a Christian culture--we need to stop acting like we have home field advantage.

I have tried other ways to God. I almost converted to Islam. I thought hard about Judaism. I have been greatly moved by the Vedanta understanding that incarnation happens every moment--that every moment we are baptized into a new life, as new creations. And in this all, I have realized that Jesus is the way to God for me. That the beauty that I have found in other faith traditions is real, but Christ stirs in me something that the other paths were not able to.

I have met great men and women who seek God with all they have, but their label will never be "Christian". This doesn't necessarily have anything to do with Christ, but it has to do with Christianity.

Let's try not to label people with our labels... I don't think that it will serve us well

http://www.barna.org/teens-next-gen-articles/528-six-reasons-young-christians-leave-church#.ToxQX97cVdE.facebook

looking up

So, as I was killing time last week while the kids were at their after school sports practice, I went over to Macy's at North DeKalb Mall and I saw this sign: Men working above. 

I looked up. There were no men. There were not even a bunch women with one man among them (as the Greek may imply). I looked up and I only saw the ceiling of the awning.

Men working above? Where? 

Everywhere we look we see signs. Some pointing us to things that we can see, some pointing beyond the visible. 

When we look up, sometimes all we see are ceilings and awnings that block us from seeing something more, Someone bigger.  We look up and we see rusted lights, frayed wires, exposed fixtures, places that birds and bugs have made as their home... and that's all we see. We don't step out from the under the protection of the awning to look for more. 

I admit that I saw this sign and I laughed. I thought about how the "men" were a trinitarian God and started humming the old Gaither song, "he's still working on me". And then I chided myself for the maculation of God. Someone should report that to the Conference rep of COSROW  :) 

But the Men... the Man... the Woman...Sophia... the army of the Lord is not working above. We cannot/should not look up to see how God is working, but as people of the Incarnate God and people who believe that we are to be the hands and feet of God we know to look vertically. To look around our communities, our churches, our city streets to find the evidence that God is working. The work is done by us because of our love for Jesus and our belief that He is the one who calls us, leads us, and ordains us. 

So, if you decide to follow the signs that point the way, remember to step out of the safety of the awning. You might get wet, you might get burned but you can't get a glimpse of God in the world if you never enter the world. Look up, but look beyond and step out. 

what hannah teaches me

My daughter Hannah is such a great little advocate. Her 5th grade teacher told me that if she ever needed someone to stand on her side and be her voice, that she would choose Hannah. I love how her heart aches for the least of these. She might just relate to them. 

I sometimes think of her as my little progressive Christian and it makes me smile. I am sure that one day she will find herself a nice conservative, bible literalist and will refuse to hold his hand until they are married. And it will drive me insane.

I see how huge heart her is and it makes me honored to know her. I say all this because I talk to her about things and sometimes I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t. Now, I am not talking about the business meetings of the church or telling her annoying habits of her father (she wouldn't care, nor notice). That is not what I mean.

Yesterday, the State of Georgia executed a man. Guilty or not, we may never know. But I asked Hannah on Monday if they were talking about it at school and she said no. So, I told her the story of Troy Davis. And of course, I ended the story with my theological reasons for being against the death penalty. I know that my words will impact how she views this topic. Which is why I wonder if I should share them at times like these.

I ask myself:

What is the value of discovering the realities of life on your own? 

How is my sharing with her why I believe that any act that dishonors the sanctity of life is wrong different from someone who believes that one race, one gender or one sexual orientation is the only way to be or else you are inferior or an abomination? Isn’t it hypocrisy for me to think that it is okay for me to teach my children what I believe and then roll my eyes in disgust when someone else does the same thing?

I feel that I was allowed to discover and pursue issues on my own as I matured. My mom made room for to do so. That is hard to do.

Last night, while the Supreme Court had possession of the case and the fate of Troy Davis I talked to Hannah again. I reminded her of what I had said on Monday night—about how death penalty cases are often political, they often only affect non-whites and how they are about retaliation and not rehabilitation and redemption. But then I told her about the crime—about how an off duty police officer was killed trying to help a homeless man who was beaten. She asked me questions, voiced her outrage about the beating of a homeless man—you shouldn’t do that she cried.

