A Season of Waiting

On our way to Florida for Thanksgiving two and a half weeks ago, Jamie and I made two important stops. On a whim we pulled into Birmingham, and decided to go find the Civil Rights Institute. Across the street there in the middle of the city is Kelly Ingram Park (historically West Park), an important location for civil rights rallies during the 1960s. It was the cite of notorious conflict (1963) between police and protestors in which brutalities were unleashed upon even the children in what was the nation's most segregated city. The Saturday morning we arrived, the park was populated with homeless men (and a few women) as well as formerly homeless Andrew who greeted us as we admired the statues. He told us about the history of the park and explained some of the monuments, like the one for those children that said, "I ain't afraid of your jail," and the barred prison window, which if you look up says, "Segregation is a sin." The monuments are a witness to a time we will not be able to forget if we have the eyes to see.

I never really knew about racism until I lived in the South. But there it was, all over the history of a place, just as in Nashville, just as at Vanderbilt Divinity School, and there it was sitting there freezing on those benches. None of the homeless people that day in Birmingham were white.

It seems important to think about this during advent. Our liturgical season of expectant waiting provides sacred time to remember those things we are still waiting for. Simeon and Anna of Luke chapter two are not the only ones who have been waiting for the long expected Jesus, born to set his people free.

Our other stop on the way to the Sunshine State was in Columbus, Georgia. For the last decade or so in November, a protest has been held at the gates of Fort Benning. Begun by a Catholic priest, this event is a solemn remembrance of all those who have been killed by graduates of the U.S. run "School of the Americas" (SOA) now called the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation. This operation has trained thousands of Latin American military personnel who have killed untold numbers of people.

One of the better known stories is the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero in El Salvador. Romero had spoken out against the victimization of the poor during the country's civil war and called the church to free itself from alliance with government brutalities. In March, 1980, he was assassinated while serving communion, and his blood spilled out onto the alter. Two of the three officials responsible for his death were graduates of the SOA.

It seems a context like this is particularly in need of our long expected Jesus.

That Sunday we honored the cloud of witnesses:

Today we are privileged to stand in the traditions of Gandhi, Aung San Sui Kyi, Dorothy Day, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and all those who have gone before us in the way of justice. We can name only some victims here, but they call to memory the other hundreds of thousands who have suffered and died. May our witness honor them all. SOA violence and the racist system of domination it represents are a continuation of the "trail of tears" that ravaged the indigenous people of this country. We hold up the ongoing struggle of our Native American sisters and brothers who first lived ont his land. We cry...

It was a liturgy, each paragraph spoken in unison by the 20,000 people gathered that cold, crispe morning. Each paragraph was met with a musical response, and we sang together, "No mas, no more, we must stop the dirty wars / Companeros, companeras, we cry out, NO MAS! NO MORE!"

Then we spoke together: In Argentina, when SOA graduate Leopoldo Galtieri headed the military, 30,000 people were killed or disappeared. And in Chile, 10 of the officers indicted with Pinochet for crimes against humanity were trained at the SOA. We cry... NO MAS! NO MORE!

Then we spoke together: In Colombia, the largest customer of the SOA, 2,000,000 people have been killed or displaced by massacres and assassinations carried out under the direction of SOA graduates. Gen. Montoya, the head of the Colombian military, has a history - dating back 30 years - of collaborating with the paramilitaries in killing innocent peasants, massacring villages. He was also a student, and later, in 1993, a teacher, at the SOA. The killing in Colombian continues. We cry... NO MAS! NO MORE!

And so on.

The liturgy was followed by a commissioning of the funeral procession led by an entourage dressed in black with their faces painted white. We began slowly to march behind them, circling around to the gates of Fort Benning. From the stage, a leader would sing the name, age, and city of someone who had been killed; a drum would beat; and then we would raise the white crosses we were holding and sing, "Presente!" Each cross had written upon it the name of someone who had been murdered.

Imagine some singing out the name, "Oscar Romero," and then 20,000 people as one singing in response, "Presente!" Present. Oscar Romero is here, and we carry him with us. We will not forget. We will not allow you to forget those who are still present here.

Those at the head of the procession lay down by the gates, spattered in red blood, a graphic representation of unspeakable yet unforgotten death.

We placed our cross (given to us by a woman who carried two) into the fence. The fence was so full that there was hardly room to squeeze it in.

Can you imagine? Millions of people killed, and for what? It seems absurd, and we cannot do anything about it.

Perhaps that is just why advent comes at the perfect moment this year. It's easier during advent to turn from that painful, helpless refrain: "I can't do anything about it," toward words that to me mean more with each passing year, with each expansion of ambiguity, with each new awareness of pain-racism-economic injustice.

Come, thou long expected Jesus, born to set they people free. Here is a different kind of hope: from our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in thee. Here is the advent promise, that a unto us a savior will be born: Israel's strength and consolation, hope of all the earth thou art. Not only Israel's, our strength and consolation: dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.

We don't have to change the world. What we have to do is witness, and remember.

Sermons, Saviors, and Stupid

I recognize how historic the election was last night. I celebrate Barack Obama's victory, not because my hope is in his political vision but because of the hope he represents. And while my celebration is jubilant, it is also measured for two reasons.

First, our hope as followers of Christ does not and cannot come in or through the kind of democratic political process that limits us to two choices. Nor can it come in solutions that leave us doing ethics for everyone and that glorify the christologically arbitrary boundaries of the nation-state. I heard a sermon Sunday that's about to pass the Thursday test. The Reverend Sonnye Dixon taught about greatness and turned upside-down this image we've been bombarded with lately that greatness is something achieved by and attributed to winners. Greatness in terms of political, social, or athletic capital in this country is an altogether different thing than the greatness Jesus teaches us about, to love God, love ourselves, and love our neighbors. We may say this and even profess to believe it, but do we really understand?

Second, though the presidential election may be historic for our country, there were other ballot measures that were not. In California, Proposition 8 is on the verge of being declared official. It's not by much, but that doesn't matter because winning and losing doesn't recognize middle ground, at least not when it comes to official public policy. On this one, let's not talk about Jesus, because to talk about Jesus would be a whole different conversation that I've written about elsewhere. To talk about Jesus would be to call the church to account, especially - especially the "peace church" for the violence it has committed against people who are queer. Here instead let's talk about something more American, like freedom maybe.

They say, "All men are created equal." The founding fathers didn't mean women here and they didn't mean black folk either when they wrote this, but today we do and that's the beauty of a concept like freedom. It means different things in different historical moments. Today we mean all people are created equal and deserve equal rights, at least as they can be legislated. Except we don't mean everyone. We mean everyone except gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, intersex, and queer identifying people. These people are often unprotected by nondiscrimination policies; they are ostracized by their faith communities; they are rejected by their families; and they are denied the 1000-plus federal rights that accompany civil marriage. Some of us are created equal. Others of us... not so much.

Now on most days I'll respect those who believe differently and try to hear where they are speaking from. Most days I'd rather have dialogue than debate. But not today. Today I am angry. Today I think those who voted for Proposition 8 in California and Amendment 2 in Florida and Arizona's Proposition 102 and all the other marriage amendments that have passed across the country including in Tennessee (2006) and Kansas (2005), are oppressive, bigoted, unloving, and just plain stupid.

