The Policy of Honesty

I am really cranky lately. I feel stymied and shut down and unsafe about sharing my opinion. I feel as though I've gone to the ends of the earth to a place filled with closed minded bigots who are not able to see not just the importance of the Supreme Court's upholding of marriage equality, but the joy inherent in the decision. I feel the need to be clear: this is how I feel, not necessarily the reality of my situation.

I moved to a new location almost exactly six months ago. I began serving in my new call about 5 1/2 months ago and have been, for the most part, received with enthusiasm and grace. Then, a month ago, I pushed the envelop in a Festival Worship. I was assured that these services, which only occur on the fifth Sunday of the month, were a forum for me to try new styles, to change things up, to be as creative as I want to be. So I did something a little different: instead of a traditional sermon, I performed a one-woman play about a woman with breast cancer and her struggles with the ramifications thereof. It was received resoundingly well. I got emails, cards, and texts of grateful support. I had people press their hands into mine and gravely thank me for telling their story. I had others share health struggles that they had up to that point withheld. AND I had one couple leave the church. To be fair, this wasn't the first thing I had done that they didn't like. The first thing was simply being female, and our relationship went downhill from there. 

The Festival service during which I play a cancer survivor wrestling with despair. (Photo courtesy of Walt Campbell.)

In addition to that, the week after they ostentatiously walked out of the Festival Service, the church held its 275th Anniversary celebration, during which many former pastors and/or their spouses, children, and grandchildren were invited to participate. Several came, and the day was glorious, with worship and feasting and fellowship and stories. However, the previous much-beloved pastor remains very connected with many of the congregants and received a standing ovation after singing a solo during the service. It felt to me like "too much, too soon" as though I had not had time enough to develop, much less solidify, my own relationships with people before they were undermined, however unintentionally, by my predecessor. 

Finally, to put the cherry on top, this blog, a blog in which I've been pretty transparent, was linked to the church's new website without my permission. I knew it was there and was slightly uncomfortable with it, but also believe in what I've written, so I was wrestling with that as well. Then I began to get feedback about it in the midst of my distress over the other two issues. Once again, most of the feedback was overwhelmingly positive, but there were a few who were not happy, and very outspokenly so.

It made me sad, angry, depressed. It made me realize that I'm grateful I'm not a celebrity or someone whose life is parsed regularly by people who don't know me. It made me understand how very thin-skinned I can be, for while I have some emotional baggage, I have been very privileged in many ways and really shouldn't get so upset about what other people think of me. It made me see how cowardly I am. I took the blog down from the church page and linked another much less controversial one to it. Even writing this one, I wonder if I'll have the courage to share it in any way that will assure it's read.

Last summer for my birthday, my daughter Grace and I went into NYC for the day. We parked in Times Square, walked to the Metropolitan Museum, then to a fancy French restaurant on the East Side for dinner, and then back to midtown to see a Broadway show. It was a wonderful day, but I had worn brand-new sandals for the outing. They had seemed incredibly comfortable in the shoe store, but by the end of the day, the bottoms of my feet were covered with blisters. I could barely walk. I went home, lanced them, squeezed out all the juice, slathered them with Neosporin, covered them with bandaids and socks and went to bed. 

Grace and I about to enjoy dessert on my birthday last year. You can thank me for choosing this one to share instead of one of the bottom of my feet. (Photo courtesy of me.)

The next day Grace asked me, "Do your feet still hurt?"

I replied, "Not when I'm standing still. Only when I walk."

"That's like Life!" she said. Yes, I think, yes it is. Everything is fine when I'm standing still. But when I move, when I'm forced to step out of my comfort zone, it's hard. 

So here I sit. Feeling afraid to be who I am, to share what I feel, to preach what I know to be true, especially concerning the momentous decisions handed down by SCOTUS this week, the aftermath of the Charleston shooting, and right that all people have, no matter their race, color, creed, gender, or sexual orientation, to be safe and to love and be loved. God, help me. Please.

On Standing Down Instead of Up

Last week I participated in the National Day of Prayer service at Town Hall in Phillipsburg. It was the second worship gathering that I have been a part of since I moved, the first being the CrossWalk in Shappell Park, which was a Christian liturgy that walked the stations of the cross on Good Friday in a local community square. This was interesting as I never participated in such an overtly Christian service in a public forum; it gave me much food for thought as I considered what it was to be a Christian over the centuries and what it means today in 21st century America.