And then I talked to her about how the family of that officer was trying to get to some relief to their pain and suffering by having the man who killed their loved one punished to the fullest extent of the law. She understood that side, too.

My prayers are with both families today.

We live in a complex world and I think that we owe it to our children and each other to honor that. As parents, it’s our job to teach and lead our children and give them what they will need to be competent adults.  That means presenting more than just our favored opinions. We owe it to each other to be more open about the possibilities. 

letting the doors open

this week i am preaching on prayer and so i have been thinking a lot about it. been thinking about why i pray. how i pray. when i pray. realizing that i should pray more because being able to talk about how i pray or that i pray or that i will pray makes me feel more holy.

how i pray is far more in touch with anne lamott's approach of "help me, help me, help me..." and "thank you, thank you, thank you..." than it is with the beautiful prayers of henri nouwen or any of the saints of old.

this is a typical tara prayer:
sigh. god, why did i say that? am i ever going to learn? okay, maybe i will. help me deal with the ramifications of being an idiot. i pray that they are not too bad or too big or too memorable.
help me not tell ______ what i really think when they ask me that stupid question AGAIN. or at least, help me say it in a nice way or in a confusing way so that they doesn't understand it and want to drop it.
sigh again.
god, work in me so that i am a lot more like you than i am like me.
maybe, i am just really tired. would a vacation help? where should i go? i do love the beach? oh, the air as it comes off of the water. the warmth of the sand. cool drinks in the warm air. the smell of the salt. i will come back to that when we are done here. sorry, god.
help me lead the people that you have entrusted unto me. lead me so that this is not about me. i want to be obedient--show me your way.
be with _____...


I try not to call people names in my prayers. i dont think that god likes that. now, you know why i have been thinking a lot of prayer this week. my prayers are quite pitiful. i believe that scripture that god knows the moanings of our souls and the holy spirit interprets them. for me my moanings are sighs.

I was thinking about prayer a couple of weeks ago as i was laying in bed saying my prayers at night. I remember when i went before the board of ordained ministry to be commissioned and this man (laity) was so mad that i prayed at bed time. he said that he hates it when ppl say that they pray at bed time bc when you pray at night you fall asleep and you are not giving god your best-- you are giving god your last. at least, i think that was his point. this is why i always pray at night (other times are not so scheduled and ritualized): when i pray at night it is to open the doors and let my day escape. i deal with the good moments, the bad moments, the frustrating and challenging and spend that time with god telling Him about what is on my heart. i let the doors open so that the stuff that i keep compartmentalized can run free for a while. i used to pray at night to raise the walls--like as a protection against things that go bump in the night. but now, those things that go bump in the night are things inside of me and i need to let them free, not trap them with a wall of protection. so i lay quietly, with conan on in the background and tell god my hopes and fears and stresses and pains and let all of them mingle in the goodness of god... hoping that like bubbles in the water they will evaporate and dissolve. knowing that they will, but sometimes it takes time.

now there is a part of prayer that is listening. and honestly, i am not very good at that, at least not at night. i have to find silence to hear god. listening is for the morning. for when i am alone in the sanctuary before the staff arrive at the church. sitting listening to the wood beams creak and pop. in those moments i hear god. i open the doors here, too. i find that i have to make room for the Presence.

i wont be sharing these thoughts on sunday. i am too busy hoping that i can muster up enough stuff to divert their attention away from me :)

the menu

everyday about this time, i try to figure out what i want for lunch. even if i am sitting in a restaurant looking at a menu, i try to figure out how to take the combination of ingredients that they offer and put them together in a way that is appealing to me. my friend says that every restaurant should just have something called "the tara"--the meal that i have already created from their current offerings. they should.  but i am willing to offer that i should have had to order it at least 3 times before they do that.

it's kind of an overindulgent and over blessed problem, i realize and i certainly feel a little petty complaining about my super taster taste buds, but they do complicate my life. pepper is a little too much for me. i like my life far more spicy than my food. i have tried and it's just too much for me (the food).

i spent this morning reading from the book of acts. this sunday i am preaching the cornelius story--talking about how kingdom of heaven makes us more open, but reading about peter's vision as he prayed made me long for food.... a large blanket filled with forbidden foods.... bacon wrapped anything (no shrimp mentioned)... delish. which made me wonder what am i having for lunch?

i am tempted to try something new... maybe, live a little bit more like peter. step outside of what i am comfortable with and taste and see that the Lord is good. we will see. i need to put my hands and eyes on the menu before i can decide that. but i am willing to try. if i am going to encourage the people that i lead to open themselves us to flavors of life metaphorically, then i should be willing to do it literally...

