And Christian Edification,
I present to you Sarah's World.
This, my other blog is mostly professional, though I continue to sincerely doubt that there are any clear demarcations between the personal and professional in parish ministry. However, in my churchy space, I try to channel my sometimes ranting impulses into constructive and ecclesiastically relevant theological reflection on This Christian Life.
I'm not sure that anyone from Richmond Beach Congregational actually reads it, but I figure there might be a few family members or friends out there who are interested. And if you're really interested, you can explore the web site to both see the texts of my occasional RBCC sermons and to actually hear me deliver the Good News.
Feedback is welcome.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Crafty Bug Strikes Again
After Thanksmas vacation in Kansas, during which I frolicked through the country with reckless abandon, I am back to the land of the gray and dark (though to be fair, it has been sunny lately). I have returned newly inspired in the crafty segment of my life. This tends to happen when I see the beautiful things my Grandmas, Grandpas and parents have made through the years: wall hangings, dolls, various wood pieces, quilts, clothes. So here I am in my improvised sewing room, which is actually my kitchen overtaken by fabric and various sewing gear. I'm doing my best to embrace the clutter.
Today I've returned to a project that fizzled a month or so ago: a button down, collared shirt. Now despite my many 4-H sewing projects back in the grade school days, I have never attempted something so difficult. For instance, before I busted open the pattern, I didn't even know what a placket was. Actually, though I've sewed one, I'm still not quite sure what a placket is. This is not your average 4-H pillow for beginning sewers, that's for sure. I decided long ago that this probably wouldn't be a "wearable" article, at least not for public excursions. That important decision has freed me to be a learner and not a perfectionist. Whew. In addition to the placket, I sewed darts for the first time, and a collar, and cuffs (though these were a near disaster). Note the perky form of that collar (you can't quite see the questionable stitching).
Today I've returned to a project that fizzled a month or so ago: a button down, collared shirt. Now despite my many 4-H sewing projects back in the grade school days, I have never attempted something so difficult. For instance, before I busted open the pattern, I didn't even know what a placket was. Actually, though I've sewed one, I'm still not quite sure what a placket is. This is not your average 4-H pillow for beginning sewers, that's for sure. I decided long ago that this probably wouldn't be a "wearable" article, at least not for public excursions. That important decision has freed me to be a learner and not a perfectionist. Whew. In addition to the placket, I sewed darts for the first time, and a collar, and cuffs (though these were a near disaster). Note the perky form of that collar (you can't quite see the questionable stitching).
Yes, it's been a good day of sewing overall. Perhaps next time I tackle a shirt, I can aim for wearability. In fact, I may have been able to pull off casual wearability in this little sucker if it weren't for one major mistake that I currently have neither the energy nor the desire to fix: I sewed one of the arms on inside out.
How does this happen? you might be wondering. Well, somehow between trying to fanagle my cuffs into the right position and pulling up the bobbin threads on the ease stitching, I overlooked another minor detail. Next time, I'll be prepared. This time, I think it may make a perfectly functional paint shirt, featuring long enough arms and a cheap but still quite pretty blue fabric. Now unless I can get some expert help from mom or some Seattle Mennonite someone, I think my next few projects will be back in the quilting world.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
A New Church Home
Today, November 22, 2009 I became a member of Seattle Mennonite Church, effectively transferring my membership from Grace Hill Mennonite Church in rural Kansas. It seems a bit weird, to be joining a church where I can rarely worship, but as life would have it, SMC is really my church home. Here are the words I shared with congregation, having been asked to articlate my faith journey:
My name is Sarah Klaassen. I am twenty-six years old. Today I share with you my faith journey. It’s really my life journey too, because for me, the life of life and the life of faith are one and the same.
When I was five years old, my mom, my twin sister and I were walking down a gravel road in Kansas on one of those days when the sun’s rays spread out from behind the clouds. It reminded me of God, and I confidently proclaimed, God can see us, but we can’t see him. Then I solemnly added, “I wonder how he stands up there,” before dancing on down the road. When I was thirteen, I read through the Bible in a year on a less confident quest for God and truth. When I was sixteen, I began dating my best friend, another girl. I loved her and hated myself and told no one. I thought that God and the church might condemn me but Jesus surely did not. When I was seventeen, I was baptized at Grace Hill, and I shared my conviction with the church that life was hard, but God was good.
When I was twenty, I began the academic study of religion, learning first the many dimensions of the Bible and its varying contours of authority. Later that year, I decided that God was not a “He” and may not even exist, and my life of faith swerved into uncertainty and then settled into a faith of questions. But I never stopped going to church, nurtured by the Disciples of Christ and Mennonite saints I discovered here and there, some in one conversation or tidbit of encouragement, and some in ongoing relationships: Kate Becker, Margaret Penner, Phyllis Bixler, Patty Shelly, Lee Lever, Phil Waite, Dorothy Nickel Friesen, Mary Schertz, Robert Kaufman.
I began coming out, and I began to love myself again, after assurance that I could be gay and still be right with God and with some parts of the church. When I was twenty-two I began my studies at Vanderbilt Divinity School, which had pulled me there with the promise of academic rigor and a theological education marked by a social justice consciousness that fit with my Mennonite convictions for active peace living, discipleship, and simple living. When I was twenty-four, I felt a calling to test the waters of pastoral ministry, and as luck, or God would have it, I was brought here to Seattle Mennonite Church. It was a summer of hospitality, grace, and the confirmation of my deep passion for the work of Christ for truth and justice in this world through Christ’s church. It was also the connection with a community that would and could support me on the journey in ways my home church in Kansas would not and could not.
Last year, my partner and life companion, Jamie Haskins, received a job offer from University Christian Church here in Seattle. Shortly after we arrived, I was offered the job as part time Assistant Minister at Richmond Beach United Church of Christ, in Shoreline. That is where you can find me most Sundays, preaching, teaching, and asking questions, Anabaptist sensibilities and all. I am grateful for their welcome and the way they nurture my pastoral skills and challenge my life of faith, but I am convinced that they are not ultimately my home.
In the meantime, there is a blessing that runs around in my head. In his charge to our class last spring, the divinity school dean said, “May you make your home like Ruth with good people, even when they are not your people.” I assure you that on most Sunday mornings, I make my home with good people. But you are the ones I struggle with and cry with, and you are the ones with whom I laugh my deepest laughs. It is here that I follow Christ most authentically, and on this Sunday, I am profoundly grateful to be accepted into you who are my people.
Here are the words the congregation shared with me:
Sarah, we freely receive you as Christ has received us as members of Christ's body. We open ourselves to fellowship with you and to worship, study, service, and discipline together. We commite ourselves to give and receive counsel, to offer and accept forgiveness in the redeemed community. We joyfuly welcome you as a sister in Christ and are grateful for your many gifts and compassionate heart. We also welcome your gifts for ministry, which you have previously manifested here at SMC as our ministry intern and are now exercising in the United Church of Christ. We bless you in this mnistry and look forward to the time when your gifts will be exercised in the Mennonite Church.
Beautiful? I think so. Seems about right, along with all the handshakes and hugs and the special greetings by many of my fellow young adults in the congregation, a testament to the fact that I'm not the only Midwestern kid who's come home in Seattle.
My name is Sarah Klaassen. I am twenty-six years old. Today I share with you my faith journey. It’s really my life journey too, because for me, the life of life and the life of faith are one and the same.
When I was five years old, my mom, my twin sister and I were walking down a gravel road in Kansas on one of those days when the sun’s rays spread out from behind the clouds. It reminded me of God, and I confidently proclaimed, God can see us, but we can’t see him. Then I solemnly added, “I wonder how he stands up there,” before dancing on down the road. When I was thirteen, I read through the Bible in a year on a less confident quest for God and truth. When I was sixteen, I began dating my best friend, another girl. I loved her and hated myself and told no one. I thought that God and the church might condemn me but Jesus surely did not. When I was seventeen, I was baptized at Grace Hill, and I shared my conviction with the church that life was hard, but God was good.
When I was twenty, I began the academic study of religion, learning first the many dimensions of the Bible and its varying contours of authority. Later that year, I decided that God was not a “He” and may not even exist, and my life of faith swerved into uncertainty and then settled into a faith of questions. But I never stopped going to church, nurtured by the Disciples of Christ and Mennonite saints I discovered here and there, some in one conversation or tidbit of encouragement, and some in ongoing relationships: Kate Becker, Margaret Penner, Phyllis Bixler, Patty Shelly, Lee Lever, Phil Waite, Dorothy Nickel Friesen, Mary Schertz, Robert Kaufman.
I began coming out, and I began to love myself again, after assurance that I could be gay and still be right with God and with some parts of the church. When I was twenty-two I began my studies at Vanderbilt Divinity School, which had pulled me there with the promise of academic rigor and a theological education marked by a social justice consciousness that fit with my Mennonite convictions for active peace living, discipleship, and simple living. When I was twenty-four, I felt a calling to test the waters of pastoral ministry, and as luck, or God would have it, I was brought here to Seattle Mennonite Church. It was a summer of hospitality, grace, and the confirmation of my deep passion for the work of Christ for truth and justice in this world through Christ’s church. It was also the connection with a community that would and could support me on the journey in ways my home church in Kansas would not and could not.