Before moving to western New Jersey, I had been very active in the Clergy Association in Huntington, NY, even acting as President for a couple of years, where the group was not only ecumenical but interfaith, and where services would include leaders from many denominations and faith traditions. It was not unusual to hear the Islamic azan or the Jewish shofar or both opening a community worship service. So I was very surprised and a bit disconcerted when the liturgy on the steps of Town Hall began with a proclamation of Jesus Christ as Lord of all. This is obviously not a statement I personally have a problem with, but contextually it seemed inappropriate, given my historical experience of diversity. Religious diversity in P'burg, however, is negligible.

Then in the midst of wrestling with the primacy of Christianity to the exclusion of all else in a governmental setting among perhaps 70 people who were all white and apparently all Christian, a few men standing nearby began to talk about the Mayweather-Pacquiao fight and that led to conversation about Floyd Mayweather and his horrible history of perpetrating domestic abuse.

"Well, he's got to practice on somebody," one of the men joked. The others laughed and the conversation continued while I stood stunned, complicit in Mayweather's violence and the men's acceptance or even approval of it by my silence in the face of their discussion.

Meanwhile, the Presbyterian Church (USA) 221st General Assembly has begun a peacemaking discernment process in which Five Affirmations have been sent to each presbytery with the request to discuss and take an advisory vote on each affirmation individually. Numbers 2 and 4 were the most discussed, but number 2 was the one with which I had the biggest struggle:

"We confess our complicity in the world's violence even as we pray for the Spirit's courage to "unmask idolatries," to speak truth about war and oppression, and to stand with those who suffer, and to respond to acts and threats of violence with ministries of justice, healing, and reconciliation."

I had the struggle not because I am sure that am not complicit, but because of my action (or rather inaction) at events like the National Day of Prayer that assure me that I am. It is clear to me that the reason I said nothing was because I was afraid. The question is: Afraid of what?

It's a question I'm not sure I can answer. As the only female clergyperson at the gathering, perhaps I was afraid of being mocked or belittled. As a person who has suffered family violence, perhaps I was afraid being attacked, if only verbally. I was in an unfamiliar situation that already felt awkward and uncomfortable and now my searching for a reason feels like searching for an excuse.

All I know for sure is that I will do my best to speak up when (and I wish I could say if) something like this happens again. For "all tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent," a statement that has been credited to Thomas Jefferson and various others. No matter who said it, it remains true, and I hope not to be a party to the silence again, in this or any other issue where violence is occurring.

Seeing Is Disagreeing - The Dress

A few weeks ago, my friend and colleague Christine Hong was visiting. She was here to lead a dialogue with Haroop Kaur on Sikh - PC(USA) relations, which was amazing. But in some of our downtime, she shared with me "The Dress." The original photo image was of a dress that a Scottish woman planned to wear to her daughter's wedding. When she sent a photo of it to her daughter, the bride and groom disagreed about the color; one saw it as white with gold lace, the other blue with black lace. They posted the image on Facebook and their friends also disagreed about the color. Quickly the image went viral and people around the globe disagreed as well.

What do you see? (courtesy of tumblr user swiked)

The thing is: so did Chris and I. I see white with gold, she sees blue with black. It seemed unbelievable to each of us that the other did not see what we did. We kept going back and forth with each other, "Really? But it's white!" "No, it's blue!" This felt especially surprising to me because we agree on just about everything. We've had so many theological discussions in which we are on the same page. We've talked about race, and gender, and sexuality. We've talked about the thorny issues of the day and even if there are nuances that we need to parse and ponder, in broad strokes we "see" the same thing.

As unreal as it was to me that a difference as distinct as this one was viable, I could not deny her vehemence that the dress was a completely different color in her eyes than it was in mine. Finally, I said to her that I thought there must be a scientific reason for it. Perhaps, I wondered, it had something to do with the cones in our eyes. Several years ago, I had seen a program on aging given on DVD by Professor Francis B. Colavita of the University of Pittsburgh. There was a portion that stuck with me because he talked about people with blue eyes having their eyes get lighter over time because the color literally dropped out of them. I wondered with Christine if my light blue eyes and her deep brown ones had something to do with the differential in our vision.

This got me thinking about those other issues and people with whom I passionately disagree about things that are not visual but still perception-oriented. Could it be that we both are "right" and the disagreement, whatever it may be, is about fundamental biology rather than ethics? Could it be that my interpretation of the Bible and someone else's have equal validity, and that our disagreement is more about biology than anything else?