Notice the rhetoric that marks the so-called "pro-family" crusade from articles in media outlets today:

• "People believe in the institution of marriage," Frank Schubert, co-manager of the Yes on 8 campaign (California) said. "It's one institution that crosses ethnic divides, that crosses partisan divides. ... People have stood up because they care about marriage and they care a great deal."
• Jeff Flint: Early in the campaign "I think the voters were thinking, 'Well, if it makes them happy, why shouldn't we let gay couples get married.' And I think we made them realize that there are broader implications to society and particularly the children when you make that fundamental change that's at the core of how society is organized, which is marriage," he said.
• "This has been a moral battle," said Ellen Smedley, 34, a member of the Mormon Church and a mother of five who worked on the campaign. "We aren't trying to change anything that homosexual couples believe or want -- it doesn't change anything that they're allowed to do already. It's defining marriage. . . . Marriage is a man and a woman establishing a family unit."
• The Proposition 8 campaign also seized on the issue of education, arguing in a series of advertisements and mailers that children would be subjected to a pro-gay curriculum if the measure was not approved."Mom, guess what I learned in school today?" a little girl said in one spot. "I learned how a prince married a prince."As the girl's mother made a horrified face, a voice-over said: "Think it can't happen? It's already happened. . . . Teaching about gay marriage will happen unless we pass Proposition 8."
  

Regarding marriage, I will unapologetically question any claims that marriage as we understand it today is a building block for any society or is an institution that transcends its own continual reinvention. Ask your great grandparents. Read the Bible. Read a history book. The introduction to Stephanie Coontz's Marriage, A History would be an excellent start. As for a moral battle, what about that whole freedom thing? Isn't oppression immoral? Haven't we learned by now that separate but equal is never equal? And my goodness, how fear has polluted the discourse! It reminds me of people calling Barack Obama a Muslim. I don't give a damn if our president is Muslim or our children learn about all kinds of families. This is America.

Before I switch gears, look at this picture. This is the celebration of supporters of Proposition 8 as the returns came in. These people are celebrating the fact that marriage will be a heterosexuals-only institution. It's disgusting.

But the sobering reality is that it's not about this campaign in California or the similar amendments that have been passed in God knows how many states. All this anger I have is not something that can be subdued by policy initiatives, and you red faced men are not the masters of my fate. Salvation doesn't come through a campaign after all.

I heard another sermon just this morning in fact. The preacher talked about grass like in Isaiah 40:6-8. Though it flourishes during the summer, conquering yards and gardens, when fall comes it begins to wither and eventually dies. What seems vibrant and victorious in one moment in history, be it Jim Crow or heterosexual marriage amendments, will die. "We pick ourselves up and trudge on," Kate Kendell, executive director of the National Center for Lesbian Rights, said. "There has been enormous movement in favor of full equality in eight short years. That is the direction this is heading, and if it's not today or it's not tomorrow, it will be soon."

Now look at this picture. Here are Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon with San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom in the background. This is the first same-sex marriage in California after such marriages became legal in June 2008. At the time of their ceremony these lesbian activists and groundbreakers had been together fifty-five years.

There are other pictures to look at. Back in June the NY Times had an excellent piece on the whys and why nots of gay marriage. Believe it or not, not all queer people want to be married. Some find the institution to be heteronormative, sexist, and oppressive all by itself even without discriminatory legislation.

There are a few more things to share. An editorial in the NY Times early last month was written after Connecticut courts decided that civil unions did not provide the same thing marriage did and thus legalized marriage for same-sex couples: "Separate is not Equal."

And in 2004 for a brief stint, San Francisco legalized same-sex marriage. Over 4000 marriage licenses were issued in defiance of state law as the city/county appealed to the Equal Protection Clause. Those marriages were later invalidated by the courts and then gay marriage became legal again last spring also in the courts. I don't know the ins and outs of that process, but there is a song you should listen to. It's by Vienna Teng, and it's called "City Hall." In case you don't make it to the link, here are some words:

me and my baby on a february holiday

'cause we got the news

yeah, we got the news

500 miles and we're gonna make it all the way

we've got nothing to lose

we've got nothing to lose

it's been 10 years waiting

but it's better late than the never

we've been told before

we can't wait one minute more

oh, me and my baby driving down

to a hilly seaside town in the rainfall

oh, me and my baby stand in line

you've never seen a sight so fine

as the love that's gonna shine

at city hall

...

outside, they're handing out

donuts and pizza pies

for the folks in pairs in the folding chairs

my baby's lookin' so damned pretty

with those anxious eyes

rain-speckled hair

and my ring to wear

10 years waiting for this moment of fate

when we say the words and sign our names

if they take it away again someday

this beautiful thing won't change

I cry every time: "Ten years waiting for a moment of fate to hear the words and sign our names, and if they take it away again someday, this beautiful thing won't change..." I'm not sure how many people who voted yes yesterday or these last years have thought about what it's like to not be able to get married; or to wonder if you'll be frowned at because the neighbors know she's your partner too, not just your best friend; or to jump through hoops to combine financial assets; or to find an anniversary card without people on it because the local drugstore doesn't carry any that have a lesbian couple. What if it was you? What then?

We know what it's like, and we know again and again and again. Today we know in an acute way, because they took it away again, whether we live in California or not. I guess the good thing is that our kind of salvation is not theirs to take. A ballot measure will not change this beautiful thing. Beauty will bubble up again. This is not over.

The Apple Nut Bread Legacy

Last week the presidential debate was in Nashville, and it was big news. I planned to spend a relaxing evening at home participating in the political machinery of our country by fulfilling my civic duty as an engaged viewer of the historic event. All was going as planned when about halfway into the debate I suddenly got bored. Really it felt like two patronizing politicians attacking one another, skirting the questions, and spouting words that may or may not be relevant to the actual situation of your average American, a.k.a. Joe Sixpack. I simply lost interest and needed to turn toward other activities to pass the evening. At times like these, I find extraordinary pleasure in baking.

I turned to the Klaassen Family Cookbook, compiled last year by a cousin of mine. I also have on my shelf a cookbook from the Zerger family, my immediate family, and two church families of mine. There's nothing quite like knowing the person who passed on a recipe. It's as if in the act of cooking or baking, you become connected to that person.

The recipe I found for that fateful evening was my grandma's Apple Nut Bread. She had made this note: "This is a favorite when we do Kipcor (Kansas Institute for Peace and Conflict Resolution) for their morning break." She and another lady from my childhood church used to cater meals. In fact one lawyer once told her that the only reason he comes to those events is that he knows Donna's cooking. It becomes in those kinds of moments (the finding a cookbook, the catering, the lawyer moments) that my Kansas family comes into my house.

I made the recipe vegan for Jamie (I'm getting better with the egg replacer) and ate a healthy portion of batter as is my baking custom. On a whim I made muffins instead of bread, which turned out to be easier to share with a couple friends at school. And I tell you what, those were the best muffins I've ever made. The healthy amount of sugar and flour surely made them Mennonite; the carrots and applesause made them healthy and hard working; the egg replacer made them part of my present reality; the cinnamon and nutmeg made them home in that transcendent "home is where you find yourself" way. These muffins embodied my family from every which way. The greatest thing is not that though. The greatest thing also is not that I'm an exceptional baker. I'm not yet. (Give me another 45 years...) But in fact, all the credit for these muffins goes to my Grandma Donna. It is her legacy that lives on here in me.