Last year, my partner and life companion, Jamie Haskins, received a job offer from University Christian Church here in Seattle. Shortly after we arrived, I was offered the job as part time Assistant Minister at Richmond Beach United Church of Christ, in Shoreline. That is where you can find me most Sundays, preaching, teaching, and asking questions, Anabaptist sensibilities and all. I am grateful for their welcome and the way they nurture my pastoral skills and challenge my life of faith, but I am convinced that they are not ultimately my home.
In the meantime, there is a blessing that runs around in my head. In his charge to our class last spring, the divinity school dean said, “May you make your home like Ruth with good people, even when they are not your people.” I assure you that on most Sunday mornings, I make my home with good people. But you are the ones I struggle with and cry with, and you are the ones with whom I laugh my deepest laughs. It is here that I follow Christ most authentically, and on this Sunday, I am profoundly grateful to be accepted into you who are my people.
Here are the words the congregation shared with me:
Sarah, we freely receive you as Christ has received us as members of Christ's body. We open ourselves to fellowship with you and to worship, study, service, and discipline together. We commite ourselves to give and receive counsel, to offer and accept forgiveness in the redeemed community. We joyfuly welcome you as a sister in Christ and are grateful for your many gifts and compassionate heart. We also welcome your gifts for ministry, which you have previously manifested here at SMC as our ministry intern and are now exercising in the United Church of Christ. We bless you in this mnistry and look forward to the time when your gifts will be exercised in the Mennonite Church.
Beautiful? I think so. Seems about right, along with all the handshakes and hugs and the special greetings by many of my fellow young adults in the congregation, a testament to the fact that I'm not the only Midwestern kid who's come home in Seattle.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Feels Like Home
Jamie and I had the good fortune to be back in Nashville last week to speak on a panel at Vanderbilt Divinity School. Traveling pains and time differences aside, to be there simply felt like home. The sun shines more and the sky is bigger in Nashville. It's hard to say if that's me thinking the grass is greener on the other side of the fence or if the Pacific Northwest just isn't in my blood yet.
We stayed at the apartment of one of our friends. She's more like family, really - one of those friends around whom we feel more like a relative than a guest. We laughed and told her all our inside jokes that are too embarrassing to tell anyone here yet, and we hugged and hugged and hugged. Jamie's southern accent came roaring back to life in its native habitat and down home colloquialisms were uttered and enjoyed by all, along with margaritas at East Nashville's Rose Pepper.
The apartment where we spent our nights was not more than a mile from the first place I ever lived in Nashville. The train tracks run behind the place - close enough to wake us up and even to be annoying but for those two days it felt more like a nostalgic country song... as did the brown grass and trees and leaves. Football was in the air, and you could feel basketball too coming fast to accompany us through winter. How a place stays the same strikes me and touches me. I understand what it means to have your being wrapped up in a place, in the streets - the cracks of a sidewalk or the angle of a stop sign or the hills (or lack thereof).
bell hooks has a new book out called Belonging: A Culture of Place. She, a visionary and prophetic academic returned to Kentucky after thirty years away. She quotes Scott Russell Sanders in capturing the sentiment that at least the three of us share: "It is rare for any of us, by deliberate choice, to sit still and weave ourselves into a place, so that we know the wildflowers and rocks and politicians, so that we recognize faces wherever we turn, so that we feel a bond with everything in sight. The challenge, these days, is to be somewhere as opposed to nowhere, actually to belong to some particular place, to invest oneself in it, draw strength and courage from it, to dwell not simply in a career or a bank account but in a community" (67-68).
It is an accident of the universe that bell hooks coincided with my first trip back to Nashville, but it has me wondering - where is home? Tennessee? Kansas? I don't think it's here, where the mountains in their rugged beauty block the possibilities along the horizon of somewhere else. Here is a season but there is another place where we will live seasons into years.
In the meantime, I am renewed and refreshed and infused with a jolt of confidence, having spoken with passion and pride about VDS, having soaked up eye contact, having reveled in memories, having been immersed in love and love and love.
Among the home-like events over the weekend:
Accompanying dear friends to the city championship junior high football game as they supported a young member of their church family
Breakfast with the dear Viki Matson, complete with catching up on news and dreams
A swing by the old West Nashville home place and the Humane Society where Betsy and Wyatt used to live
A "quick" hour long chat with Sharon Howell, mentor, fellow Kansan, and leader extraodinaire
Tennessee sunshine and the Nashville skyline
We stayed at the apartment of one of our friends. She's more like family, really - one of those friends around whom we feel more like a relative than a guest. We laughed and told her all our inside jokes that are too embarrassing to tell anyone here yet, and we hugged and hugged and hugged. Jamie's southern accent came roaring back to life in its native habitat and down home colloquialisms were uttered and enjoyed by all, along with margaritas at East Nashville's Rose Pepper.
The apartment where we spent our nights was not more than a mile from the first place I ever lived in Nashville. The train tracks run behind the place - close enough to wake us up and even to be annoying but for those two days it felt more like a nostalgic country song... as did the brown grass and trees and leaves. Football was in the air, and you could feel basketball too coming fast to accompany us through winter. How a place stays the same strikes me and touches me. I understand what it means to have your being wrapped up in a place, in the streets - the cracks of a sidewalk or the angle of a stop sign or the hills (or lack thereof).
bell hooks has a new book out called Belonging: A Culture of Place. She, a visionary and prophetic academic returned to Kentucky after thirty years away. She quotes Scott Russell Sanders in capturing the sentiment that at least the three of us share: "It is rare for any of us, by deliberate choice, to sit still and weave ourselves into a place, so that we know the wildflowers and rocks and politicians, so that we recognize faces wherever we turn, so that we feel a bond with everything in sight. The challenge, these days, is to be somewhere as opposed to nowhere, actually to belong to some particular place, to invest oneself in it, draw strength and courage from it, to dwell not simply in a career or a bank account but in a community" (67-68).
It is an accident of the universe that bell hooks coincided with my first trip back to Nashville, but it has me wondering - where is home? Tennessee? Kansas? I don't think it's here, where the mountains in their rugged beauty block the possibilities along the horizon of somewhere else. Here is a season but there is another place where we will live seasons into years.
In the meantime, I am renewed and refreshed and infused with a jolt of confidence, having spoken with passion and pride about VDS, having soaked up eye contact, having reveled in memories, having been immersed in love and love and love.
Among the home-like events over the weekend:
Accompanying dear friends to the city championship junior high football game as they supported a young member of their church family
Breakfast with the dear Viki Matson, complete with catching up on news and dreams
A swing by the old West Nashville home place and the Humane Society where Betsy and Wyatt used to live
A "quick" hour long chat with Sharon Howell, mentor, fellow Kansan, and leader extraodinaire
Tennessee sunshine and the Nashville skyline
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Buy Nothing Christmas
I stumbled across a new favorite web site on Monday: Buy Nothing Christmas. As far as I can tell, it was started by Canadian Mennonites a few years ago as a response both to rampant consumerism and to the desire to live out a simple life, even around the holidays. Good stuff. It's too late for a totally buy nothing Christmas in my world, but it will be a Buy Very Little Christmas. Actually, I think I may become my own kind of evangelist for the cause.
I don't have some hokey message about Jesus being the "Reason for the Season," but I do have a strong and growing disdain for the many interfaces that we all have to deal with on a daily basis. Advertisements are everywhere - Fisher Price is driving me nuts, as if I'd ever think buying a horsey you can hook up to the t.v. would be a good way to teach my child how to count. And damned if I'll communicate my weekly youth group plans in five ways every day just because this kid prefers text messages and those others prefer Facebook and the parents prefer email and the web site needs to be updated and some need telephone calls to remind them in case they forget. It's not my responsibility to make others' lives convenient. Convenience is a market value, and I prefer kingdom values. Now about that horsey, I'm reviving an old household mantra: when we see an ad, our refrain is not, "Oh, I want that / that looks fun (tasty)." Rather, we say aloud, "You have GOT to be kidding me."
The "Christmas Season?" You have GOT to be kidding me. As far as I'm concerned, this year, December is about Advent and purple is the color of the season, not red and green. In fact, I've got a sermon coming up for the first Sunday in Advent: November 29, people, get it on your calendar. It's hope Sunday as far as the liturgical calendar goes - so where is our hope and what do we hope for? The Hebrew Bible (Old Testament) text for that Sunday is from the prophet Jeremiah, who writes that a righteous branch will spring up to execute justice and righteousness in the land (33.14-16). Now that I can hope for, and hope doesn't cost a penny.
I don't have some hokey message about Jesus being the "Reason for the Season," but I do have a strong and growing disdain for the many interfaces that we all have to deal with on a daily basis. Advertisements are everywhere - Fisher Price is driving me nuts, as if I'd ever think buying a horsey you can hook up to the t.v. would be a good way to teach my child how to count. And damned if I'll communicate my weekly youth group plans in five ways every day just because this kid prefers text messages and those others prefer Facebook and the parents prefer email and the web site needs to be updated and some need telephone calls to remind them in case they forget. It's not my responsibility to make others' lives convenient. Convenience is a market value, and I prefer kingdom values. Now about that horsey, I'm reviving an old household mantra: when we see an ad, our refrain is not, "Oh, I want that / that looks fun (tasty)." Rather, we say aloud, "You have GOT to be kidding me."