Perhaps most importantly, if we are not able to come to see things the same way, is there a way that we can "agree to disagree" with respect and even Christian Unity? Can we remain the Church while also remaining true to ourselves and to the gospel as we each understand it?

Sex, Rice, and Videotape: DV should not be available for viewing

I recently joked on both Facebook and twitter that my cat tried to kill me.  He dipped his paw into his water bowl and dripped microscopic drops of water onto the kitchen linoleum, which I stepped into, causing me to slip and fly across the floor, ramming into the cupboards and countertop before slamming into the ground.  A few bruises and aches later I’m none the worse for wear.  But it wasn’t always this way.

There was a time when I sported bruises and felt aches for a far less benign reason.  I, like seven out of ten women, am a survivor of domestic violence.  It’s been 30 years since my former husband and I parted ways and I haven’t seen him in all that time, but I still have nightmares.  Maybe only once or twice a year, but I still have them.  Of course, that’s better than the night terrors that plagued me for the first few years.

When people tell me that they cannot imagine me as a victim of DV, they often ask me why I stayed.  The reasons were too numerous to name, but among them was the fact that he told me often that he would kill me if I ever left.  This was not an idle threat, as almost 1/3 of female homicide victims in the US are at the hands of an intimate partner. My early dreams were usually about him coming after me to do so, even though I had moved almost 2000 miles away.  I would shoot up in bed, shaking and sweating, terrified that he was right outside the window or door.

He abuses me still in my sleep, most often sexually.  I wake feeling dirty and defiled and powerless.  That is perhaps the most lasting injury of all.  That sense of powerlessness.  The thought that there is nothing I can do to change it.  In some sense, it is still true, even though my current suffering is “virtual” and has been for years.

Yet, like Janay Palmer, I married my husband after he first abused me.  I stood by him for several years.  I both believed that he could change and that he never would.  That it would get better and that I would die at his hand.  That it was my fault and if I would only change, the abuse would stop.  That no one else would ever love me and so I had to make this relationship work.  Some of these thoughts were a result of what he told me.  Some of them were very old, ingrained in my childhood and upbringing.  All of it made me feel simultaneously culpable and vulnerable.

This is why last week while I was in Prayer Circle at my church, I tried to explain that I felt for Janay Palmer Rice.  It was wrong for the media to keep showing the video of her abuse at the hands of her then-fiancé Ray Rice, and for youtube to make it accessible to anyone and everyone all the time.  One parishioner, a wonderful older woman, couldn’t understand my point of view at all.

“But if it brings this type of behavior to light and helps to make a change, isn’t it a good thing?  If it had been you in the video, wouldn’t you have wanted to have it shown because of the possible end results?” she argued.

No.  No, I wouldn’t have.  I wouldn’t have wanted the world to see me exposed that way.  I looked it up on youtube just to make sure that I had my facts straight, but you’ll notice I didn’t include a link in this blog.  You can go find it yourself if you need to view it for whatever reason.  I find my parishioner’s argument to be as fallacious as Ravens’ owner Steve Bisciotti’s that “if this becomes a seminal moment for domestic violence and the way we handle it as a society, it's not a burden for us to become the poster boy.”

Domestic violence is unacceptable.  Individuals being beaten up verbally, physically, emotionally, and sexually at the hands of those who supposedly love them is unconscionable.  That should be clear without any need to see it.  Period.

A Personal Take in the Aftermath of Robin Williams' Untimely Passing

My sister is bizarrely pissed off about Robin Williams’ death.  Or not so much about his death, as about people’s continuous recognition of it.  About twitter and facebook posts and blogs and newspaper articles.  She’s made several inappropriate angry posts herself admonishing others and telling them to “Stop It.” In her more articulate writing, she seems to be expressing the feeling that it’s too much.  That there’s nothing else on the news.  But her first comment that I noted was a reply to my daughter’s tweet within an hour or so of us hearing about it, saying, “just btw u and me: geez you'd think John Lennon was shot or something. I get it. I'm sad. Enough.”  This is problematic on many levels: a) who says Robin Williams wasn’t just as important as John Lennon?  Or you?  Or me? b) maybe it was enough for her, but we’d only just heard about it, and were just starting to grieve, which leads to c) why is her amount of grieving time the right amount, while others is too much?