APPLE NUT BREAD
DONNA KLAASSEN

1/2 cup packed shredded carrots
1 cup canned applesauce
1/2 cup oil
1 tsp vanilla
2 eggs, beated (egg replacer works just fine)
3/4 cup sugar
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmet
1/2 cup chopped walnuts (I left these out. My kitchen isn't so well stocked.)

Combine carrots, applesauce, oil, vanilla, eggs and sugar. Add remaining ingredients. Mix only until ingredients are blended. Do not over mix. Pour in greased and floured loaf pan. (These also make great muffins!) Sprinkle with 5 tbsp sugar and 1/2 tsp cinnamon. Bake 1 hour (or until tests done) in 325 degree oven.

Sock!

Here proudly displayed is my sock. Actually it's Jamie's sock as I made it for her using some of her favorite colors. That's right - I made this sock with my own two hands (and four needles, yarn, and a bit of elastic).

For about the last two months I've had such an urge to do things. I think it's carry over from my summer of living outside my little brain. After such adventures and experiences, it's hard to go back down to the library's basement and be excited about this nuanced idea or that subtle intellectual argument. But I digress. The point is that in mid-August, I took up knitting again for the third time. My mom brought me my bag of stuff, and after I'd finished off the twenty-third dish cloth of my knitting career I decided I needed to expand my abilities. I wanted something do-able that wouldn't take too long, but I wanted something that used more than just a stockinette stitch and some yarning over. (Forgive me oh you knitters if I butcher the lingo.)

You would be surprised at how difficult it is to find the right supplies. The store which shall not be named did not have double pointed needles and Michael's only had some of what I needed. I had to splurge at a yarn shop where I realized that knitting is by no means a cheap hobby. If I would have bought the yarn that the pattern really called for, I'd be out a pretty penny.

But my mom keeps reminding me that knitting really isn't about saving money. Lo and behold, she's right. It's as if having something to do with my hands, being busy in this way, slows down my mind paradoxically enough. It's soothing and productive. It stops that nagging guilt that whispers, "You should be doing something." Ha! I respond - I am doing something.

Now I should also say that this is major improvement from the six inch blanket I knitted for my Barbies when I was in grade school. It doesn't even have any holes (though I think I butchered the Kitchener stitch I was supposed to use to tie off the toe)! Now I'll admit, the heel is a little bit funny looking. I have a slight idea of how to alter the pattern next time, but the bigger problem right now is that I'm not sure if I want to knit the other sock. I must press on.

In the meantime, does anyone have any suggestions for my next (inexpensive) project? Not too hard but not too easy - perhaps mittens? As a side note, here's my latest brainstorm to attain cheap yarn: Goodwill has half off everything on first Saturdays. I could buy sweaters and unravel them...

Bells Bend

Instead of attending a Sunday church service, and instead of keeping the Sabbath by staying home, I found an adventure today. It was for myself and that deep part of me that needs solitude and the open road, and today it came in the form of a 20ish mile bike ride.

I ventured to North Nashville and then out West on Highway 12 headed toward Ashland City. The hills were rolling, nothing like that 125th Street monster in Seattle, but a far cry from the greenways and their flat monotony. I found I could do it, the climbing hills on my bike. I found that it is months of bike riding, from those first days of walking up that Seattle hill, to finally making the three mile trip without stopping, to taking my first twenty mile ride. It's kind of like when I realized I was shooting 90% from the free throw line after all that practice. Only today I'm a 25 year old with a different kind of dream - the existential hope of existing at once in stillness and movement, the emotional hope of learning to accept the humanity that is given, the spiritual hope for that which is greater than me to be found deep in my innermost being. Somehow today I found those, on my 21 speed road bike.

After a few miles on Highway 12, I turned left down a Old Hydes Ferry Pike. I passed through the unincorporated town of Scottsboro, Tennessee, past the United Methodist church that was in session, the perfect country picture. I took a right onto Old Hickory and headed south for the river. The Cumberland River snakes through the land, twisting and turning every which way, and Bells Bend is one particular chunk of land in a rather large loop.

The wildflowers are in bloom, though I never noticed it until I left the city. I saw mostly yellows and whites but some purple and blue too. The Tennessee hills were all around me on the little travelled two lane road - you can see them in the distance miles and miles away, blue and hazy even on a clear day. My water was about gone when on the right I saw a park. Bells Bend Park, a new park under the Metro Park Board even clear out there. I filled up with water and noticed the literature about the area. It had been slated as a landfill when a few years ago, the city decided it should instead be a park. The building that was my refuge was completed last spring, and there are 808 acres of land nestled down by the Cumberland for hiking, birding, camping, etc.

I continued on my ride though as it turns out, Old Hickory dead ends at the river, and there is no bridge across. I briefly contemplated making the swim, but my better judgment prevailed even though home was only about two miles away taking the short cut. Jamie came and picked me up after church, and it was a pleasure to share this discovery with her and to feel her sharing my excitement. We will be back soon, I'm sure. This piece of country is only a twenty minute drive. In the meantime, I feel just a little bit more whole.

My Tennessee Home

Since I left Seattle three weeks ago today I've done a few small things. Unpacked all my and Jamie's belongings; planted a small garden; started a compost pile in the back yard; vacationed with family in Arkansas; sewed curtains for my kitchen windows; pieced together a somewhat ugly wall hanging with Grandma and Jamie; bought a cheap road bike from a store that shall not be named (because everywhere else was so dang expensive); watched lots of the Olympics; adjusted to the heat and humidity; and most recently started the second to last semester of my Divinity school education.

What a life it sometimes is.

My semester looks to be quite a change of pace from last spring, and that is a good thing. My Monday class, Religious Leadership and Liberation Praxis, fills a race and class studies requirement, and I hear the professor is inspirational and practical. I also am doing a readings course on Anabaptist Thought, trying to get a bit of what I miss out on here in this ecumenical setting. I hope to engage some questions of Mennonite identity in the 21st century which emerged in part this past summer while I was a truly urban Mennonite. Also, like most of my classmates, I am in a senior seminar, which will be research, reflecting, writing, and collaboration on a "thesis" type project. My final class is advanced field education, an internship that is quite open and thus remains a bit undefined but will involve dialogue, the church, and sexuality as the three main components. We shall see how it goes!

That's all for now, but I will leave you with some pictures of my kitchen and living room...

"Imagining God as Invitation"

My sermon from this morning, my last morning at SMC. What a meaningful and at times emotional service it was for me (thanks, Lee for the kleenex!), and what blessings both spoken and unspoken, I carry from this place as I go.

“Imagining God as Invitation”

A word of introduction about this sermon:

As you can see in your bulletin, this sermon comes out of an intentional discussion in which several members of the congregation engaged today’s Gospel text. I am grateful for the thoughtful and creative insights of Alicia, Don, Ryan, Sandy, and John and to Amy for her gracious facilitation of our conversation. Their energy guided me toward today’s topic and contributed to much of what I say here.

Tables. End tables, card tables, coffee tables, communion tables, picnic tables, foosball tables, ping pong tables, dining room tables, kitchen tables. We eat at tables and study at them. We are taught to protect ourselves under tables during earthquakes. We have church meetings and board meetings and family meetings around tables. We find a place to put down our keys, our books, and our grocery lists on tables. Some people in this congregation can build tables. Others can decorate them with carefully chosen tablecloths or fresh flowers or elegant place settings. We set up tables for potlucks and stop, drop, and roll. Tables separate us from one another across an expanse of wood or glass or plastic, and they join us to one another as we share, in spite of our differences, the same table.