The "Christmas Season?" You have GOT to be kidding me. As far as I'm concerned, this year, December is about Advent and purple is the color of the season, not red and green. In fact, I've got a sermon coming up for the first Sunday in Advent: November 29, people, get it on your calendar. It's hope Sunday as far as the liturgical calendar goes - so where is our hope and what do we hope for? The Hebrew Bible (Old Testament) text for that Sunday is from the prophet Jeremiah, who writes that a righteous branch will spring up to execute justice and righteousness in the land (33.14-16). Now that I can hope for, and hope doesn't cost a penny.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Being Installed
Last Sunday (October 25) was my official installation as the "Assistant Minister to Youth and Young Adults" at Richmond Beach Congregational, United Church of Christ. I didn't expect much. After all, it was a simple, one-page litany to be read somewhere in the middle of the service, between a song and a scripture reading - five minutes maximum, something that had to be done to make me completely official. I figured, "installations" are something you do with hardware in a kitchen. I didn't expect much.
Then, what actually happened last Sunday took me by surprise. I stood up on the front stage, three steps higher than the congregation, between the lectern and the pulpit, between Pastor Joy and our moderator. It is always a bit of a sacred moment to be in front of a congregation and to see all the faces turned toward you, waiting expectantly. Joy read her affirmation of my calling and asked me if I would serve the church to the best of my ability. "I will, relying on God's grace." The moderator spoke and then the congregation. As we bowed our heads in prayer, I could not help the few small and silent tears that came.
This is what it feels like to be called by a church. They don't even know that I don't really belong in a suburban UCC church. Or maybe it's that they know I belong there, can serve there, can covenant with them, in ways that I haven't yet realized.
Then, what actually happened last Sunday took me by surprise. I stood up on the front stage, three steps higher than the congregation, between the lectern and the pulpit, between Pastor Joy and our moderator. It is always a bit of a sacred moment to be in front of a congregation and to see all the faces turned toward you, waiting expectantly. Joy read her affirmation of my calling and asked me if I would serve the church to the best of my ability. "I will, relying on God's grace." The moderator spoke and then the congregation. As we bowed our heads in prayer, I could not help the few small and silent tears that came.
This is what it feels like to be called by a church. They don't even know that I don't really belong in a suburban UCC church. Or maybe it's that they know I belong there, can serve there, can covenant with them, in ways that I haven't yet realized.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Tricky Part
The truth comes in many forms to each of us. It's hard to find the truth through life sometimes because of the power of the market and of popular culture to configure our desires and self-understandings. But every now and then, something breaks through, so powerfully crashing into our lives that we have to stop and recognize in it the essence of human experience, in isolation, in relationships, in pain, in longing, in redemption.
I picked a random book off the display shelf at the public library a few weeks ago. It's called The Tricky Part: One Boy's Fall from Trespass Into Grace by a middle aged writer and actor named Martin Moran. It is a true story of his life, more honest than any memoir or spiritual autobiography I've read, including Anne Lamott and Kathleen Norris. Marty cuts into his experience with the deftness of one who has been through hours of therapy and years of private self-reflection, the kind so private that one only shares it with oneself.
He tells his story, beginning at age 12, when he first developed a relationship with a camp counselor twenty years his senior. Their relationship quickly becomes sexual in nature and Marty is trapped in a cycle of depression, guilt, and euphoric intimacy. He writes, "My bones are infused with a push that tells me I must fashion a dazzling public self. Be the best and busiest eighth grader ever. The push has always been there but now it's a kind of panic, an incessant living prayer: God, do not let shame fall upon my head. For if it were to come, if the truth of things surfaced, I would die of it. And I had no doubt that shame could kill a body."
The book has a gravitational pull that draws the reader into the deepest secrets possible, through the ending of the relationship when Marty was 15, through the suicide attempts and the compulsive sexual behavior, through the small cracks of release that came decades later. It's hard to believe something could be so vividly imprinted in anyone's mind, hard to understand having such vivid and sensual memories.
You should read this book because it's human. You should read it because you probably don't read books like this very often. You should read it and look to see if any of Marty's truths echo some of your own, and if they do, you'll have a companion on the journey... even if there's part of you that never thought you wanted one.
I picked a random book off the display shelf at the public library a few weeks ago. It's called The Tricky Part: One Boy's Fall from Trespass Into Grace by a middle aged writer and actor named Martin Moran. It is a true story of his life, more honest than any memoir or spiritual autobiography I've read, including Anne Lamott and Kathleen Norris. Marty cuts into his experience with the deftness of one who has been through hours of therapy and years of private self-reflection, the kind so private that one only shares it with oneself.
He tells his story, beginning at age 12, when he first developed a relationship with a camp counselor twenty years his senior. Their relationship quickly becomes sexual in nature and Marty is trapped in a cycle of depression, guilt, and euphoric intimacy. He writes, "My bones are infused with a push that tells me I must fashion a dazzling public self. Be the best and busiest eighth grader ever. The push has always been there but now it's a kind of panic, an incessant living prayer: God, do not let shame fall upon my head. For if it were to come, if the truth of things surfaced, I would die of it. And I had no doubt that shame could kill a body."
The book has a gravitational pull that draws the reader into the deepest secrets possible, through the ending of the relationship when Marty was 15, through the suicide attempts and the compulsive sexual behavior, through the small cracks of release that came decades later. It's hard to believe something could be so vividly imprinted in anyone's mind, hard to understand having such vivid and sensual memories.
You should read this book because it's human. You should read it because you probably don't read books like this very often. You should read it and look to see if any of Marty's truths echo some of your own, and if they do, you'll have a companion on the journey... even if there's part of you that never thought you wanted one.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Scandal of Enough
The text is Matthew 14.13-21. This sermon was preached at Richmond Beach Congregational, United Church of Christ on October 4, 2009, World Communion Sunday. Warning to some Mennonites and other closed-table folks: you will see a bit of the radical table theology that I've picked up from the Disciples and the UCC. It's God's table, after all.
The Scandal of Enough
There’s a feeding story that dates back about two thousand years to the first century. A man named Jesus from the Galilean town of Nazareth was in front of a crowd of people. Some accounts say it was four thousand; some say five thousand. This man Jesus was treating the gathered crowd with compassion and kindness, healing the sick, and loving the needy. But then came time for supper. Now Jesus was on the eclectic side – a little bit eccentric, a little bit homespun, and not one for logic as most people saw it. And so when his disciples rounded up five loaves of bread and two fish, he said, okay let’s feed the people. The disciples were astonished. Is he crazy? Is he stupid? Five loaves plus two fish is only seven, and we have five thousand people to feed. “We have almost nothing here,” they said. There is not enough.
This phrase, this sentiment is familiar to most of us. Globally we humans are consuming our planet’s natural resources at a rate that makes us wonder when everything will just run out. Nationally we in this country are in the midst of a healthcare debate where one of the big worries is whether there will be enough money to pay for it all. Some of us are unemployed and it seems like jobs are nowhere to be found. Just Friday, the Seattle Times greeted us with the headline, “It’s the end of the line for jobless benefits.” Statewide up to 19,000 people by December will have run out of government-funded unemployment. Locally we have schools that cannot afford to hire enough teachers to keep class sizes down and provide all students with the attention they might need.
And once we notice these global and national and local scarcities, it’s not hard to notice the places where we are lacking on a personal level. We look on t.v. and the internet and in magazines and we see images of skinny or athletic bodies wearing designer clothes and eating gourmet foods and driving luxury cars and the message we receive is that we are not enough. We should be skinnier and prettier. We should be funnier or happier. We should be wealthier, smarter, stronger, faster, and this product and that show and this kind of house can get you there. But that pain and those questions and the deepest longings of your soul – there’s not time for those between work, band practice, two kids, college coming up… You, by yourself – little bit eccentric, a little bit homespun, a little bit tired from all this running around? You are not enough.
These messages surround us, closing off our connections to ourselves and each other. Indeed, it’s as if five plus two is only seven and we have five thousand people to feed. In culture logic, five loaves and two fish equals scarcity. We have almost nothing here. There is not enough.
But in kingdom logic, things aren’t always what they seem.
One writer tells a personal story of her experience working at a busy restaurant in New York City. “It was a gritty… afternoon in August, the day after our restaurant won a rave review in the Times for ‘the best burgers in town.’ Exhausted waiters were trying to appease the customers who’d been waiting forty minutes for a table; the manager was doing double duty busing dishes and handing out menus; the house had run out of hamburger buns, and we’d sent a kid to the corner supermarket twice for emergency supplies. Inside the kitchen… the screen above the grill caught fire twice from an overload of grease, and the dishwasher was threatening to quit. I was… grabbing meat off the grill with my hands and whirling around to save the French fries from burning. [[Hello… hello, hello, said my boss, Robert]] I turned to catch his eye. He kicked a milk crate over and gestured me to sit down, then eased himself onto another crate, taking a cigar out of his breast pocket. Robert has lost his mind, I thought, but [I sat down] on the crate anyway… Gently, Robert took my arm. ‘Got to slow down to speed up,’ he said. ‘Remember, doll: Slow down. When it’s busy, slow down.” We set our record that afternoon: 210 lunches in a forty-seat restaurant, and every one on time.
Verse 19 of today’s scripture story says this: “Then Jesus ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass.” Picture these five thousand people milling around, hungry and uncertain for they have no supper. The anxiety surely was mounting, the pressure building. – we could hear it in the disciples voices when they said, “But, but Jesus, we have almost nothing here.” And here he is, this eccentric, homespun leader telling everyone to just sit down on the grass. It’s scandalous, isn’t it?