A lovely shot of Robin Williams 

(photo courtesy of Entertainment Weekly)

This is even more inexplicable because my sister has stared into the abyss many times.  In recent years, she’s been taking medication that seems to help, and that she has said makes her life so much better.  That she doesn’t mentally relive mistakes of her youth or worry about others’ impressions of her nearly as much.  So I am wondering if the real reason she is so angry about people’s need to respond to Robin Williams’ suicide is that it comes too close.  If she looks at what happened here to an outrageously smart, talented, and funny man, (did I mention that my sister is outrageously smart, talented, and funny?) she might have to look a little more closely at herself as well?  Maybe things aren’t always so ducky and wrestling with the pain may just be a lifelong process?  At the fact that while it feels like the whole world is grieving over Robin Williams, who would do the same for her?  So it’s easier to be mad at the world than face her own self-perceived shortcomings.

An early shot of my sister (left) and me (right) and my brother (below)

(Photo courtesy of family archives)

I know I was mad at Philip Seymour Hoffman – and I struggled with the amount of attention surrounding his untimely and tragic death.  But then, I’m an alcoholic and drug addict.  An alcoholic and addict who’s been clean and sober for going on 22 years and who is terrified of what might happen if I have drink again.  Or do a line of cocaine.  So maybe it’s easier to shout at people to “Shut up!” than it is to look at yourself.  Maybe it’s easier to do most anything than look at yourself.  That’s kind of the point of all 12 Step Groups.

So I’m trying not to sit in judgment of my sister and her struggle.  Or of Robin Williams and his.  Or Philip Seymour Hoffman.  Or anyone else.  I think I’ll say “Enough” for now, and see if I can figure out what needs to change in me.  Just for today.

Honduras Mission Trip Musings

I just got back from Honduras.  I spent a week in the northwestern corner of the country in the state of Copan in the Andes mountains, helping to build homes for people who don’t have them.  Or much of anything else.  It was gorgeous country and I was doing meaningful work alongside three beloved colleagues and fourteen hard-working teens.  

Our group in front of the van we took to La Cumbre, in the township of Trinidad de Copan 

(photo courtesy of me - I'm on the far right)

I should be sharing stories and hope and inspiration and aspiration galore.  But about midway through the week, I got sick.  Horribly sick.  The kind of sick that you get from drinking the water or eating raw vegetables that haven’t been properly cleaned or doing something else stupid.  But I didn’t drink the water.  I didn’t eat anything improper.  I didn’t do anything stupid.  Except go to Honduras in the first place.

You see, that’s what I’m getting at.  I went on this glorious trip and yet, because of the physical pain of 24/7 nausea and achy joints and chronic diarrhea, I can barely remember the good stuff.  All I can do is complain.

It’s gotten me thinking: what if your life was like this all the time?  What if you didn’t have access to clean water or good doctors or medicine that can heal you in a week – because that’s probably all it will take for me to be back to normal.  And once I feel alright again, I’m sure that I will be positive about my overall Honduran experience.

But what about the Honduran experience for Hondurans?  The town of Trinidad where we stayed got a Water Treatment Facility in 2013.  (Thanks to a Presbyterian church in Alabama who sponsored it– did I mention how proud the trip made me to be a Presbyterian?  Lots of good work being done by people from our denomination all over the area.)  That’s LAST YEAR?!  Still, the Water Treatment Facility requires that all people in the area go to the plant to fill huge water bottles, jugs, or cans.  If I remember correctly, they fill 750 gallons a day.

The water for bathing and washing clothes and force flushing toilets when the water was turned off (which happened quite frequently) was not purified.  Electricity was also sporadic, off more often than on.  Hot water was pretty much non-existent.

As for medical care, well, there was the rare Health Clinic – one in the town of Trinidad that serviced a huge part of Copan – but no hospitals.  One doctor, no nurses.  No CVS on the corner.  No “health and beauty aids” section in the grocery store.  Actually, no grocery store.  And dentistry.  Oh, my gosh, I know Americans are obsessed about their teeth, but these people need some basic dental care.  It’s heartbreaking to see six year olds with more cavities than teeth.

So what I’m trying to say very poorly here is, I’m miserable for one week and have a hard time remembering the good things that happened.  What if you were miserable for your whole life?  All the time.  What if you constantly walked around with body aches and GI problems and nausea and there was never any relief?  What if when you got sick, you didn’t have what you need to get better?  What if when your child had a fever, there’s nothing you can do but hold him while he cries?  What if when your baby got dehydrated, there was no Pedialyte to give her, much less a refrigerator to put it inside because there was no electricity? 