The group that brainstormed with me for this sermon shared space in couches and chairs around a table as we talked about today’s gospel text. It was a table of the smaller variety, only a couple feet high but large enough to hold a bowl of fruit and a plate of cookies, which we also shared.

Like the sermon group’s setting, the setting for today’s text is at a table. The Parable of the Great Banquet is the fourth of four stories that the writer of Luke has brought together in the context of a dinner, a Sabbath meal at the house of a leader of the Pharisees. As was custom in the ancient world, shared talk at a table was a common place for philosophers and teachers to offer their wisdom as Jesus does here. But as our sermon group quickly realized, exactly what wisdom the parable offers is far less obvious than where it takes place.

Jesus tells a story: a landowner gives a great banquet, a feast to which many are invited, but when the time comes for the banquet, the previously invited guests make excuses for why they cannot attend. The host grows angry and invites people from out on the street so the house may be filled and none who were originally invited will be able to participate in the festivities.

Perhaps the parable has historical significance as an allegory or metaphor for explaining how the Gentiles come to be included along with the Jews when God’s invitation extends to all peoples regardless of nation, tribe, or tongue. Or maybe it is about an alternative kind of justice: the people who are thought to be powerful by the world’s standards are suddenly left out and the outsiders are invited in; what seems to be the order is turned on its head. Perhaps Jesus is teaching us that in God’s kingdom, the normal social hierarchies are turned upsidedown. Or maybe the text is more about each one of us, more personal, a warning to us not to make excuses and a reminder to make time for God regardless of what else we think is important in our lives.

So which one is it? What is Jesus telling us in this parable? Is he explaining the movement of history? Is he teaching about social justice? Is he guiding us through our personal lives? Perhaps it can be any of the above depending on where we come from and how we read the text. In fact, that’s the beauty of a parable. Even biblical commentaries freely acknowledge that parables by their very nature are heard in a number of ways, even by the same person at different times. So instead of trying to tell the many people in this room how to hear this enigmatic parable, I have another suggestion for how to interact with this Scripture, a suggestion that came out clearly in our conversation as a sermon group: the parable of the great banquet for us today is about an invitation.

A few days ago I received an email invitation from the sister of a friend. My friend is getting married in Nashville next week, and her sister is quote “planning an evening of fun and festivities to celebrate Emily and her last days as a single girl.” This evening will involve eating, drinking, making merry, and probably some dancing. Now I’ll be honest. I only know about three other people who are invited (not good for my shy side), and I’m not one to casually spend my hard-earned money for the cover charge at a bar or club, AND, as always, the thought of dancing in public absolutely terrifies me. As much as I’d love to celebrate Emily, this bachelorette party thing does not sound like my idea of a good time. So what am I to do with the invitation?

Our Gospel parable for today asks us the exact same thing whether we read it historically, socially, or personally: what are we to do with the invitation?

Many of us believe that God’s invitation is unconditional, that even on our death bed or even after we die, we can choose God. God is the one who accepts us without hesitation, even if we are, like those in the story, poor, lame, blind, lost, helpless, hopeless. Most of us have learned the famous verse from Romans chapter 3: All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God and are justified by God’s gift of grace. Yes, we learn in Sunday school that God is love, that God loves us no matter what, and that would seem to say that God’s invitation is irrevocable, a call on our lives that never goes away, is always there tapping us on the shoulder, saying come to the table, come to the table, come to the banquet, come to the great dinner. And so we enter the text: isn’t the meaning of the parable clear? The person throwing the party, God, is inviting us across the span of history to a celebration, a feast in the kingdom of God.

But here’s where the problem comes in. The invitation in the parable is not unconditional. After the first guests made excuses for why they could not come, remember what the landowner said: “Compel people to come in, so that my house may be filled. For I tell you, none of those who were invited will taste my dinner.” Soon on the heels of a gracious invitation comes a harsh, rude, dare I say unreasonable dis-invitation. There is no point when the people are welcomed back to the table.

It seems there’s a contradiction here, or at least a pronounced tension. Is God unconditionally loving and inclusive? Or does God need to exclude some in order to include others? How does God’s grace fit with God’s justice?

I wish I could tell you. I wish in one sermon I could provide you a pat answer that we could tell all those people who point out the contradictions in our Christian faith, but I can’t. In fact, theologians through the ages have argued and picked apart and analyzed, and no definitive answer has emerged. Some reject works righteousness saying, we are saved through faith by grace alone. Others rail against predestination, asking what about human free will? In fact, both of these ideas, God’s grace and God’s justice, are biblical. Today I suggest one imaginative reply. I suggest that perhaps this age-old question of grace and justice, of faith and works raised by our parable is the wrong question.

My fear is that in talking about God’s justice and God’s grace, we congregants and professional theologians alike are just imposing our interpretations of the Bible and our understandings of justice and grace onto God. Author Anne Lamott says it best when she says, “You can safely assume that you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out God hates all the same people you do.”

So to return to the text, let us ask, “Who would we uninvite to our party?” Would it be the homosexuals, the transgendered, gay, lesbian, or queers? The Republicans, Democrats, or those who don't vote? Who would it be? Would it be the poor? The homeless? Those without jobs? Who would we disinvite? Would it be those who aren’t Christian? Would it be the people who don’t look like us, talk like us, dress like us, or believe like us? Would it be those who aren’t the normal we’ve come to expect here? Would we use Scripture or a God or church created in our own image to justify it?

A common interpretation of this text has supposed that the landowner in our story today is God. This interpretation ends with people cut out of the banquet. The party in the kingdom of God shuts out those who make excuses. This is the God of justice we see. But the beauty of the parable is that it is enigmatic. Jesus never says, “God gave a great dinner and invited many.” He says, “Someone gave a great dinner and invited many…” It’s open to interpretation, and there’s another picture here of God. Turn the story on its ear for a moment of thinking imaginatively. What if God is not the landowner, or those who make excuses, or the slave who delivers the invitation, or even the poor, crippled, blind, and lame. Certainly it would be interesting to imagine God or Christ as any one of these other characters, but certainly also, God is a God of surprises who cannot be bottled into any one character or concept.

Try this. Liberate God from the characters, and make God the invitation itself. What happens then? What happens when we imagine God as invitation?

I was riding east on I-40 through Tennessee this past March on a spring break road trip to Washington DC when I got a phone call from Seattle and the Leadership Council chair here. I had inquired earlier in the winter about doing a pastoral internship at Seattle Mennonite Church between my second and third ears of seminary and was waiting with anticipation for the congregation’s decision. I answered the phone and Michael Roe said, “Hi, Sarah. On behalf of Seattle Mennonite Church, I am pleased to extend you an invitation to an internship here this summer.” When others in the church, when other churches implicitly had uninvited me, because I am a lesbian, you didn’t. And I am grateful and forever transformed by my chance to be here in your midst. It was not God who invited me; you did. It was perhaps not God’s invitation that you offered; it was yours. But in your invitation to me, in that space between us, was the real presence of God.