This little detail is easy to miss if you just hear it once. It stretches our imaginations and expands our possibilities for action. We are so limited by the culture logic that says when you are busy move faster, when there’s pressure, speed up, when you don’t feel good enough, buy more. But this stretching of the imagination and expanding of our horizons, that’s how it is with kingdom logic. Kingdom logic says when you are busy, slow down and when there’s pressure, stop. Rest. Return to yourself. Sit down on the grass. There is enough.
Let me tell you one way this is already happening. There is one way we are already stepping into the kingdom logic of Jesus of Nazareth, that eccentic, homespun fellow.
Today, October 4, is World Communion Sunday. Congregations and faith communities all around the globe are celebrating the sacrament of communion together and praying for one another. When culture logic separates us into nations and states, kingdom logic binds us together across time and space at a common table.
Today in our midst, we act without outside limits and pressures to hurry up and be busy and conform. We enter God’s kingdom and God’s sacred time. Pressures of the week aside, we, right now, are sitting down together in God’s sanctuary. And today at the table of God, we embody the kingdom logic of enough. There is enough bread and enough juice for us all, and there is also enough in France and China and South Africa and Russia and Afghanistan, even in Samoa and Indonesia in the midst of tragedy and grief, at God’s table there is enough bread for all.
When we come to God’s table, we unite in solidarity with other citizens of the kingdom. We set aside the culture logic of scarcity and separation and we lay aside those voices that say we are not enough. Regardless of race, nation, ability, background, orientation, faith, or lack of faith, we are welcome at the table to eat the bread of life.
This scandalous kingdom logic doesn’t change the pressure we feel. This doesn’t stop the grief or lessen the external stress. What it does is stretch our imaginations… shake us out of everyday routine and open our eyes to new possibilities already in our midst. So pay attention. As you walk by someone begging for change on the street, pause to say hello and acknowledge his or her human dignity and place in this world. As you rush to your thirteenth obligation of the day, stop and sit for a moment. It’s okay to slow down. When you see someone you know, take time to ask how they are… and really listen to their response. How can we stop always striving for more and instead deepen our compassion? Where can we stop taking and needing and start giving what we have? There’s already enough, after all.
There’s a feeding story that dates back about two thousand years to the first century. Five thousand people are hungry, and five loaves and two fishes are all they have to eat. It’s scandalous to even imagine that that would be enough, but the scriptures are calling to us, speaking to us through ages. They say, pay attention. Look around you. Look within you. Sit down on the grass. You have enough. You are enough. Matthew 14:20 says, “And all ate and were filled.” This is good news, my friends.
In our struggles, in the midst of the culture logic that says need more, get more, be more, there is a different truth, a scandalous kingdom logic. After all, five loaves and two fishes equals enough. Come to God’s table. Here, you are enough. Thanks be to God.
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Evergreen State
I did a little internet research tonight to look into the nickname of the state in which I currently reside, Washington, also known as "The Evergreen State." The nickname was given by a pioneer, realtor, and historian, C.T. Conover of Seattle because of the many, many evergreen forests in the region. If it were light, out my window I could see evergreen trees in every direction, a cacophony of conifers, if you will. They are everywhere. But the nickname takes on another meaning for me this fine October day. Not only are many trees ever green, the grass is green, the bushes are green, the plants are green, and flowers are blooming. This is much more green than the occasional evergreen magnolia tree sprinkled throughout the South. This is more green than you can imagine. In fact, Seattle is called the "Emerald City," not with reference to the brilliant green jewel but because of the brilliant green period. Oh my.
It's October. Is anyone else sensing something wrong with this picture?
Last weekend I drove out of my way to a street that I knew was lined with deciduous trees, which were turning yellow and blowing across the road and crunching underfoot. It was beautiful and were I to look up, I could have transported myself to the Ozarks or the Tennessee hills (which not incidentally, I sometimes often want to do). It's a beautiful fall week, but I find myself stepping outside and asking, "Where are the dying things?!" Apparently I'm not the only transplant to ask that question. One of Jamie's parishioners told her about a flower blooming the February she first moved here. She was angry and the poor, innocent little flower as if to say, it's not your time to thrive yet.
I defy you green things. It's not your time. You need to go ahead and die. If you don't die, when will you be resurrected? If you don't die, how can I hope for new life in these feelings of loneliness and isolation? I will say fall is beautiful, but I of Kansas, Tennessee, Missouri, four seasons, dry winters, brown leaves, and dead grass am having an absurdly difficult time appreciating it at all.
It's October. Is anyone else sensing something wrong with this picture?
Last weekend I drove out of my way to a street that I knew was lined with deciduous trees, which were turning yellow and blowing across the road and crunching underfoot. It was beautiful and were I to look up, I could have transported myself to the Ozarks or the Tennessee hills (which not incidentally, I sometimes often want to do). It's a beautiful fall week, but I find myself stepping outside and asking, "Where are the dying things?!" Apparently I'm not the only transplant to ask that question. One of Jamie's parishioners told her about a flower blooming the February she first moved here. She was angry and the poor, innocent little flower as if to say, it's not your time to thrive yet.
I defy you green things. It's not your time. You need to go ahead and die. If you don't die, when will you be resurrected? If you don't die, how can I hope for new life in these feelings of loneliness and isolation? I will say fall is beautiful, but I of Kansas, Tennessee, Missouri, four seasons, dry winters, brown leaves, and dead grass am having an absurdly difficult time appreciating it at all.
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Work of Our Hands
We live in the city - I mean a major metropolitan center. Yes, we live on a residential street, and the diversity of our neighborhood may be a bit limited, but still this is urban living. We walk to the grocery store and the drug store and the coffee shop and occasionally Dick's drive-in for a $1.40 cheeseburger. We have four bus routes within easy walking distance that can get us downtown, to the suburbs, or to the university.
Now the thing about living in the city with all these local perks is that it's easy to disconnect from the country. Even the farmer's market here has high quality and high cost organic produce. There are no Ford pick-ups backed up to the gate selling greens or potatoes by the bushel. From our mother-in-law apartment the only gardening we can do is a few plants in planters rearranged to catch some sun. Opportunities to hike, swim, and cycle are abundant, but it is a different world from that place where I grew up where the abundant things were space and dirt, and opportunities for physical labor.
Knowing me, you'll not be surprised to learn that in my small urban kitchen, I set out to create ways to work with my hands. Saturday was salsa canning day. Jamie and I walked to a local produce market where tomatoes not good enough to make it to the produce section of the grocery store were selling for $.79 a pound, less than half the price at our local Safeway. We brought out the canner and here's what happened:
Now the thing about living in the city with all these local perks is that it's easy to disconnect from the country. Even the farmer's market here has high quality and high cost organic produce. There are no Ford pick-ups backed up to the gate selling greens or potatoes by the bushel. From our mother-in-law apartment the only gardening we can do is a few plants in planters rearranged to catch some sun. Opportunities to hike, swim, and cycle are abundant, but it is a different world from that place where I grew up where the abundant things were space and dirt, and opportunities for physical labor.
Knowing me, you'll not be surprised to learn that in my small urban kitchen, I set out to create ways to work with my hands. Saturday was salsa canning day. Jamie and I walked to a local produce market where tomatoes not good enough to make it to the produce section of the grocery store were selling for $.79 a pound, less than half the price at our local Safeway. We brought out the canner and here's what happened:
These six jars join a couple jars of tomato sauce, several jars of strawberry-rhubarb jelly, and a batch of raspberry blueberry jelly, all sitting atop our kitchen cabinets (in the absence of the ever-coveted kitchen pantry).
And, so you know, this whole project wasn't just to fulfill my nostalgic country cravings. There are at least four reasons for such activity in my life. First, Jamie and I got to do something together. We embodied our relationship with our shared preparation of our food. What better way to nourish our relationship that spending time together in the nourishment of our bodies? Second, it's just plain cheaper to can our own salsa. Even if we buy (instead of grow) the tomatoes, minus the one-time investment in the canner and jars, we are saving money on salsa for the next three months or so: six pints for less than $15 (plus that tomato sauce). Third, our homemade salsa tastes better than the store brand. Maybe next year we'll try for more fancy recipes in our continuously expanding repertoire. And fourth, doing this meaningful, enjoyable work connects us to our food. Eating is more than a filler activity three times a day, more than a chance to satisfy this or that craving. Food is one basic need, a building block of our very existence. When we attend to our food with intentionality and care, we acknowledge this connection. Canning is a chance to slow down and appreciate this often overlooked fact, to say with our actions that we notice what this life is all about.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Goodbye August
Another August 31 has come, this year bringing my 26th birthday. It's a good day in Seattle - sunny and upper 60s with a light breeze, no major tragedies reported by this morning's Times, a day off work and thus a good solid run under my belt, continuing engagement with the John Nash biography A Beautiful Mind. The stuff of ordinary for sure.
On the other hand, goodbyes for me are more about nostalgic remembrance than ordinary, and so this goodbye August day, there are a few things I miss despite the nice weather and free time well spent in Seattle.
In Kansas in late summer the sunflowers grow wild. They take over the ditches. Their deep, bright, brilliant yellow is the signal of autumn and football and the turn toward winter.
In southwest Missouri in late summer the evenings cicadas sing in the plentiful trees. The evenings are warm enough that a walk in just shorts and a t-shirt is quite pleasant.