No one should have to live like that.  We should do more as a church, as people of faith, as human beings, to insure that everyone has pure water, and decent homes with electricity, and access to health care.  Hands down.  And if it took me getting a bacterial infection or parasite or whatever the heck I’ll find out it is when the test results come back today to truly realize that, it’s actually a pretty small price to pay.

SCOTUS, Hobby Lobby, and the Loss of Religious Freedom in America

Like many people in our country, I am reeling from yesterday's Supreme Court decision to treat Hobby Lobby and Conestoga Wood as private individuals with the right to erroneously withhold affordable access to contraception from their employees based on their (HL and CW's) religious beliefs.  I say erroneously because their claim that said contraceptives cause abortions is patently false, according to the American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologists.  Yet these facts are apparently not pertinent to the case, nor is the fact that the very definition of religious freedom is that I don't have the right to impose my religion on you, nor do you have the right to impose yours on me.

I suppose should not have been surprised when this maddeningly conservative Court moved in this direction. Two weeks ago, I was scheduled to go to Albany, along with another clergy colleague and a young woman in my congregation who cares deeply about these issues, to speak with our respective senators about the Women's Equality Act.  The WEA is a 10 point plan proposed by NY State Governor Andrew Cuomo in his 2013 State of the State Address that covers a wide variety of issues vital to women, among them reproductive rights.  Even though this Act is overwhelming popular in statewide polls, it has struggled in the state legislature.  It recently passed the assembly, and we had hopes that it might get through the senate, but here's the rub: our senators refused to meet with us.  There were clergy and people of faith coming from all over the state on Wednesday, June 18th to speak with our senators and their staffers, and they unilaterally refused to see us.  They stated they already had heard from their constituents and knew how they were going to vote.  They then proceeded to vote separately the Monday before our previously scheduled meetings on three of the points but to ignore the rest.  So apparently religious freedom is only important if you are a conservative Christian in this state and in this country - and it is the freedom to impose your very narrow and particular brand of Christianity on others.

The Jesus I follow cared deeply about women, about their hearts, and minds, and bodies.  He healed women dealing with gynecological problems and brought women into the fold who were not of his Jewish faith.  But he never forced anyone to follow him, to believe in him, to live by his rules.  Rather he gave people the information they needed to make a decision, and then allowed them the free will to decide.  How a bunch of unelected old white men (that's right: not one female on the Court voted in favor of this 5-4 decision - Justice Breyer was the only male dissenting) can decide for women (and undeniably financially challenged women if they're working for Hobby Lobby, although it remains to be seen how far-reaching this decision will be) what type of contraception they may use is inconceivable, to steal a pun from my former seminary classmate who wrote an article on this topic for the Huffington Post.

All I can hope is that the fight against such rulings is swift and strong, and that we do not lose heart in the midst of it.  How the country I love and have been blessed to live in and minister in can head down such a treacherous path is a mystery to me.

What Makes Us Us?

I have several parishioners who are losing their minds.  I know that may not be the politically correct way to put it, but I can’t think of a more apt description.  They are mentally not who they were when I met them.  They’re forgetful or confused or angry or lost.  They are all in their eighties, although I know plenty of people that age or older who are fine.  I am troubled by the changes or even loss of personality in these people who have become so dear to me over the almost 11 years that I have known them.

There is one woman who is so afraid of what her memory loss means that she has pushed everyone in her family away.  She needs to be in control of everything – to the point that she wouldn't let them take her out to lunch on Mother’s Day but insisted that she follow her routine and have a sandwich at the kitchen table while they weren't allowed to vacuum or do anything that might make her home cleaner or more livable. 

There is another woman who is always delighted to have me visit, but is unable to carry on a conversation beyond expressing her delight that I am there.  We've had numerous fascinating talks over the years about the development of the local area in her lifetime and I had hoped to someday film or record her telling them, but she is no longer able to string coherent thoughts together, much less share them in any meaningful way.

Then there’s the sweetest gentleman who is also happy to see me, but wonders what method of transportation I took to get to him – train, bus, or plane – as he’s convinced he’s in his summer cabin three states away.

There are others in my congregation who are also struggling with memory issues; these are just three examples of people who once were vibrant and productive in the church, in their workplaces, in their family lives, who now are bare shadows of who they once were.  It really makes me wonder what it is that makes us who we are, what makes us us?  