The invitation is that which flows between the person inviting and the person invited. It embodies the relationship between the host and the guest. And this is not so unlike our immanent, relational God, who moves in the space between us, in our love for one another and our faithfulness toward each other. When the invitation, or God is rejected, there is a breach of trust and the person inviting is left vulnerable and hurt after feeling anticipation, hope and joy. When the invitation, or God, is withdrawn, taken back by the church or another mediating party, the relationship ceases to be one of acceptance and love and those who are excluded wonder why they are suddenly unworthy.

Whether we make excuses or leave people out; whether we are the owner of five yoke of oxen or newly married; whether we are the poor, the crippled, the blind, or the lame; whether we are the master him or herself, the invitation stands, beaconing, calling us to take notice, to listen up, to pay attention to one another, for there is a banquet here. God, the invitation itself, calls to us and leads us to a dinner, a feast. When we sit down at the table, we have accepted the invitation; we have accepted God when we sit together in this space today, we have accepted the God who joins us to one another despite of and in spite of our differences. We come together through our present God at a common table. The God who gives us life is present here at the dinner, flows in the space between us, when we share our joy, our sorrow, our suffering and remorse and thanksgiving, our laughing and crying and eating. Go, noticing the God as invitation to relationship in the space between each of us, noticing the invitation that joins us together in trust, in hope, in peace, and in love. Amen.

Last Days

It's been one of those weeks of extra noticing: the last time I pedal up this insanely steep and long hill, which I had to walk up the first month I was here; the last time I will hop on a bus an hope I get off in the right place; the last time I get up at 5:30 a.m. for community ministry. There are many things I could write about, but I for now I will just share bookends that in some significant way represent my time here.

I flew to Seattle on May 8, a Thursday. Amy Epp, the associate pastor, picked me up and brought me to church for the afternoon and some quick introductions. Shortly after I arrived, Weldon showed me around the SMC campus, and in my first minutes of being here, we ran into Phil and Josie. They are a couple who is homeless, and Josie was having a bad day. She sometimes has seizures and has to be in a wheel chair. She was hunched over, and they smelled of alcohol. She took Weldon's hand and said, "Pastor, can you pray for me?" We held hands and Weldon prayed for as he puts it, "Josie's strength and healing and for ... recognizing [her] own life as created in God's image and receiving each day as a gift from God." We then continued our tour.

It wasn't awkward, necessarily, but for me the encounter was certainly new and different. I felt like that hide-and-go-seek phrase: ready or not, here it comes! So much for easing my way into urban ministry. At the same time as the social discomfort bubbled up so did another familiar feeling: this matters; what I do here matters for the church; and what I do here will matter to me and who I am from this day forth. I will not leave here unchanged.

My last day of work officially (unless you count Sundays) is today, August 1. After I was relatively okay with the most recent draft of my sermon for Sunday, I walked over to Bartell Drugs to get a thank you card for Rob and Lee (my summer hosts). I found the perfect card, and as I was walking out, there were Phil and Josie. Phil was "drunk and stoned" in his words, but we exchanged hellos before he laid down to rest. Josie walked up and I shared the card with her. She agreed; it is the perfect card for Rob and Lee. And much to my surprise, she asked if she could sign it too. Caught a bit off guard I consented, and so she wrote a message from the both of them on my thank you card.

What an unusual request, and what a special moment for me as I pushed aside my instinct to say, "No actually the card is just from me because I'm leaving Seattle." Instead, I took the moment to claim this unorthodox aspect of our relationship with one another. Perhaps to an outsider it might seem stupid or embarrassing or at least an unwelcome social intrusion. But who determines what is socially acceptable anyway? Why not celebrate what is socially unacceptable here, knowing that we can flourish just as much (if not more) outside those silly, boundaried, "normal" paradigms anyway. I think this is what Josie (below) taught me today and has been teaching me all along.

Visitors from Kansas

Last week my parents came to the Northwest. After their visit, I can definitely say I've done everything I needed to do during my time here. I went on the (hilarious!) Underground Tour, learning about the scandalous history of early Seattle and the unique way the city was rebuilt after a fire destroyed much of then downtown in the late 19th century. This is a must visit if you come to Seattle. We enjoyed Beecher's Cheese and fresh raspberries and Rainier cherries at Pike Place Market and went on a sub-par Ride the Ducks tour... and all of that was just on Thursday!

Friday was the big hike. We drove to Mount Rainier National Park, which is south and east of Seattle. Mount Rainier is a 14,410 feet tall, "episodically active" volcano in the Cascade Range. It is a relatively young mountain (500,000 years) and towers above the surrounding mountains, which are much older (12 million years). Rainier is covered by glaciers (35 square miles of permanent ice and snow), and to reach the summit is a feat in itself, requiring training, gear, and time far surpassing that of our trio of Midwesterners. We did about a six mile hike at around seven or eight thousand feet. It was much easier than our adventures of old in the Rockies as elevation was not a problem and the trail was well-used. However, on the way back to the parking lot, we decided to take the road less traveled. A half mile or so down, covering the path was a relatively small patch of ice and snow. It obscured about 200 feet of the path and was relatively vertical down the steep side of the ridge. Only two sets of footprints were there to guide us, much more ominous than the oft-traversed patches of snow we had already plodded through. I was only about six steps out when I realized this was perhaps not the smartest or safest thing I had ever done. I began to tremble just a bit with every movement. As my backpack swung precariously toward the slope on my right, I dug into the snow above me on my left, using my fingers as ice picks. A hundred steps or so and an eternity later, I stepped onto solid ground, hands red and frozen, body shaking and relieved, spirit wanting to sit down and weep. One week later I have regained most of the feeling in my fingertips. I'm happy to say my parents did not experience this same feeling of near death on Rainier. Good for them.

Saturday we trekked to Whidbey Island, taking the ferry from Mukilteo to Clinton where we were met by Kevin Horan, my dad's cousin. He and his wife Nancy were our gracious hosts for the day. We experienced a farmers' market, Deception Pass State Park (again for me), the barley fields of the island, a fresh blueberry pie compliments of Nancy, bald eagles, prevailing winds from the west, and a backyard view of the Puget Sound from their cottage in Langley. What a day it was, the conversation and catching up not excepted!

The rest of their trip was a patchwork of experiences: church and meeting a few folks from Kansas; crab, salmon, and lovely conversation with Rob, Lee, and the hens; the Hiram M. Chittenden Locks, which link the saltwater Puget Sound to fresh water Lakes Union and Washington through canals by adjusting the water levels as boats pass between them; numerous bus rides through the city; the Olympic Sculpture Park; and Elliot Bay Book Company.

A few days later I've finally caught back up to myself and the tasks left to do in the next ten days here in Seattle.

Prayers for Worship

Each Sunday, SMC's worship service has a time for "Prayers of the People." Someone, usually a pastor or a person on the pastoral care team, leads the congregation in prayer. Often concerns for people in the congregation are mentioned, and there's usually a time for the people to voice their prayers in a word or phrase if they so choose. Today was my Sunday to lead these prayers, which sent me into a small crisis.

What is prayer? Is God an agent in prayer? Who or what is God? Are we agents in prayer? Is prayer just a way to make us feel better? Why do we close our eyes and bow our heads to pray? And so on and so on. I will spare you my own radical, even sacriligious understandings of prayer and simply say that with a huge pep talk from Jamie, I came up with a time of sorts in which I retained my theological integrity while (at least I hope) speaking words that resonated with those who have more "traditional" understandings of prayer. This all thanks to Rainer Maria Rilke, who I really should learn more about since I invoke his words semi-frequently.