In central Tennessee in late summer the trees are full of green leaves. Vanderbilt's campus is an arboretum, and late summer hints at what always promises to be a gorgeous fall. Deciduous trees are everywhere, and so autumn stretches long and colorful on toward Thanksgiving.
Today I can't quite capture in words how much I miss these things. Perhaps late summer in Seattle will someday have its own charm and energy. My hunch is that instead I'll just need to plan a vacation back east for next late summer.
On the other hand, goodbyes for me are more about nostalgic remembrance than ordinary, and so this goodbye August day, there are a few things I miss despite the nice weather and free time well spent in Seattle.
In Kansas in late summer the sunflowers grow wild. They take over the ditches. Their deep, bright, brilliant yellow is the signal of autumn and football and the turn toward winter.
In southwest Missouri in late summer the evenings cicadas sing in the plentiful trees. The evenings are warm enough that a walk in just shorts and a t-shirt is quite pleasant.
In central Tennessee in late summer the trees are full of green leaves. Vanderbilt's campus is an arboretum, and late summer hints at what always promises to be a gorgeous fall. Deciduous trees are everywhere, and so autumn stretches long and colorful on toward Thanksgiving.
Today I can't quite capture in words how much I miss these things. Perhaps late summer in Seattle will someday have its own charm and energy. My hunch is that instead I'll just need to plan a vacation back east for next late summer.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Time for a Change
Last spring one of the professors at the divinity school offered this nugget to a person who was about to go on an interview visit to a congregation. The professor said, "The only question you really need to be asking yourself is, 'Can I love these people?'" It was the simple wisdom, so simple that only an experienced minister could have come up with it. Can I love these people?
It's tempting to respond too quickly - of course I can love everyone. Each person no matter status, culture, or disposition is beautifully and wonderfully created. But that simple question is much deeper than a quick response. The answer only comes with time and intuition. First impressions are not likely enough to fully answer. It takes second and third impressions, or an evening spent in community. It takes knowing oneself, knowing one is not just faking it.
I've been deciding this for a couple weeks now, since about a week into my job. Tonight sealed the deal. Yes, I can love these people. I can love these busy, suburban, good, confident, sometimes sheltered people.
This decision / intuition under way (for it will always be ongoing, I'm sure), I decided also tonight that it's time for a change. Thus, my blog has new colors, almost the colors of the peridot, my birthday month's gemstone. They are lighter shades than the bold black and more comfortable. They are also more suitable should I link this blog to the new church web site, coming soon. It's a small change, but it works.
It's tempting to respond too quickly - of course I can love everyone. Each person no matter status, culture, or disposition is beautifully and wonderfully created. But that simple question is much deeper than a quick response. The answer only comes with time and intuition. First impressions are not likely enough to fully answer. It takes second and third impressions, or an evening spent in community. It takes knowing oneself, knowing one is not just faking it.
I've been deciding this for a couple weeks now, since about a week into my job. Tonight sealed the deal. Yes, I can love these people. I can love these busy, suburban, good, confident, sometimes sheltered people.
This decision / intuition under way (for it will always be ongoing, I'm sure), I decided also tonight that it's time for a change. Thus, my blog has new colors, almost the colors of the peridot, my birthday month's gemstone. They are lighter shades than the bold black and more comfortable. They are also more suitable should I link this blog to the new church web site, coming soon. It's a small change, but it works.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Smells Like Life to Me
I had been waiting for the day when I would run out of free lotion and thus be comfortable purchasing a new bottle of the Suave pump variety. That day arrived last week, and I picked up my 18 fluid ounces at Fred Meyer on Saturday. For three days now I have enjoyed the comforting, subtle aroma of Suave Advanced Therapy Moisturizer. This product is clinically proven to relieve dry skin.
But even better, this product is proven to evoke the memory of the era in which it was last used. My last Suave Advanced Therapy experience was my senior year of college, and so even from here in Seattle, this lotion smells like a college basketball season unleashing into December. It smells like the Pussycat Dolls song "Stickwitu" (Stick With You for those not familiar with such colloquialisms). Even more it smells like that brief window of my life when I used to listen to that kind of music.
Suave Advanced Therapy lotion smells like me and twelve of my closest friends getting ready for a Christmas tournament in Cancun, Mexico. In these aromatic breaths I remember a little less faintly what it feels like to win and lose deeply and to drive around a big town like Springfield, Missouri - before these major cities got ahold of me. It didn't take so long to get out into the open country in those days, up to a small town on Highway 65, or headed west for the farm. There was that triplex I shared with Buzz when rent was less than $200 a piece, and that beloved religious studies department that provided space for me to chase my wildest ideas. There was that beautiful trip down to Silver Dollar City to see the Christmas lights, and heart-to-hearts with my two precious senior teammates in whose eyes I could do no wrong and toward whom I expressed the same loyalty. A lotion is a powerful thing.
And now it's time to make a new smell memory.
Today I was riding home from work. The sun was shining - a perfect northwest day: mid-seventies and blue sky visible. On 1st Avenue's gradual downhill I sped by a small home construction site. The saw was whirring to a stop and the smell of sawdust caught me for a short moment. Suddenly I was there in the basement shop of Grandpa Varden, jig saw, radial arm saw, lathe, and all. I wished I could be there in Moundridge, Kansas, taking a carpentry lesson from the grandest perfectionist I know. Then I thought of the lotion and wished I could be a senior in college again too, the vocational absurdities flying about. The hurts of the world didn't seem so big back then. Then again, neither did the possibilities.
But now it's time to make a new memory. On the way home today I also smelled saltwater as I wound along 15th Ave NW in Shoreline. The sun reflected off the Puget Sound and the mountains stood beyond in the distance. This smell is current, and I often catch it as I ride down into Richmond Beach. It reminds me of the girl I love and her Florida love of this smell. It reminds me of now and this present beauty I would scarcely have imagined the last time Suave Advanced Therapy lotion was current.
And all this leads me to wonder, in four more years when this bottle is long gone and I happen upon my next one, what will I remember? Maybe those months when my job was beginning to feel just a touch more like mine, awkward transition into congregational ministry and all. Maybe I'll remember when I met these brilliant, stubborn, innovative, mysterious, talented youth. Maybe this apartment will come to mind - how small it was but how much like home. Or maybe in four years the lotion will remind me of that time I used to live in Seattle, in that none zone of geographical grandeur that lights my adventurous spirit in ways like nowhere else.
Indeed, it is time to make these new memories.
But even better, this product is proven to evoke the memory of the era in which it was last used. My last Suave Advanced Therapy experience was my senior year of college, and so even from here in Seattle, this lotion smells like a college basketball season unleashing into December. It smells like the Pussycat Dolls song "Stickwitu" (Stick With You for those not familiar with such colloquialisms). Even more it smells like that brief window of my life when I used to listen to that kind of music.
Suave Advanced Therapy lotion smells like me and twelve of my closest friends getting ready for a Christmas tournament in Cancun, Mexico. In these aromatic breaths I remember a little less faintly what it feels like to win and lose deeply and to drive around a big town like Springfield, Missouri - before these major cities got ahold of me. It didn't take so long to get out into the open country in those days, up to a small town on Highway 65, or headed west for the farm. There was that triplex I shared with Buzz when rent was less than $200 a piece, and that beloved religious studies department that provided space for me to chase my wildest ideas. There was that beautiful trip down to Silver Dollar City to see the Christmas lights, and heart-to-hearts with my two precious senior teammates in whose eyes I could do no wrong and toward whom I expressed the same loyalty. A lotion is a powerful thing.
And now it's time to make a new smell memory.
Today I was riding home from work. The sun was shining - a perfect northwest day: mid-seventies and blue sky visible. On 1st Avenue's gradual downhill I sped by a small home construction site. The saw was whirring to a stop and the smell of sawdust caught me for a short moment. Suddenly I was there in the basement shop of Grandpa Varden, jig saw, radial arm saw, lathe, and all. I wished I could be there in Moundridge, Kansas, taking a carpentry lesson from the grandest perfectionist I know. Then I thought of the lotion and wished I could be a senior in college again too, the vocational absurdities flying about. The hurts of the world didn't seem so big back then. Then again, neither did the possibilities.
But now it's time to make a new memory. On the way home today I also smelled saltwater as I wound along 15th Ave NW in Shoreline. The sun reflected off the Puget Sound and the mountains stood beyond in the distance. This smell is current, and I often catch it as I ride down into Richmond Beach. It reminds me of the girl I love and her Florida love of this smell. It reminds me of now and this present beauty I would scarcely have imagined the last time Suave Advanced Therapy lotion was current.
And all this leads me to wonder, in four more years when this bottle is long gone and I happen upon my next one, what will I remember? Maybe those months when my job was beginning to feel just a touch more like mine, awkward transition into congregational ministry and all. Maybe I'll remember when I met these brilliant, stubborn, innovative, mysterious, talented youth. Maybe this apartment will come to mind - how small it was but how much like home. Or maybe in four years the lotion will remind me of that time I used to live in Seattle, in that none zone of geographical grandeur that lights my adventurous spirit in ways like nowhere else.
Indeed, it is time to make these new memories.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Heat Wave
Seattle's 1941 record of 100 degrees farenheit was broken today. The official reading out at the airport was 102 and possibly rising this afternoon. The overnight lows are warm as well, in the low 70s. Last night it got down to only 71, the first time in 64 years that the night temperature hasn't dropped below 70. And all of this when the average high temperature here is in the mid to upper 70s this time of year. Needless to say the weather has been headline news.