There is this story in the book of Acts (19:1-10) where Paul is passing through Ephesus and he stumbles upon some disciples (appropriately numbering 12). I hope that there is more dialogue than what is being recorded, because Paul in his typical anti-foreplay kind of way just jumps right into the conversation and relationship with all sorts of rudeness and presumptuousness. Having met these disciples, he asks them if when they were became believers if they received the Holy Spirit. They said no. And Paul, all concerned inquires into what they were baptized and they said the baptism of John--which is one of repentance. So, Paul remedies the situation and rebaptizes them.

It's these kinds of stories that frustrate me with Paul. I admit that my issues with Paul really stem from the way that the church has used Paul's writings over the centuries as a way of drawing lines and I wonder if Paul had known how his words would be used if he would have chosen different ones. Maybe, he would have been even less yielding. Who knows. But I tend to lean away from Paul when he is up because of this. Not completely fair. I realize.

Besides pointing to the fact that Paul re-baptized someone (the methodist in me cringed), this episode points us to an awareness that the Gospel as we know it and as we practice it is not the only legitimate form. The disciples that Paul met that day were clearly living like followers of Jesus; they had gotten the message and believed. They had a less complete (though not wrong) understanding of one element of The Way. After the resurrection and ascension, the apostles went out and told the story of Jesus and just like the Gospels, they had different understandings of what happened and interpreted the events differently. Sometimes big differences, sometimes very small.

But in this episode, Paul wants to correct and make these other disciples more like the way that he understands. I don't blame him; we all do that. We correct seen fallacies.

However, I like to think that the Gospel is bigger than we than we make it out to be. It is bigger than one understanding.  And so the struggle is how to be open to more than one way of understanding; how not to come across as judgmental or condescending. How do we try to make others not in our image?

cleaning the unknown dirty

Today, Jim and I participated in the exciting sabbath activity of cleaning the cabinets in the kitchen. It was actually more joyful than it sounds--good time with my husband--and the realization that I am becoming more and more like my mother was less than painful than it used to be.

As we almost finished the cleaning, Jim says to me something like, "it's funny how the cabinets can get so dirty and you never notice it." I thought about how true that is. How that is true of sin in our lives--whether it is choices that we make--to continue to disregard God's desires for us--or the sin that is committed against us--like oppression, abuse, neglect. We become immune to it's effects on our lives. Slowly the grime of selfish actions builds until it finally gets noticed--often not by ourselves.

It takes fresh eyes to see how the grime has built on our hearts. It often doesn't happen over night. It often takes someone who cares enough to pause and look.

And I look at the grime of the cabinets and there is also a positive.

The picture above is of the last cabinet that we cleaned. The dirt around the handle not as visible as on the other cabinets before their purging of dirt, grime and grease that built up after years of use. In that dirt are memories of little kids' hands, dogs jumping up in an effort to reach food that was not intended for them, countless numbers of home cooked meals, and homemade stained-glass (AKA shrinky-dinks). That dirt tells a story, too.

Our scars are often like that-- they show moments of where life has gotten dirty--where we have pain and yet they heal and in them we can see a blessing. The scar that shows that we survived cancer or that we got a new knee. When the time is right, we might be willing to show our scars... to show the world that we made it.