Your thoughts about prayer? I'd love to know, so please share if you have anything worked out for yourself...

July 13, 2008 - SMC Prayers

Our existence here in community is a form of prayer in and of itself. When we notice that God is round about us, that God is the ground of our being, our every word and expression, indeed our every breath is prayer. I will pray the words of a Rainer Maria Rilke poem and begin a time for spoken or unspoken prayer. I will close our communal prayers with another Rilke poem. Let us take this time to notice our God.

I.45

You come and go. The doors swing closed
ever more gently, almost without a shudder.
Of all who move through the quiet houses,
you are the quietest.

We become so accustomed to you,
we no longer look up
when your shadow falls over the book we are reading
and makes it glow. For all things
sing you: at times
we just hear them more clearly

Often when I imagine you
your wholeness cascades into many shapes.
You run like a herd of luminous deer
and I am dark, I am forest.

You are a wheel at which I stand,
whose dark spokes sometimes catch me up,
revolve me nearer to the center.
Then all the work I put my hand to
widens from turn to turn.

...

II.22

You are the future,
the red sky before sunrise
over the fields of time.

You are the cock’s crow when night is done,
you are the dew and the bells of matins,
maiden, stranger, mother, death.

You create yourself in ever-changing shapes
that rise from the stuff of our days –
unsung, unmourned, undescribed,
like a forest we never knew.

You are the deep innerness of all things,
the last word that can never be spoken.
To each of us you reveal yourself differently:
to the ship as a coastline, to the shore as a ship.


(Both English translations from Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God)

Skagit Bay Adventure

Friday and Saturday I had the pleasure of a trip out of town. Rob and Lee own a share in a cabin on Skagit Bay close to La Conner, Washington. And it really is that they own the cabin, not the land. The land is leased by the tribe there, for the cabin is on the Swinomish Indian Reservation. The morning of the fourth, Lee and I, along with Cojack the parrot ventured north.

(Cojack found Rob and Lee a couple years ago, and they still pet sit for him sometimes. To get the full effect of what it's like to live with a parrot, you must say "Hello," "Thank you," or "Go Cojack, go Cojack, go go" in a loud, raucous, nasally voice. Go ahead. Try it.)


Beyond the parrot, it's hard to describe the experience: the beaches of smooth rock worn by years, even centuries of tides coming in and going out; the mud flats revealed by the receding tide, a far cry from a sandy Gulf beach, and the seaweed as green as it is in seaweed salad from Ken's Sushi. The rhythm of the day is a rhythm of life that has never been conquered even by the most voracious human efforts to transcend. These rocks will be here long after any of us are, as will these waters and the islands in full rugged beauty. Existential anxiety set aside for a moment, there is a more holistic oneness here that minimalizes humanity's sense of entitlement to power, knowledge, even life. Indeed I see why people fall in love with this place.


Saturday was a trip to Deception Pass on the north side of Whidbey Island. It's history is intriguing; this from the Deception Pass State Park web site:

The human history of the park dates back thousands of years, when the first people settled in the areas now known as Cornet Bay, Bowman Bay and Rosario. Eventually, the land was settled by the Samish and the Swinomish. They lived on the land until the early 1900s. During his Northwest coastal explorations, Captain George Vancouver became the first European to identify the area near Whidbey Island as a passage, which he named "Deception Pass." A 1925 act of Congress designated the property for public recreation purposes. In the 1930s, the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) built roads, trails, buildings and bridges to develop the park. The name "Deception Pass" derived from Captain Vancouver's realization that what he had mistaken for a peninsula was actually an island. He named that island "Whidbey" in honor of his assistant, Joseph Whidbey, who was at his side when Vancouver realized the mistake. The captain named the inlet at which he was anchored "Deception Pass" to commemorate the error.

You can see even in the picture above how rapidly the water is moving as the tide rushes through the pass. When people serious about kayaking are learning how, I've heard they are brought here to deception pass to learn how to handle this kind of dangerous water. And it's not warm water either, even in the "heat" of summer. The bridge itself was dangerous enough for me, with my nervousness around high places. Here, rest assured, I certainly had sweaty palms and that slight lack of confidence in both the mechanical operation of my feet and the strength of the railing on the bridge.

The adventures of the weekend finished with a hike on Fidalgo Island. Douglas Fir trees were abundant, along with ferns and moss growing on the floor of the forest. It smelled like the rain forest exhibit in any zoo I've ever been to, the moisture that is trapped rarely to be touched by the sun's drying rays. Twice at lookouts we saw Bald Eagles soaring. From a distance I saw two things majestic in a different way, a rock quarry and a refinery. As it turns out even these wilds can be tamed. I suppose Seattle was once the same, overpopulated with Douglas Firs instead of people.

My attempt to create a map out of one of the pictures I took has failed, and so for now I will leave you with a picture of the cabin. Again and again as I'm here and have found new homes I am reminded of how place is a sacred and spiritual part of the way I move through the world.

Seattle Environment

I'm over halfway done with my time in Seattle, and I haven't shared yet about the place I have been calling home. The house has three bedrooms and a large yard (for Seattle). Side note: The yard is easily mowed by a mechanical reel lawnmower. That's right, no electric or gas power and the only maintenance is sharpening the blades every few years.

Below is the kitchen and the little booth where I like to read the Seattle Times almost every day. Interestingly, many of the windows in this house (like others in Seattle) do not have screens: they don't have to worry nearly as much about insect pests as we do in other parts of the country. They also don't need air conditioning to be comfortable because it almost always cools off at night.

This is my bedroom. I've added the extra comforter on top of the quilt and sheets, and along with my hoodie, socks, and flannel pajama pants, it's about enough to keep me warm at night.

And this, my friends, is the elaborate chicken coop, designed and constructed by Rob and Lee themselves. After much research and preparation, Lee's long standing dream of becoming and urban farmer has come true as of about one month ago when eight chickens arrived in the back yard. Since their arrival, I have begun to notice the prevalence of chicken language in our society: think chicken legs, pecking order, flying the coop, etc. I think someday a sermon needs to come out of my experiences with these chickens. Our nearly daily observation of them is called chicken t.v.

Here we have, from left to right, Susan's rear (gray), Earla (orange), Katie's rear (black), Felina (lighter gray), and Mary's head. Mary is the only one producing certified organic eggs so far, but hopes are high for all the others. Earla's getting big... she could be next. Note: not pictured are Hettie, Anna, and Maud.

Living the Questions

What a gift to stand in a Mennonite church and preach. Here's the text of today's sermon, Queen Vashti, the spirit and all.

I’ve wrestled with exactly how to preach on our summer theme, faith at work: many gifts one spirit. For me, this is a difficult sermon to write. It is difficult because I do not have a job. It is difficult because I do not know what I want to be when I grow up. It is difficult because I cannot seem to claim a gift, cannot seem to believe that Paul was talking about me when he wrote down that stuff about wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, miracles, prophecy, discernment, tongues, and interpretation as gifts of the spirit. So for today, I’ve found a different way to talk about gifts.

I was at home in Kansas three weeks ago for my younger sister’s wedding. It was a large, community affair, akin at times to a family reunion, which made it a good time and place for stories. The best story I heard all weekend was in the form of my parents blessing to Megan and her partner Brad. They recalled her childhood and took us through her growing up years, but what I remember most was their mention of her curiosity. Mom and Dad said, “What a test of intellect to answer your hundreds of thousands of questions: Why are my eyes blue instead of brown? Why don’t I have a name from the bible like Hannah, Sarah and Daniel do?”