Now before those of you in the Midwest and South laugh at us wimpy northwesterners, you should know that because we're liable to go a whole summer and not hit 90, most people here don't have air conditioning. In fact, only 13 percent of households in Seattle do have air conditioning. This mother-in-law apartment above the garage is most certainly not one of them.
I can deal with this climatic inconvenience. I try not to exert myself - I do a lot of reading, catch up on emails and the like. The cats are the ones I worry about. In fact someone we know had her cats boarded because of the temperature. Betsy and Wyatt have received no such privileges.
However, I have taken other measures. That's right - I've been doing some internet research about cats in the heat. As one web site recommended, I periodically drop ice in their water to 1) cool it down and 2) interest them in their own water bowls. This technique has been somewhat successful though as the afternoon lethargy sets in, I'm beginning to think the suggestion about dropping water into their mouths with an ear dropper might be a necessary next step.
I also moved food and water to the coolest part of the apartment, the downstairs entry way. (Up here we're solid confirmation of the fact that heat rises.) I forcibly carried Betsy down, even taking her favorite rug, but she immediately walked right upstairs again. She has also spurned my attempts to have her lie on a towel wrapped around ice (see picture). Unfortunately (as we've always suspected), while gifted with unique emotional intelligence, Betsy's practical reasoning capacities are severely limited.
Wyatt, meanwhile, has found a cool spot under the bed from which he has rarely emerged. He seems to be doing well, bolstered by his youthful bodily strength. If things get really bad here, my next plan is to run some cold water and dip their little paws in it - also an internet suggestion.
Now before those of you in the Midwest and South laugh at us wimpy northwesterners, you should know that because we're liable to go a whole summer and not hit 90, most people here don't have air conditioning. In fact, only 13 percent of households in Seattle do have air conditioning. This mother-in-law apartment above the garage is most certainly not one of them.
I can deal with this climatic inconvenience. I try not to exert myself - I do a lot of reading, catch up on emails and the like. The cats are the ones I worry about. In fact someone we know had her cats boarded because of the temperature. Betsy and Wyatt have received no such privileges.
However, I have taken other measures. That's right - I've been doing some internet research about cats in the heat. As one web site recommended, I periodically drop ice in their water to 1) cool it down and 2) interest them in their own water bowls. This technique has been somewhat successful though as the afternoon lethargy sets in, I'm beginning to think the suggestion about dropping water into their mouths with an ear dropper might be a necessary next step.
I also moved food and water to the coolest part of the apartment, the downstairs entry way. (Up here we're solid confirmation of the fact that heat rises.) I forcibly carried Betsy down, even taking her favorite rug, but she immediately walked right upstairs again. She has also spurned my attempts to have her lie on a towel wrapped around ice (see picture). Unfortunately (as we've always suspected), while gifted with unique emotional intelligence, Betsy's practical reasoning capacities are severely limited.
Wyatt, meanwhile, has found a cool spot under the bed from which he has rarely emerged. He seems to be doing well, bolstered by his youthful bodily strength. If things get really bad here, my next plan is to run some cold water and dip their little paws in it - also an internet suggestion.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The Maroon Marauder and Me
I've been conducting a personal study testing the feasibility of bike commuting to work. My new job as Assistant Pastor will begin in t-minus ten days, and the local United Church of Christ church that has hired me is approximately six miles north of my residence in the wealthy neighborhood of Richmond Beach, of the suburb just north of Seattle, Shoreline.
This personal study began with just me and my bike, pictured here.
This natural fit 2009 Marin Portofino is made by a San Francisco bike company and is a low end road/racing bike, priced at about $800. Yes, that's low end. The aluminum 58 cm frame is very efficient, converting most of my pedaling into motion. That's what I learned from the bike shop and not incidentally is about all I know about bikes at this point. Side note: bike shops can be incredibly intimidating to novices like me and folks who are not knowledgeable about cycling. It's best to just get in and get out.
Anyway, I fear my Portofino is going to be named the "maroon marauder." It's an unfortunate name for the bicycle of a pacifist, but when it sticks it sticks. I'm open to new suggestions, but I don't know if this gender-neutral bike personality will change after these thirty-ish days of ownership.
Back to my feasibility experiment: it began on a warm day two weeks ago when I decided to ride to Richmond Beach. The ride there was pleasant, but the thing about cycling in Seattle is that what goes down must come up - at least from where I live on Crown Hill. And Richmond Beach as you might guess from the name, is at a lower elevation. The struggle home was exhausting. I walked my bike once and crept along in the lowest gear ("granny gear" I've heard it called) for a good long while. Indeed this project has been difficult.
I've since spent my energy trying to establish a better level of fitness: a couple ten mile rides, then up to twenty. I'm getting there. Of course then I read an article about how cycling, because it's not a weight bearing activity, must be supplemented with other exercise so that the risk of osteoporosis isn't heightened. Thus I've interspersed the cycling with running, adding up to the best shape I've been since the old days of collegiate athletics.
Now as I see it, there are two advantages to this prep activity. First, the better shape I'm in the less I will sweat, and the less I sweat, the more pleasant a day at work will be after said bike commute... for me and those around me. Second, I have explored an ever-expanding chunk of the city. This morning I found the Elliot Bay trail, which runs along the water into downtown. Even on a gray, coolish day like today, the ride was splendid. Bike lanes and trails are everywhere: the Interurban took me to the suburbs on Monday and the Burke-Gilman is smooth, paved, and flat.
The only thing that remains is the final test: will I be able to make it home from Richmond Beach? I'd better not try it yet. I've got to do some more work on my legs to get ready for that big day. The distance, I've learned, will be no problem. Six miles in one sitting - easy. The hill on the other hand will be my defining geographical obstacle.
This personal study began with just me and my bike, pictured here.
This natural fit 2009 Marin Portofino is made by a San Francisco bike company and is a low end road/racing bike, priced at about $800. Yes, that's low end. The aluminum 58 cm frame is very efficient, converting most of my pedaling into motion. That's what I learned from the bike shop and not incidentally is about all I know about bikes at this point. Side note: bike shops can be incredibly intimidating to novices like me and folks who are not knowledgeable about cycling. It's best to just get in and get out.
Anyway, I fear my Portofino is going to be named the "maroon marauder." It's an unfortunate name for the bicycle of a pacifist, but when it sticks it sticks. I'm open to new suggestions, but I don't know if this gender-neutral bike personality will change after these thirty-ish days of ownership.
Back to my feasibility experiment: it began on a warm day two weeks ago when I decided to ride to Richmond Beach. The ride there was pleasant, but the thing about cycling in Seattle is that what goes down must come up - at least from where I live on Crown Hill. And Richmond Beach as you might guess from the name, is at a lower elevation. The struggle home was exhausting. I walked my bike once and crept along in the lowest gear ("granny gear" I've heard it called) for a good long while. Indeed this project has been difficult.
I've since spent my energy trying to establish a better level of fitness: a couple ten mile rides, then up to twenty. I'm getting there. Of course then I read an article about how cycling, because it's not a weight bearing activity, must be supplemented with other exercise so that the risk of osteoporosis isn't heightened. Thus I've interspersed the cycling with running, adding up to the best shape I've been since the old days of collegiate athletics.
Now as I see it, there are two advantages to this prep activity. First, the better shape I'm in the less I will sweat, and the less I sweat, the more pleasant a day at work will be after said bike commute... for me and those around me. Second, I have explored an ever-expanding chunk of the city. This morning I found the Elliot Bay trail, which runs along the water into downtown. Even on a gray, coolish day like today, the ride was splendid. Bike lanes and trails are everywhere: the Interurban took me to the suburbs on Monday and the Burke-Gilman is smooth, paved, and flat.
The only thing that remains is the final test: will I be able to make it home from Richmond Beach? I'd better not try it yet. I've got to do some more work on my legs to get ready for that big day. The distance, I've learned, will be no problem. Six miles in one sitting - easy. The hill on the other hand will be my defining geographical obstacle.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Some people have weddings...
Jamie Haskins: "Some people have weddings. We have a $50 check to the Secretary of State."
A week and a half ago, we printed out the "Declaration of State Registered Domestic Partnership" for the state of Washington. We took it into our new bank (where we have a joint account, no problem, no questions asked, no one wondering if we were sisters). And the super-nice lady sitting at the desk notarized our paperwork. We dropped it into the mailbox in front of Safeway on that fateful day, June 29, 2009. And then last Friday there arrived a package for us in the mail from the Secretary of State.
"Congratulations!" the form letter from Sam Reed greeted us. Enclosed were two certificates proving our partnership and two drivers license size cards to keep in our wallets. The letter reminded us that our partnership may not be recognized everywhere and these cards are to prove our legal rights in Washington.
Unfortunately, there's a nasty movement going on right now in our fair Evergreen state that has put a 2009 law signed by Governor Christine Gregoire on hold. This most recent law expanded domestic partnership rights and has been called the "everything but marriage" law. However, an ugly, hateful group is attempting to get enough signatures to put Referendum 71 on the November ballot to block this legislation. Pending this disdainful act, the full implementation of the expanded domestic partnership law is on hold. Fortunately, domestic partnership laws passed in 2007 and 2008 are still in full effect. Yay, Washington!