We have lots of conversations in the church about the soul: who has one, who owns it, what happens to it when we die.  But I am wondering what happens to it while we’re alive.  If we are no longer able to remember who we are, are we ourselves?

This question has been raised in several ways, one of the most compelling of which was in the short-lived television show “Dollhouse.”  The crux of the philosophical debate in that fictional context was in the technological ability to strip an individual’s personality and save it to a hard drive, then download other personalities into the brain pan for corporate gain.  People in the show who've been “wiped” do have a vestigial personality, but it is simple and malleable.  One of the taglines for the show was “you can wipe away a memory, but can you wipe away a soul?”

Boyd (Harry Lennix) is Echo's (Eliza Dushku) handler, while

Topher (Fran Kranz) is the brilliant mind who makes stripping

hers possible. (Photo credit: IMDb)

What exactly is the soul?  If it is the essence of what makes us who we are, is what we remember important?  I first pondered this about 10 years ago as I watched the documentary “Complaints of a Dutiful Daughter.”  That Oscar-nominated film by Deborah Hoffman shows her struggle with the loss of relationship with her mother, Doris.  Not because she and her mother have had a falling out, but because Alzheimer’s takes Doris’s memory away.  She no longer recognizes Deborah, and even though Doris is mostly happy in her minimized condition, Deborah is – understandably – not.

I have no answer for these questions, only sadness.  As I watch person after person that I know become something not less but definitely other than what he or she has been to me, I wonder whether a long life without the connections that make that life meaningful is worth living.  Do I wish to exist beyond my ability to remember those I love and the experiences that have given my life purpose and direction?  All I know is that I will continue to love these people as they are now, as well as how they have been, in hopes that it is enough.

Cloning and Musings on the Question of Creation

I love the television show "Orphan Black."  I think it's a great deal of fun.  I love watching Tatiana Maslany playing Sarah and Alison and Cosima and Helena and so on.  I really love watching Tatiana Maslany playing Sarah pretending to be Alison or Cosima - or that time when she played Helena pretending to be Sarah pretending to be Beth - or last week's episode where Sarah was fending off an attack by Daniel but then he's killed and the stark utter terror in her face when a knife-carrying bloody Helena (who is, remember, also played by Tatiana Maslany) comes in and hugs her - it's crazy fun.

Sarah (Tatiana Maslany) confers with her best friend and

foster brother Felix (Jordan Gavaris) who also happens

to be one of my favorite characters on the show

(photo courtesy of Entertainment Weekly)

I'm not quite so crazy about the role the church plays in the storyline though.  The twins Sarah and Helena were given away by the woman who carried them in her womb, one to the church and one to the state.  Both symbols of authority are presented pretty badly in the tale, but I think the church gets the worse end of the deal.  I don't know how this woman selected the religious organization to which she gave baby Helena, but she couldn't have chosen more poorly.  The "church" leaders who raise the baby clone into adulthood see her existence as a slight against God and abuse her beyond belief.

However, even in the midst of the loudly stated blasphemy of her very presence, it seems pretty clear to me that Helena is a human being.  A crazy one.  But who wouldn't be if s/he were kept in an animal cage, beaten, brainwashed, and told that s/he had no value.  It is no wonder that she is a self-hating and "sister"-murdering creature.

In light of that very obvious point, it is hard to understand the number of characters who loathe her simply on principle.  It is as though they cannot see what is literally in front of their eyes.  That is that a human clone would first be a human being.  Notwithstanding how the gestation process began, whether initiated by science or sex, I fail to see how a person is not created by God simply because the process by which he or she began life was different.

Clones have identical copies of DNA.  

(photo courtesy of Professor Alfred Cuschieri, 

"Fertilization and the First Week of Life")

I do understand that as people we change or mutate or evolve through the process of fertilization and that cloning does not use a sperm and an egg but rather is life recreated from a single donor.  I can even understand that cloning may be problematic for a wide variety of ethical reasons. But the argument that "only God can create life" is a specious one.  Yes, only God can create life.  However, is not God creating the life that begins in a petri dish, goes through the process of artificial insemination, and is then born of a mother who carried that child to term?  How would a clone by definition be any less inspirited by God than any other type of life?  However the miracle of life begins it is no less a miracle.