Like my sister Megan, I’ve always had an inquisitive streak, asking everything from why is the sky blue to why aren’t there more women preachers. Not so long ago, I had a habit of calling home from college to share something new I’d learned in class and ask, “Hey, mom, what do you think of this?” There is something pleasurable for me when I come across a new idea, a new phrase or concept that I have never thought of before. I often want to chase an idea all over the place, to measure it against others, to reduce it to its lowest terms, to see if it holds up when it clashes against my own experience of a wide open world.

This persistent curiosity is why I picked Esther chapter 1 as the story to enter into today. In this text, King Ahasuerus, king of the massive Persian Empire, has thrown a seven day party. On the seventh day, he tells the Queen, Queen Vashti, to appear before him and all the people gathered so they can see how pretty she is. The Scripture says, he commanded his attendants “to bring Queen Vashti before him wearing the royal crown, in order to show the peoples and the officials her beauty; for she was fair to behold.” Keep in mind that in this ancient Persian context, the king’s command is equivalent to law. What he says goes. In other words, he doesn’t just follow the rules; he sets them. Continuing at verse twelve: “But Queen Vashti refused to come at the king’s command.”

Vashti’s refusal is the embodiment of a question. Why should I come, she asks. Why is your word, King Ahasuerus, like the law? Why must I do things the way they’ve always been done?
I suspect that if we lift Queen Vashti out of the text for a minute and encounter her as a human being, we can figure that this is not the first time she has refused to obey a command. This is not the first time she has questioned the rules. This is not the first time she has asked why, and though she disappears from the biblical text after chapter one, I imagine it is not the last time she has asked a question either.

When I was a sophomore in college, my questions also forced me to a turning point. I had been attending an answer-driven church in the Springfield, Missouri area, a church that had singular, concrete ideas about sin and salvation, a church that knew the one correct way to read the Bible. Yet there was something a bit off about my church experience, something that didn’t match what I was learning in a class on the New Testament that I was taking at the university. On one hand, in church were the answers to all the questions I asked. On the other hand, at school was the permission to ask all the questions to which the church’s answers seemed inadequate. As I studied the gospels, I began to notice their differences: Professor Mark Given showed us with the text the Jewishness of Jesus in the book of Matthew and Luke’s more Cosmopolitan Christ and that there really is a difference between blessed are the poor in spirit in Matthew and blessed are the poor Luke. I came alive in the ambiguous space that was created for interpretation and story, and that’s when I had to make a decision. I realized to take this scholarship seriously would require modification of the ideas about God and Christianity that I’d church, and it was a scary thing. It meant letting go of some of the answers to life that I thought I’d had. In the end, I decided that if God was a God of answers, and boundaries and boxes around correct thinking, that if God was this kingly ultimate, my sincere study and searching would lead me back to this God. And if God was not this kind of God, I needed a new understanding of God anyway. Thus began my “leap of faith,” which propelled me into religious studies as a major and the further theological education after that.

It’s a scary kind of freedom to open your deepest convictions to scrutiny. It can cost friends, even for some people family. It’s a frightening freedom that asks questions of the reality in which we live, and sometimes it causes panic. Look at what happened when Queen Vashti refused to come at the king’s command: the king and his advisors panicked. They were afraid that when women heard of Vashti’s actions, they would also rebel and (quote) “there would be no end of contempt and wrath.” A royal order was issued proclaiming all through the kingdom that “women were to give honor to their husbands, high and low alike.”

It seems a bit ridiculous today, doesn’t it? A whole kingdom so afraid that women could make their own decisions that a royal order is issued? It’s enough to make any feminist go nuts. But for me the questions that Vashti embodied extend beyond questions of women’s rights. Yes, they directly address those, but they also point to an even broader set of questions about our assumed social realities.

It’s like my favorite piece of art at the Seattle Art Museum, which I visited a couple weeks ago. Just off the escalator on the second floor is a red octagonal sign with white letters on it. Red, eight sides, white letters – it all sounds familiar. But the letters did not say stop; they said go. Iain and Ingrid Baxter’s work of art ironically asked me to stop and ask a question of how static, how stable the reality we inhabit really is.

There are many such realities that I have a lot of questions about today, structures of our society, of our theology, of our church, of our relationships:
· Why do we find such a sense of identity in the modern concept of nation-state?
· Do I exist as an individual or as part of a relational whole?
· How can we both have a solid identity and be radically welcoming?
· Is human nature static or flexible?
· How do I know that I am a woman?
· What does justice mean?
· What makes a family?

I am compelled, it seems, to ask these questions. And to respond to them in conversation, in study, in observation of the world around me, in the intersection of what I’ve been taught, what I feel, what I read, what I experience, and what I believe.

When I asked a big question like what/who is God as a sophomore in college, the normal answer, the answer I was given, was not adequate and so I looked again and again, and I continue to ask. So often today, as for Vashti millennia ago, it seems like the normal answer, does not satisfy the curiosity behind the questions.

I hope that the normal answer is never quite satisfactory. I remember a few years ago at Easter Dinner, I asked my then eighty year-old grandmother what she thought about women in church ministry. After thinking about it for a moment, she said she thought she’d probably like a woman pastor. I asked her if she would have said the same thing five years ago. The answer to the question: probably not. I hope that when I’m eighty, my faith will still be at work asking questions toward an ever expanding picture of the world.

It occurs to me that this movement of question – response – question, question – response question… it occurs to me that this movement so prominent in my life is a lot like the movement of the spirit. Spirit is elusive; it is a shimmering, translucent concept. It is like the breezes that blow through this sacred space and unpredictably move the banners that hang behind me today. As soon as we recognize the spirit, it disappears to another form. It is dodging and shifting and overwhelming and intangible and vague and subtle. The spirit defies a solid, concrete form. The spirit cannot be set into a rigid, conventional pattern or behavior, belief or attitude.

It seems, then, that the curiosity and questioning that I have named have much in common with the spirit. While I perhaps cannot claim my gift as knowledge or healing or miracles, the gift of being curious in a world that tends toward normality, I humbly claim as its own kind of spiritual gift. Along with Queen Vashti, this is my faith at work.

I am lucky to have, at least for now, a safe space for this faith to work. My Divinity school experience at Vanderbilt has been a time of creativity and freedom. There is space to question over and over and over again. There is time to explore creative ideas. For me this is theological education at its best, and in a setting where Baptists and Presbyterians and Catholics and Mennonites and Pentecostals and Disciples of Christ study together, it makes sense – the sense of discovery. I can ask the questions that have propelled me forward in my life:
· Who is God?
· What is normal?
· What does it mean to be a daughter, a sister, a friend, a student, a minister, a lesbian, a human being?

Indeed for me, there, in the questions, the spirit is at work.

Last summer I read Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. In one particularly moving letter, Rilke, the established German poet, writes to the young student: “I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now…” Live the questions now.

The spirit is alive in all of our questions. The spirit was moving in the questions of Vashti thousands of years ago. The spirit is alive when this community meets together to ask how to be faithful. The spirit moves when our youth stand and ask why Lamentations or the Song of Songs aren’t read more often in worship. The spirit is present when we wonder how to be more welcoming and more diverse. The spirit moves when we ask how we can do something different with our campus to provide housing or services to the community. The spirit moves in the questions we ask of the norm that says war is normal. Indeed, I am confident that the spirit is alive in all of our questions.