Here are some of the benefits (granted without question to every married heterosexual couple, an some non-married couples) that we now have by law:
The government has a lovely, user-friendly page describing the details: http://www.secstate.wa.gov/corps/domesticpartnerships/.
A week and a half ago, we printed out the "Declaration of State Registered Domestic Partnership" for the state of Washington. We took it into our new bank (where we have a joint account, no problem, no questions asked, no one wondering if we were sisters). And the super-nice lady sitting at the desk notarized our paperwork. We dropped it into the mailbox in front of Safeway on that fateful day, June 29, 2009. And then last Friday there arrived a package for us in the mail from the Secretary of State.
"Congratulations!" the form letter from Sam Reed greeted us. Enclosed were two certificates proving our partnership and two drivers license size cards to keep in our wallets. The letter reminded us that our partnership may not be recognized everywhere and these cards are to prove our legal rights in Washington.
Unfortunately, there's a nasty movement going on right now in our fair Evergreen state that has put a 2009 law signed by Governor Christine Gregoire on hold. This most recent law expanded domestic partnership rights and has been called the "everything but marriage" law. However, an ugly, hateful group is attempting to get enough signatures to put Referendum 71 on the November ballot to block this legislation. Pending this disdainful act, the full implementation of the expanded domestic partnership law is on hold. Fortunately, domestic partnership laws passed in 2007 and 2008 are still in full effect. Yay, Washington!
Here are some of the benefits (granted without question to every married heterosexual couple, an some non-married couples) that we now have by law:
- Participation in medical care decisions including access in critical medical situations. In fact, to ensure this will happen, you can look up registered couples on the web site: online registration look-up. If you type me or Jamie in, our partnership is there officially for all to see.
- Some healthcare benefits depending on the employer.
- Access to medical information.
- Community property rights for partners.
- Organ donation decisions.
- The administration of a deceased partner's estate.
- Recognition as a domestic partner on a deceased partner's death certificate.
- The ability to sue for wrongful death of a partner.
- The right to inherit property from a partner and to administer the partner's estate in the absence of a will.
The government has a lovely, user-friendly page describing the details: http://www.secstate.wa.gov/corps/domesticpartnerships/.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Olympic National Park
I caught my first live glimpse ever of the Pacific Ocean earlier this week, along with my first ever trip into a rainforest. Then there were the mountaintops enveloped in fog, all of this in the Olympic National Park, which covers nearly one million acres on the Olympic Peninsula, not far across the Puget Sound from Seattle. Highway 101 was worth every mile in gas and side trips, even in the drizzling rain and cold. Hurricane Ridge is magical and mystical even when fog envelops the mountaintops.
Here are a few fun facts:
The Hoh Rainforest on the west side of the mountains is one of the few remaining temperate rainforests in the United States. It gets 12 to 14 feet of rain a year.
Lake Crescent is 624 feet deep. Scary.
Roads near the coast are clearly marked with the proper "tsunami evacuation route." That's right - if an earthquake occurs, everyone is supposed to head for the hills. Even scarier. I have an unusual and sometimes irrational fear of natural disasters (except tornadoes). And heights - I'm afraid of heights too.
The wind gusts on Hurricane Ridge get up to 75 mph. It's enough to blow a person right off the mountain. Maybe.
Friday, June 19, 2009
West Coast Time
You may not have noticed this, but the world pretty much runs on Eastern Standard Time. I remember for instance, back when I lived in the central time zone (the farm, Springfield, Nashville, and everywhere in between), the ads on t.v. would remind us that this or that show was coming on at 8, 7 central. So the real time for the show was at 8, and the central time for the show was at 7. There was no mention of mountain or pacific time. And now I find myself in that lost time zone on the west coast.
It first sunk in when Dr. Phil and Oprah were on t.v. during the afternoon this week. Now these shows are supposed to come on at 3 and 4 p.m. respectively, at least in Nashville. That would mean they should come on at 1 and 2 p.m. respectively in Seattle. But no, Dr. Phil and Oprah still came on NBC at 3 and 4. Do you see what's wrong with this picture? Everyone in the eastern half of the country has already seen Dr. Phil and Oprah. It may seem like a small thing, but multiply that by every show out there. How can I trust my t.v. any more? When the Jonas Brothers were on the Today show at 10:30 this morning was it really "live" as the t.v. screen said? That would make it 1:30 eastern time. Where the Jonas brothers playing at 1:30 EST or 10:30 EST? For that matter, when is the ten o'clock news? How am I supposed to know?
Now lest you think that the west coast is just screwed, I need you to know I've come to another conclusion. This time zone differential does not mean those of us who live in the west are bound to live a few hours behind everyone else. Indeed not. Rather, that means that the mountains are not the only thing that separates us from the rest of the country. The mechanics of time have left us no choice except to say good riddance. While it's after midnight in most of Kansas, it's barely after 10 here, and I'm enjoying a romantic comedy on lifetime. When those of you in Nashville wake up and head for work, think of us in the west still sleeping.
Time and the brilliant geography of the pacific northwest leave us isolated from that magical Eastern Standard Time. But that's okay, because here the seconds do tick off just a little bit differently. I can't explain it quite yet. Maybe I'll be able to in time.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Joy of Packing
As Jamie and I prepare for our 2500 road trip from Nashville to Seattle, we've had to decide what to take and what to sell, what to keep out and what to pack away, and how to get what we pack two-thirds of the way across the country. We thought about just selling everything we couldn't pack in cars, but I have two bookshelf-like pieces that my dad and grandpa made that I want to keep, and 
the queen bed is fairly new and worth saving. On the other hand, the couch, recliner, washer/dryer, and and desk aren't worth the cost of shipping. We've ended up with a "ReloCube" that will be transported in a semi-truck and then can be stored for up to a month while we find a place to live. Our cube is 6' x 7' x 8.' The rest has been posted on craigslist. Just this morning a nice young woman from Mufreesboro picked up the couch, and a local hostel bought the twin bed. Our house is filled with boxes to be loaded and shipped out this week. The only other thing to think about are our two furry little companions, Betsy (left) and Wyatt.
There's no way around it. When it comes to traveling, cats are downright impractical. Mom suggested the other day that we could just give the cats away here and get a couple more when we get there. We'd already thought of that. But as embarrassing as it is to admit sometimes, Betsy and Wyatt are part of the family. I think even "Aunt Hannah" came to an understanding with Betsy when Hannah was here for graduation. "I don't touch her and she doesn't touch me," was the agreement, I believe. So it's worth writing a bit more about how we plan to bring these two along.
FIRST, we had a vet appointment on Friday. Now 305 dollars later everyone has rabies vaccinations and flea treatment, and Wyatt has been prescribed sedatives to help him handle the excitement of traveling. We also splurged at PetSmart and bought cat harnesses and leashes. This was really embarrassing, because we'd never actually seen these items in action before. Surely we were the only one to take these measures. I can just see us trying to walk our stubborn Betsy down the sidewalk while our neighbors (who own six dogs) think we are in denial about our need for canine companionship. Fortunately, we've learned that a lot of cat owners actually also have utilized the kitty harness and leash combination. You know who you are, and you need to come out of the closet so novices like us can find the support we need.
Anyway, as those of you who know Wyatt may have already guessed, the harness and leash are quite an ordeal. Yesterday during his practice time, every time he moved, he saw the leash move and became so skittish that he ended up huddled in the corner for a good twenty minutes (left). We're trying to work up to a modicum of comfort. Betsy, being her more docile self, has handled the transition smoothly, thought she's taken to hiding under the bed for hours at a time. We think it's her special place. It helps her manage stress.
The other major adjustment is the pet carriers. Fortunately in this department, Mr. Wyatt has taken a liking to the pink carrier, which leaves Betsy with blue (we like to challenge gender stereotypes in our family). In fact, as I type, he is curled up inside that pink carrier sleeping. You'd think he'd never had a more comfortable bed. The final major obstacle in our immediate future is the our provision for the cats' basic needs during the drive. Now the nurse at the vet's office said that when she moved her four cats from Florida she just put water, food, and a small box of litter on the floor of the car. We're thinking about other suggestions, including an intentional family fast meant to cut down on the waste production. We're open to other ideas.
the queen bed is fairly new and worth saving. On the other hand, the couch, recliner, washer/dryer, and and desk aren't worth the cost of shipping. We've ended up with a "ReloCube" that will be transported in a semi-truck and then can be stored for up to a month while we find a place to live. Our cube is 6' x 7' x 8.' The rest has been posted on craigslist. Just this morning a nice young woman from Mufreesboro picked up the couch, and a local hostel bought the twin bed. Our house is filled with boxes to be loaded and shipped out this week. The only other thing to think about are our two furry little companions, Betsy (left) and Wyatt.There's no way around it. When it comes to traveling, cats are downright impractical. Mom suggested the other day that we could just give the cats away here and get a couple more when we get there. We'd already thought of that. But as embarrassing as it is to admit sometimes, Betsy and Wyatt are part of the family. I think even "Aunt Hannah" came to an understanding with Betsy when Hannah was here for graduation. "I don't touch her and she doesn't touch me," was the agreement, I believe. So it's worth writing a bit more about how we plan to bring these two along.