As for my cabinets they are clean.  My rags however, will probably have to be thrown away. There is a cost to being made clean again. How appropriate that it was Easter dish towel that paid the price for cleanliness.

and life goes on... hammer marks and all...

today was an exciting day at avondale pattillo umc and not in the good way. our program director was heading to lunch and noticed a suspicious man lingering. there was a police officer in the parking lot finishing up a traffic stop when julia went over to ask him to check out the man. the man fled. they fought. he reached for his gun and the officer shoots him. the man dies.

tonight, i drove by after the kids and i ate dinner at avondale pizza cafe and then had a delicious treat at the decatur dairy queen. it was as if nothing had happened. no tape. no police. no television crews. silence. emptiness.

but the effects will last...
i worry about the police officer who discharged his weapon, rightfully afraid for his life
i worry about about julia and any feelings of guilt that she may have for sending the police to question a man who would lose his life because of what he was hiding
i worry if it will make my congregation feel less safe
i worry for the family of the man that made a decision that would end his life

the old story of the nails and the fence comes to mind.  about the boy who got angry and his dad told him to hammer a nail into the fence every time he got angry. and once he worked through that he was able to slowly remove the nails, but they left a mark. it's a story about how our actions leave marks long after they are gone. i wonder how about the holes that today will leave... will they be large gaping holes that will require us to replace the boards all together or will they be small and barely noticeable, slowly letting in light and water that wears the boards thin?

a haiku about a hurricane destroying Siesta Key

Flip-flops float sans feet

Only wind and rain remain

No more sangrias

sermon from july 13 on Holy Communion

Meals are the cornerstone of societies. My family loves to watch the show Bizarre Foods; it’s one of the few shows that we can all actually agree on. The host, Andrew Zimmern says in the introduction that the best way to experience a culture is to share a meal with the people of that culture. Sharing a meal is not only a great way to get to know someone and to understand where they are from, but the act of sitting at the table with someone creates a connection and strengthens a relationship. 

When we talk about meals we are also talking about memories. Memories of times sitting around the table, sharing food, conversation, stories and sharing a part of our lives. Memories of our grandmother’s kitchen or the smell of your mother’s homemade pie baking or the way that the smoke fills your nostrils and burns your eyes as you sit fireside with your stick in hand that holds a marshmallow on it’s tip. Food brings us back to another time and another place unlike anything else.

I think that is one of the reasons why there is such an emphasis on the food in Jewish festivals. It’s not just that food reminds us of how God provides, but when you taste the bitter herbs you remember, not just as recalling a fact, but you actively remember the bitterness of slavery as you push the bitter herbs across your tongue. In many ways, eating is active memory.

Today, we are going to be sharing a meal together, a little different from the one that we shared a couple of weeks ago, so I wanted us to talk about the meal that we are about to partake of—talk about it’s significance and it’s history a little.

Our scripture begins with Jesus and the disciples in Jerusalem as they are about to celebrate the Passover. It begins with preparation. Jesus sends Peter and John to go and get some things done before it is time for the meal. We will read part of these preparations, but there is more than just that… They would have gone to the temple to acquire the lamb for the meal. No butcher shop, no farm. The priests had to slay this one and so you would go there, select and purchase your lamb. There are not a whole lot of options on how you are going to cook this lamb—you cannot shove it on a stick, rotate it for hours and then shave it off into a warm pita and smother it with some tzatziki sauce. You are really only allowed to cook it one of two ways: you can either baste it with wine or you could baste it with olive oil. And then you cook it for three hours.

It’s theologically significant that Jesus chose the Seder meal during Passover to share as his last meal with the disciples. So, let me spend just a few minutes explaining what the Passover is and why this meal is so important.

The book of Genesis tells the story of beginnings, in particular God’s beginnings with us. When Genesis ends, there is a shift in the story. Not that there wasn’t strife and struggle in Genesis, but Exodus begins with unfamiliar leadership, hostile conditions, a people in slavery and a chosen people who had in essence forgotten the one that chose them. For 400 years the Hebrews were making bricks and serving as slaves for the Pharaoh—doing whatever he wanted them to do. They grew in number and this made Pharaoh paranoid and so his treatment of the Hebrews became less and less neighborly. The people would cry out to God in desperation and when the time was right, God would appoint the reluctant Moses to the lead the people.