"Frozen" and the Power of Sacrificial Love

I always struggle with the sacrificial part of Lent.  As I've mentioned in a prior post, sacrifice is not big on the Protestant roster of Lenten activity.  We don't give up anything as a group, not even meat on Friday, which is pretty standard for my Roman Catholic friends and colleagues.  I could joke that some of us give up going to church on Sundays until Easter comes, but that might hit a little too close to the bone.  So imagine my surprise when the biggest example of sacrificial love I've seen this season showed up in Disney's latest film "Frozen."

This movie was not at all what I was expecting it to be.  I had viewed clips from the movie.  I had watched the  character Elsa transform during showstopping song "Let It Go," and watched the Academy Award show where John Travolta mangled Idina Menzel's name as he introduced her singing the nominated song shortly before it won the Oscar.  I thought the movie was about Elsa becoming this strong independent woman, with no idea that she wasn't even the main character.

No, the primary protagonist is her little sister, Anna - a young girl that Elsa unwittingly injures when they both are young and then shuts out of her life and her heart after that.  Thus Anna grows up longing for love and willing to look anywhere for it.  Through a series of unfortunate events, Elsa once again harms Anna, this time perhaps unto death, as her heart is pierced by the frost that her sister spews from her hands like Spiderman's webs.

Anna is told that only an "act of true love" can cure her heart, and at once goes in search of True Love's Kiss as the remedy to her ill.  In the middle of a blinding snowstorm, the two sisters, a good-hearted ice purveyor, and an evil prince are searching for each other, and when the prince attempts to kills Elsa with his sword, Anna runs from True Love's Kiss as it's being offered by the iceman and sacrificially throws herself in front of her sister, saving Elsa's life, and also her own, in the Act of True Love necessary to heal her.

Photo Courtesy of Disney

I've been reading "Bread and Wine" this Lenten season, writings by various authors and theologians on the aspects of Lent, and just finished the section on "Invitation."  Invitation, according to this particular devotional, is all about sacrificing oneself - one's heart, mind, soul, self - to God's glory.  An idea that I am on board with in theory, but it turns out am less so in practice.  Kierkegaard, in one of the more palatable essays, differentiates between Christ's Admirers and His Followers.  "The admirer never makes any true sacrifices.  He always plays it safe," Kierkegaard admonishes, whereas the follower fulfills "Christ's requirement to die to the world and deny self."

Thomas a Kempis is even harder to take: "When you get to the point where for Christ's sake suffering becomes sweet, consider yourself fortunate, for you have found paradise on earth...(r)ealize that to know Christ you must lead a dying life.  The more you die to yourself, the more you will live unto God."

This just seems to be the opposite of the Protestant work ethic and good old American self-determination.  Everything in me balks at the need to suffer in order to love God, much less that my willingness to suffer determines how much I actually do.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer clarifies in stating, "Self-denial can never be defined as some profusion - be it ever so great - of individual acts of self-torment or of asceticism...(s)elf-denial means knowing only Christ, and no longer oneself. It means seeing only Christ, who goes ahead of us, and no longer the path that is too difficult for us.  Again, self-denial is saying only: He goes ahead of us; hold fast to Him."

How interesting it is to me that the most powerful example that I've connected with in this Lenten season is in the story of an animated character's sacrificial love for another animated character.  Anna, who is willing to give up her own life to save that of her sister - a sister who has not (at least overtly) shown the least bit of love in return.  Yet Anna emulates the Christ, giving up everything in order that Elsa might live.  Unknowingly, unwittingly, instinctively, she holds fast to love - and I would argue, thus to Christ.  That may be a story I can get behind.

Give It Up!

Protestants are not big on Ash Wednesday. Or at least, the Presbyterian tradition in which I was raised and now serve, has never done a whole lot with it.  Long Island, where I currently reside, is predominantly Roman Catholic and thus the religious rituals observed on this day in the liturgical calendar are variously embraced, maligned, or ignored by other local Christian congregations.  The latter is the most common within my own community, although my Presbyterian colleagues express any range of responses from theirs.

So while many in ministry work on this day, it is, like any Wednesday in the calendar year, a Sabbath day for me.  I decided many years ago to take Wednesdays as my holy day.  My day of rest.  And so here I am, at home, not "working," pondering what I'm going to give up this year.

Protestants are also not big on giving things up for Lent.  That whole sacrificial ethos is not one that we particularly care for.  A people of the empty cross, we'd rather celebrate the resurrection than go through the death, much less acknowledge pain/suffering/sacrifice or choose to go through any of our own accord.  The Good Friday service is one of the most beautiful and meaningful that we hold at Sweet Hollow, but also the least well-attended - some years we've barely made it into double digits not including the choir.