FIRST, we had a vet appointment on Friday. Now 305 dollars later everyone has rabies vaccinations and flea treatment, and Wyatt has been prescribed sedatives to help him handle the excitement of traveling. We also splurged at PetSmart and bought cat harnesses and leashes. This was really embarrassing, because we'd never actually seen these items in action before. Surely we were the only one to take these measures. I can just see us trying to walk our stubborn Betsy down the sidewalk while our neighbors (who own six dogs) think we are in denial about our need for canine companionship. Fortunately, we've learned that a lot of cat owners actually also have utilized the kitty harness and leash combination. You know who you are, and you need to come out of the closet so novices like us can find the support we need.
Anyway, as those of you who know Wyatt may have already guessed, the harness and leash are quite an ordeal. Yesterday during his practice time, every time he moved, he saw the leash move and became so skittish that he ended up huddled in the corner for a good twenty minutes (left). We're trying to work up to a modicum of comfort. Betsy, being her more docile self, has handled the transition smoothly, thought she's taken to hiding under the bed for hours at a time. We think it's her special place. It helps her manage stress.
The other major adjustment is the pet carriers. Fortunately in this department, Mr. Wyatt has taken a liking to the pink carrier, which leaves Betsy with blue (we like to challenge gender stereotypes in our family). In fact, as I type, he is curled up inside that pink carrier sleeping. You'd think he'd never had a more comfortable bed. The final major obstacle in our immediate future is the our provision for the cats' basic needs during the drive. Now the nurse at the vet's office said that when she moved her four cats from Florida she just put water, food, and a small box of litter on the floor of the car. We're thinking about other suggestions, including an intentional family fast meant to cut down on the waste production. We're open to other ideas.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Seattle Bound (Again)
Thanks be to God (or to progressive people) for University Christian Church in Seattle, Washington. Two weeks ago Jamie and I were in Seattle for her interview with the church. During the post-worship fellowship hour, an older man approached Jamie and said, "When I heard they wouldn't ordain you in Tennessee, it ruffled my feathers." I could have cried. Finally someone gets it.
Today this congregation approved Jamie as the Minister of Spiritual Formation and Social Justice (Pastoral Resident). She will be serving there for two years, and the church will be walking with her through the ordination process in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).
It's not what you plan, really. We just graduated from an incredible academic institution and could easily find a dozen people to write glowing reference letters for us. We both had high gpa's and a series of life-broadening internships that prepared us for a variety of forms of ministry. We have worshiped with Disciples, Methodists, and Mennonites. Our experiential knowledge on race, poverty, oppression, diversity, and faithful struggle surpasses our years. You churches should be asking for people like us. But here we are after five months of searching in the system, and between us we've had three phone interviews and only one job offer and a whole bunch of churches and church leaders who've seen our paperwork and cast us aside.
It's not what you'd hope, really. Especially not when your colleagues are being ordained and interviewed and called left and right. Not everyone, not all of them, but enough to make us wonder where we went wrong in hoping for ourselves. Maybe it was our education at the "School of the Prophets" where our normal was to identify, think about, and oppose sexism, racism, and homophobia. Maybe we forgot that not everyone is a prophet, and that outside those divinity school walls are institutions that wouldn't even give theological degrees to people like us. For this I grieve everyday, if not in my consciousness, surely in my unconscious living and being.
But today there was a congregation, just one, that said we belong there. Someone even said they wished they could hire me too. Can you imagine that kind of grace and hospitality? In the meantime, we'll be packing up in Nashville and drive through Kansas for a stay on the farm before heading up past the mountains for the promised land at 4731 15th Avenue Northeast, Seattle, WA. In the meantime I suppose I'll be looking for some kind of employment. In the meantime, bless you University Christian Church and Reverend Janetta Cravens Boyd.
Monday, January 26, 2009
We are not alone; we live in God's world
It's been several months now that I've committed myself to a church. Of course Harmony is still my Mennonite house church, but since last October, I've been going to a Sunday morning, pastor/preacher, amen, pews, pulpit, communion church. It's time I should share about this Hobson United Methodist.
The web site <http://www.hobsonumc.org/> has some fascinating historical details: founded by an affluent white man; segregated; almost closed after the white flight from East Nashville in the 1960s; revitalized by new leadership. But what's more important for now is my experience. I'll start with these words from Garlinda, which describe Hobson on our relatively new facebook group:
Funky, cutting edge, small, casual, interracial, inter-class, gay positive congregation in Nashville, Tenn. More than half of members/regular worshipers are homeless. We're struggling with what it means to bring a broad cross-section of people together in a Southern Christian community by confronting and loving beyond racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, experience and socio-economic circumstances.
Here's one thing I like about this church: "we're struggling." From my first conversation with Pastor Sonnye Dixon, these present participles (I had to look that up) have described Hobson. A present participle is active, so when they say they are a "reconciling" congregation (the United Methodist version of inclusive of gays and lesbians), the word implies process. No, we have not eradicated the homophobia in our pews, but gay and straight people sit together every Sunday. In the same way, no we have not overcome our classist and racist realities, but poor and not-so-poor sit together with black and white mixed in.
I did understand this struggling - not in the experiential sense anyway - until I came to the South. I think part of it was for lack of opportunity: the midwestern communities I lived in were simply more homogeneous. But also, for one reason or another, I've been challenged into seeing what is all around me with new eyes. For instance,this past Friday Sonnye, Garlinda, Jamie and I went to a lecture on Gender, Sexuality, and the HIV/AIDS crisis. Sonnye had invited us, and the event was held at one of the few black churches in the area that are progressive on issues of sexuality. It was a fantastic lecture: unmasking the power structures (sexism, heterosexism, homophobia, patriarchy, traditional Christian biblical interpretations) that have enabled the exponential spread of HIV/AIDS in African-American communities. Equally important for my own learning was the fact that Jamie and I were the only white people in the room. This new thing is part of the difference Hobson makes in my life.
Another new thing is that elusive notion, radical hospitality. It seems like it's a new theological fad in some of my circles of communication, and I myself like the concept, but could I practice that? Part of my problem is probably that I've been trying to start with the concept itself: yes I value hospitality; yes I want to welcome the homeless, poor, stranger, gay, etc.; yes I believe this is good and right. But At Hobson, there's a different starting point. There's no telling what those crazy (said affectionately) people believe or value in their heads, but when it comes to their bodies, they practice radical hospitality. They hug and hug and hug. Some of the younger men like to reach out to shake your hand and then pull you into a huge embrace. Some are so tall that my head reaches only their chest (awkward!) but they hug me anyway. Little girls with beads in their hair usually grab me around the knees once or twice during the passing of the peace. And last Sunday I even got a few kisses from matriarchs of the church. I still can't figure out which kid goes with which parent, and there are far more single mothers than traditional nuclear families, but it seems like one big family anyway for an hour and a half every Sunday.
One more thing on the hospitality theme: communion. Every Sunday we go forward to the traditional United Methodist rail; we kneel; and two people Sonnye has called out spontaneously from the congregation serve the elements: teenage girls; gay men; people who come to church only occasionally; even Jamie and myself. It doesn't matter. And EVERYONE is welcome to participate. The bulletin says you all are invited regardless of faith community or if you do not have a faith community at all. You could be the loudest, most obnoxious atheist in the city and Hobson would want you at the table. Literally. And if it was your birthday that week, we'd all sing together to you too, another part of the unique Hobson liturgy. (See Sonnye here breaking the bread, though I've never actually seen him wear a tie before!)
So it's this elusive blend of formal and informal, spontaneity and ritual, order and chaos. After the passing of the peace (which can take a good five or ten minutes), the pianist calls us back to order by playing (yes, every week) "Leaning on the everlasting arms." I almost have the words memorized by now... what a fellowship, what a joy divine, leaning on the everlasting arms...
Then, one of my favorite parts of the ritual is when we recite our covenants. The first one is common to broader Christian communities:
We are not alone, we live in God's world.
We believe in God: who has created and is creating, who has come in Jesus, the Word made flesh, to reconcile and make new, who works in us and others by the Spirit.
We trust in God.
We are called to be the Church: to celebrate God's presence, to live with respect in Creation, to love and serve others, to seek justice and resist evil, to proclaim Jesus, crucified and risen, our judge and our hope.
In life, in death, in life beyond death, God is with us.
We are not alone.
Thanks be to God.
I usually choke up at the "in life, in death, in life beyond death" part, which is even more perfect when (because there's not really a worship leader) everyone says the phrase at a different time. What a joy divine to think about life beyond death, sure in heaven, but this poetic turn of phrase might mean a thousand different things. Then we say Hobson's own covenant, which I hope to adapt and use someday.We are all on the journey of discipleship, all seeking to be faithful followers of Jesus Christ. We are all learners and all teachers. We all have gifts to share, and so we work to listen to and learn from each other, treating each other with respect and dignity. We are a community of grace and forgiveness, glad for our diversity and differences. Disagreements will come, but we are willing to remain a part of the community and a part of the conversation, so we will not walk out or close our hearts or minds.
Surely when you say this over and over again week after week, you begin to believe and practice it. Disagreements will come, but we won't threaten to withdraw. Differences are here, but that's a good thing. One of those differences for me is the call and response. Imagine when Sonnye gets to preaching people shouting through that old sanctuary things like, "Well..." "Come on" "Teach preacher" "Yessuh!" I picture my Mennonite ancestors leaning over and saying, "Why are they yelling in church?" Mostly I sit quietly and smile as I rejoice in how my welcome presence at Hobson is the intersection of incredibly diverse communities, communities which are reconciling over and over again.
Jamie and myself with Charles, who used to live in Ottawa, KS
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