So, Moses went to Pharaoh and said, God says you need to let His people go—they need to go and worship me somewhere else and Pharaoh was like, “I don’t think so, why would I let my slaves go?”  And you remember how the story goes… Pharaoh says no, God tells Moses to go back and to ask again and then to perform a miracle—to bring a plague, Pharaoh is unmoved and the cycle repeats itself over and over until finally God decides to send the mother of all plagues. God tells Moses to tell Pharaoh that that night, an angel was going to come and the angel was going to take the life of the first born in every household. From the Pharaoh’s palace down to the hut of a slave, even the animals in the pastures will experience this pain, this loss.

But God told Moses that if you do these things then your first-born will be saved, but if you don’t obey my orders exactly then you will suffer the same fate. Go and get a lamb, slaughter the lamb and take the blood and smear it over your doorpost, over your lintel and then I want you to roast that lamb and eat it all that night. Don’t save it. Don’t save it. Don’t pack it. Don’t think about taking it. There is no time to make some bread from scratch and let it rise, so make bread without yeast and eat your lamb with the flat bread and some bitter herbs. Do all of this, and when the angel of death comes to town tonight, the angel will see the blood of the lamb and Passover your house and you will be saved.

And so the Seder meal that they eat the first night of the Passover reminds them of this time: a time when God heard their cry and stepped in and intervened in history on their behalf. A time when God took a people that were not a people and made them a people again. And so they gather each year, on this night to retell this story and to eat the meal so that they can remember. And they tell the story to their children and their children’s children because God told them to. Year upon year they remember God’s saving love around the table.  And this is the night that Jesus chose to have his last supper with his disciples.

Now listen to the way that Luke tells us the story (Luke 22:8-20):

So Jesus sent Peter and John, saying, ‘Go and prepare the Passover meal for us that we may eat it.’ They asked him, ‘Where do you want us to make preparations for it?’ ‘Listen,’ he said to them, ‘when you have entered the city, a man carrying a jar of water will meet you; follow him into the house he enters and say to the owner of the house, “The teacher asks you, ‘Where is the guest room, where I may eat the Passover with my disciples?’ ” He will show you a large room upstairs, already furnished. Make preparations for us there.’ So they went and found everything as he had told them; and they prepared the Passover meal.

 When the hour came, he took his place at the table, and the apostles with him. He said to them, ‘I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer; for I tell you, I will not eat it until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.’ Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he said, ‘Take this and divide it among yourselves; for I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.’ Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.

Who would you invite to your last meal? Seriously think about it for a minute. This is your last chance to tell whoever it is that you invite the things that you want to make sure that they understand and know—whether it is how you love them, where the key to the safety security box is, why you shouldn’t wear makeup like that—whatever your great pearl of wisdom is to share… who do you invite to share that with?

Now, let’s think about who Jesus invited. There is the one who will betray him: Judas. I guess that your opinion of him fluctuates with how you view his roll, but he doesn’t come out of this looking or feeling very good. There is the one who is about to deny him: Peter. You might think that after one or two times of boldly denying Jesus, you might not need to a third to be aware of it. And then you have 10 other loved ones that are going to abandon him: the rest of the disciples. 

Jesus knew what was in store, he knew that he would be alone when he did what he had to do, he knew that they would all fail him in one way or another and he loved them still. He invited them to one more meal: a meal rich in history, rich in meaning that took on a new meaning that night. Knowing what they would choose to do, he gave them the bread and he gave them the cup and he loved them still.

I actually find comfort in that fact. It’s easy to talk about these men that Jesus called and to talk about their shortcomings and their failings and judge and criticize them. We learn how to be followers of Christ a lot of times by NOT doing what they did. We get to learn from their mess-ups. And here are these guys whose worst moments are caught in scripture for the world to see. They say that you can’t really learn from watching someone else fail—you have to experience it yourself. You have to learn lessons the hard way. We see these stories about betrayal, denial and abandonment and yet we do them ourselves practically every day in very different ways—everyday that we engage the world outside of ourselves we participate in ways that put ourselves first before the Gospel. So, I am hesitant to point a finger because I end up seeing myself when I do that. I end up realizing how none of us are good enough to have earned a place at the table. And yet Jesus invites us all to come.