May there always be space in this place for our questions.

Wedding!

There were a number of family travel ordeals, but we all eventually made it to southcentral Kansas. My sprint through the Minneapolis airport to catch my connecting flight to Wichita was mundane compared to Hannah's four hour, middle of the night train delay and Daniel's canceled flight, which caused him to miss most of the Friday evening rehearsal.

Nevertheless, we arrived and performed our respective duties with energy and excitement. These included pulling pork, cutting fruits and vegetables, setting tables, posing for pictures, carrying tables and chairs, and making punch. The wedding event was a community affair: Megan and Brad's friends, teachers, family, etc. did most things from cooking and cleaning to cake to decorations to hair and alterations on the dresses. About 300 people were in attendance as near as we could figure.

I've included pictures below: Megan and Brad listening to the meditation; the happy couple with my mom's side of the family; the ring bearer (Brad's brother) and flower girl (our cousin) playing before the ceremony; the sisters "eating" our flowers (can you guess that twin?); and me with Jamie, who arrived on Friday.

I did have what might be considered a pastoral contribution to the wedding. After the vows I offered a prayer of blessing, which was an honor to compose. Here it is in unedited form:


Loving God, we come with grateful hearts to give you thanks and praise.

We come as the family, friends, and faith community of Megan and Brad to rejoice and celebrate their covenant of love.

We give you thanks for love without condition, love without boundaries, love that gives life, love that is expressed and embodied and faithful as it so clearly is today.

May the deep love we witness in this sacred time and in this sacred place continue to emerge in the partnership between Megan and Brad.

Loving God,
Give them grace when there is hurt,
light in the nighttime of their fears
open communication when there is disagreement
hearts of service for one another and for the world
Bless them in their work and in their companionship;
In their sleeping and in their waking;
In their weeping and in their laughter;
May this day be remembered and may their covenant flourish and as long as life shall last.


In the spirit of this love we pray.
Amen.

Olympic Peninsula Adventure

Here are a few pictures from my Olympic Peninsula Adventure (May 31, 2008).

The ferry!  A mode of mass transit not found in my previously occupied landlocked states.

The mountains in the distance.  The flowers in the foreground.  Now if only I knew what kind of flowers these were...

Snow, evergreen trees, mountains, and that same hoodie.  I clearly just don't own enough hooded sweatshirts to be a permanent resident of the Northwest.

Yes, I did take this picture.

Lake Crescent: a deep, cold glacial lake.

Stop, Drop, and Roll

One of SMC's main community ministries is called "Stop, Drop, and Roll." The goal of SDR is "to provide personal storage and access to transportation in order to allow participants access to needed services and employment opportunities not available in Lake City." SDR happens every Monday and Thursday with drop-off between 6 & 8 a.m. and pick-up between 6 & 8 p.m. During this time, the front part of the church is opened up: tables and chairs are set up, coffee is brewed, and breakfast is often provided.

I guess I haven't explained yet that the church is in an old community movie theater, so this front part is an entrance way with several sets of doors and a ticket counter / concession stand that has been converted into a small kitchen. It faces onto NE 125th street less than half a block from the main intersection of Lake City (the northeastern-most neighborhood in Seattle). I also haven't explained yet that Lake City is a section of Seattle with a good percentage of lower-income housing and apartment complexes and fewer single family homes. It doesn't have a trendy little downtown (like some other neighborhoods) or cute coffee shops or exciting local restaurants.

Anyway, back to this morning at 6 a.m.: I had the pleasure of coming with my Rob, my gracious host here in Seattle. Rob is known as "The Egg Man," because every other Thursday when he and Lee volunteer at SDR, he makes egg sandwiches with toast, two eggs over-easy, and cheese. It's a definite treat for the community members as it was for me today. But the egg sandwiches aren't the reason I'm reflecting today.

I sat with the notebook and handed out bus passes and shower passes to those who needed them (about 15 people today). Jonathan (one of the community ministers) had also found a deal on socks at the store, so I passed out socks on what has been a cold day (45-60 degrees). But the biggest treat was just to sit and drink coffee and in simply my presence in that space begin what promise to be transforming relationships.

It wasn't until later in the day when I truly interacted. As I was going to grab some lunch, a guy I'd met that morning walked by, excited because he'd seen on CNN in the lobby of the V.A. that a huge tornado was tearing through Colorado. "If you don't think all this stuff is a sign of the end times, then I don't know how spiritual you are," he said. Later walking out of the post office, I ran into John and Greg who seemed excited to see me again and asked if I'd be here tonight. John talked my ear off about his days in the marines: two terms in Vietnam and then about his days fishing out of Seattle up to cold northern seas. I had him promise me more fishing stories next time. So often where I've been, I would never notice a man selling $1 papers or a scruffy guy in a University of Washington cap walking by, but today these people were not unkempt folks to avoid eye contact with on the sidewalk. They were part of my community, the one where the walls between inside and outside are a little more arbitrary.

The first time around

My one week Seattle anniversary has now come and gone, and it is high time to share. I've settled in with Lee and Rob Murray, whose hospitality has been fabulous to say the least. Their cats (Big Doodles and Little Doodles) have also been quite welcoming. They live in the northwest part of Seattle, and the church is in the northeast section of the city, about three and a half miles away. As you may know, my transportation options are limited as the teal tornado is parked with Jamie in Nashville. Note: we haven't been separated for this long since we first got together back in June 2002. [I'm talking about the car.] Therefore, I have found four distinct methods of transportation: the Seattle metro buses, an occasional ride with church folk, bicycle transport, and that ever-popular mode, walking. Now my hostess Lee told me early on that she sometimes walks to church, and so I naively thought it wouldn't be a big deal - only three and a half miles. Only later did I find out Lee's true commitment to walking. I've been sore for days. Additionally, the bike ride to church is relatively easy, but that's because of the large hill that I go up heading back home. I still have not conquered 125th street without walking the bike. Apparently in Seattle you have to be more than just young and athletic to navigate the commuter culture: you also have to be in shape. The good news is that I'm well on my way back to the fitness level of the old days. A smattering of thoughts to share the first time around:

• Among the "green" things I've been enamored with: mandatory recycling, hybrid-electric buses, a program for youth participation in the Seattle Marathon, and bike-to-work month (which we're in the midst of).
  
• The view of the Cascade Mountains on a clear day will, I guarantee it, put Appalachia to shame.
  
• So far I've dined on salmon and scampi and (surprise!) enjoyed it. Apparently the fish in non-landlocked states really is tastier.
  
• I will never truly fit in here in the northwest because I certainly cannot afford a "The North Face" anything, and therefore I will have to stick to my trusty Missouri State windbreaker and continue to feel a little bit foreign.
  
• It turns out you don't have to be connected to a farm, or have grown up in the Midwest, or have a last name like Kauffman, Klaassen, Epp, Nuefeld, or Miller to be Mennonite. We do in fact accept converts, and lots of them. Think O'Leary, Roe, Murray, Heredia, Lim, and Wattles. Furthermore, it also turns out that some of these crazy urban Mennonites enjoy a good micro-brew and the local wine.

Cheers to all!