When I was at Dacula, one of my job responsibilities was to find communion servers. I would look to include people who offered a different voice—I didn’t want to just have the servers be the chairs of committees or the ones who lead the Sunday School classes or the ones who always served—I wanted a greater representation of the Body up there. One Sunday after worship, I went up to a man who attended every Sunday. He sat in the back with his wife and they were quiet. They would come in, she would talk some, but he was always reserved and very shy. They would bolt as soon as worship concluded.

So, I rushed over and went up to him and explained that I scheduled the communion servers and I wanted to know if he would be willing to serve communion the next Sunday. He gave me a very perplexed look, but instead of asking what the look was about I figured that he just wanted to know what he had to do and so I kept talking… I told him about what to say and what to do and that if you forget your line it’s no big deal—you whisper it anyway and no one will notice, gave him the whole spiel and he was still standing there giving me this confused look. So, I just said you think and pray about it and we will talk again and for the first time he said something: “uhh-okay.”

A couple of days later, his wife called me and told me that they had been talking about it and that her husband just couldn’t do it. And then she told me his story that I didn’t know: her husband was an alcoholic. Everyday he struggled not to drink. Everyday he fought his demons and he because he knew himself, he knew that wasn’t worthy to do this.

I was shocked. Not that someone said no to me, but my heart ached that he couldn’t see value in himself, that he couldn’t see any part of himself the way that God sees him, and that somehow he missed the point of Holy Communion. And so I talked to his wife about how that is at the heart of communion, that no one of us are really worthy, but that God loves us so much that he meets us there and at the table of the Lord, we receive forgiveness and grace and love. We come to the table a broken people who God makes whole.

I tend to lose sight of this. When I think of HC, I think of those things that I learned in seminary. Things like:

The word for remember in Greek is anamnesis which does not mean that we remember like we remember an event or why we walked into a room, it’s a different kind of remembering—it’s an active remembering, it’s a physical remembering—it’s to remember not as an act in the past, but a moment in the present.

Communion is about many coming together as one—eating from one loaf, sharing from one cup—and go forth as one. It’s about fellowship

It’s about sacrifice, things to come and so often it feels like it is about ritual. We do it because we are told to. I know that I sometimes loose sight of that. I forget that when I come to the table that it is Christ that I meet there. That I come as broken as the bread is and if I open myself up-- if I allow myself to be fully present at the table-- then God’s grace will change me. HC is about being transformed by God.

Let’s prepare our hearts to be so…

 

This I Believe (article for class)

I believe in paper cuts.

Not that I want to.

But they are real.

And they are very powerful.

Paper cuts are mood swingers. You are going along at your task and the paper slides across your flesh in such a way to make your tender skin slice open. A happy moment of crafting with your child, ruined by red blood as it pools on your finger tip; you try to wipe it away before it ruins the mystical rendition of a flying car being driven by a teddy bear.

Sometimes, you can escape before a red tear drop stain leaves it mark on the construction paper below, sometimes you just ruin someone else’s prized art work—the work that could have sold for millions one day in a gallery if only you hadn’t been so careless.

Whether you save the craft or not, your mood is changed---now in pain, there is not much fun to be had. And where did all of that blood come from anyway? Didn’t the Chinese use paper cuts as an early form of torture—like water torturing. Drip. Drip. Drip. But slice, slice, slice. Small narrow painful cuts making it impossible to think---sounds like torture.

Paper cuts can bring a big man to a wince. They are equalizers. Even a calloused hand can be a victim to an unruly piece of ultra white 16-pound copy paper. It slices like a machete through the epidermis and dermis. Big man needs little band-aid.

Have you ever cut your lip as you licked an envelope? It’s days before you can enjoy orange juice again. Or have you ever gotten a paper cut from a paper plate as you opened them for a party? That will taint a festival.

When the paper slices through my finger, I cannot help but to gently pull my flesh apart. I don’t understand why: it makes the pain worse. Paper cuts remind us that we need to be put back together like humpty dumpty. They feel better with a snug fitting band-aid or superglue to hold the flesh together. Whole. In pieces. Whole again.  

Paper cuts force Sabbath. I actually like this about them. It may be their only redeeming factor. They force us to stop working: even if just for a moment.  They force us to look at ourselves. To examine what we have become; to peak inside our flesh. Even if we are too busy or too self-conscious or just without a first aid kit, they force us to pause from our important tasks and yell, “ouch.” They bring about a moment of humanity in all of us.

the fives

The assignment was to list five first and then five lasts, then to write 500 words on it...

 5 significant firsts:

1) drove a car

2) got drunk

3) preached in church

4) gave birth

5) got a job on my own

5 significant lasts:

1) saw my father alive

2) my ankle didn’t hurt

3) preached at MPUMC

4) graduated

5) fasted from facebook

Lasts are easier to remember, I guess. But I like them less. They tend to be about endings; thus, the “last” part. Sometimes those endings are good things, though. For instance, the last time I saw my father was one of his last days and they called me a couple of days later to see if I wanted them to pull the plug on him. What a horrible thing to ask someone. I guess if he wanted the child with whom he had that great relationship with to make this decision he should have let someone know before he slipped into a coma. And yet, his death was the ending of his addiction and not just his life. At the same time, it was the ending of my dream of having a healthy and happy relationship with my father. In many ways, his death was good.

I don’t want to talk about that, though. I used to have to spend the summers with my father in Minnesota. My parents divorced when I was seven and I was required by my mother to spend my summers and Christmas vacation up there until I was 13. So, I was still contractually obligated to visit the summer I was 12. That summer my dad decided that it was time for my stepsister to learn to drive to drive—she was almost 15. Lori, as it turns out, was not a naturally gifted driver. However, she was significantly better than her sister who was so bad that we would fight over which one of us got to wear the crash helmet if we had to ride with her.

During this summer, we went to Montevideo--think Little House on the Prairie-- to see my stepmother’s parents. It was the country and so he thought that it was safe for her drive, so he asked her if she wanted to go for a drive. My dad was the not the nicest person in the world. Besides being a drunk—not something that we had realized the implications for at this point in our lives—he had a quick, mean tongue. Knowing him, Lori was hesitant to say yes, but the lure of driving was too great for her and so she caved. On the way out, he asked me if I wanted to go along with them. I was bored-- had already stared at the corn and the dog for a couple of hours—so, I said yes. About 2 miles into the drive, my dad had had enough of Lori’s weaving and wavering, hemming and hawing and yelled at her to pull over. He couldn’t dare to see her ruin his transmission or worse yet crash his most beloved thing in the world (the thing that he talked about as long as I can remember with more fondness than anything else)—his red Dodge Ram truck.  His greatest loves in life: my mom, that Dodge truck and his dog Shelly.

After yelling at Lori to pull over, he instructed me to get behind the wheel. I drove his truck with ease. He told me I was a great driver. This is one of the view memories I have of him saying nice things to me about me. 

transitions

It's the time of year where life is filled with news. Students are graduating and saying good-byes to old friends while they plan their next hellos. They are celebrating and remembering. Looking back and looking forward. They are anxious about what tomorrow will bring. Many hope for some consistency--friends to travel to the new destinations with them. They are hoping that they will encounter friendly faces and that their roommates will not turn into Bridget Fonda's character in Single White Female and try to steal their identity and murder them. Ministers are doing the same... though, the SWF thing plays out a little differently. Many of the same feelings of insecurity, confusion and anxiety exist.

It's exciting; it's scary; it's nerve-racking. Not what Cole Porter had it mind: it's not delovey....

As a minister, I cannot help but think about Timothy. Timothy was a young pastor who was sent to a church that needed some extra support. All churches are that way, I guess. No offense to churches. They are just filled with people who are open about their need for God, though they sometimes forget that is why they are there and why other people are there. Timothy was sent. As a Methodist, I too am sent. And in this time of transition, I pray not only for the church that has been told that they are about to receive me (whether they wanted to or not), but I pray for myself and other ministers and churches experiencing the same thing. I pray that I may lead them like Barnabas, teach them like Paul and love them like Christ... and that in that process they may come to know me and love me as well. That God will work in us and through us.