So giving up something.  Should it be something physical, tangible like sugar or meat?  Should it be a behavior like slothfulness?  Or should be an attitude like anger or fear?  Those things would all be choices that would be "good" for me - leading me to eat more healthily, work out more regularly, better manage my emotions, etc.  Perhaps should it be something that I will really miss, something that is truly sacrificial, like reading or playing Candy Crush?

I don't even like to write about these options.  I shudder when I think about putting those two words together: "Give" and "Up."  When I think of giving something up, it makes me anxious, no matter what it is - even if I know that it will have positive benefits.

Yet it's kind of interesting seeing those two words capitalized and separate.  Give and Up.  I DO like Giving things.  I enjoy giving gifts to my daughter, my friends, my parishioners, those in need.  I get a charge out of buying lunch for a colleague, or sending a C.A.R.E. package to Grace or one of her friends who are away at school, or participating in the Souper Bowl Challenge feeding hungry people in Huntington.  And the word "Up" implies God to me - the Presence that we instinctively look upward toward.

Perhaps what I could do for Lent this year is Give my day Up to God.  Every morning.  Start each day intentionally (and perhaps even with words and physical movement) giving it up to God.  It's probably impossible.  I'll probably fail mightily.  But it's an idea my Presbyterian soul could get behind.  One Day at a Time.  I may not even have to take Sundays off from it, like I did when I gave up meat a few years ago!

"You do not belong here. But shame on you for not staying."

I use this title in reference to a blog post by Brian McLaren because I am wrestling this whole idea of leaving and staying that is a big part of the PC(USA) - my own particular denomination - and part of Christianity in general these days.  Perhaps it always has been.

As I understand it, the author of a letter to McLaren (and within that letter a letter to Father Kevin Miller in response to an article of his in Christianity Today) is stating that this is how he feels within the evangelical community - as though they do not want him, but disapprove of his desire to find a broader theology outside of the narrowness of the evangelical faith he grew up in.

I am currently serving on a Response Team that is tasked with listening to an evangelical congregation within my Presbytery that is seeking to leave the PC(USA).  Last night, along with another member of said team, I met with the leadership of that community.  While the Task Force that initiated this move is more firmly entrenched in and articulate about the decision to leave, the Elders, Deacons, and Trustees are certainly aligned with them, although perhaps less capable of arguing their position, which essentially comes down to: "we believe in the Bible and follow it and you (the PC(USA)) don't anymore."

I fundamentally disagree with that position, but that's not the point.  My team is charged with listening to and determining if the leadership and the congregation are with the Task Force in its views, not in providing a corrective to their theological position.  It greatly saddens me that this is where these people are, for they truly do appear to be people of strong faith trying to the best of their ability to live that faith out.  I disagree with it and with them - and their usage of Jesus' commandment to "Love God and neighbor" being interpreted in a way that excludes, a theological conundrum that I find it difficult to wrap my mind around - but I wonder if the PC(USA)'s desire to hold together those in unity who truly do not belong here has not been a poor decision.

I think we as a church have been on the other side of the same coin as evangelical churches who deny the full personhood of those GLBT individuals who have grown up in their churches and then chastise them for leaving.  Are we not doing the same when we tell the evangelical fundamentalists that they are wrong, but they should stay within a denomination that profoundly disagrees with them on this issue?

So it appears I am moving more and more toward acceptance of dissolution with those congregations that are not like-minded: in Yeats' words, "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold."  Perhaps it is time to stop trying to make them.

One White Woman's (Admittedly Relatively Light) Burden

I saw two films last week - one produced by HBO about "The Tuskegee Airmen" was viewed at our monthly Church Brunch and the other was the Oscar-nominated "12 Years a Slave."  While watching both, I was horrified by the treatment of our African-American brothers and sisters throughout American history.  It's not as though I'm unaware.  I've taken history classes.  I read books.  I've had friends tell me about their experiences with racism.  I've seen racism in action.  Seeing it visually is somehow more, I don't know, powerful.  Certainly worse.  Or better, if you're looking for impact.

I've also been reading James McBride's "Good Lord Bird" and he has a character (Harriet Tubman perhaps?) state something about a slave isn't just a slave, but so are his/her ancestors and his/her descendants.  He said it much more eloquently than I, and I wish I still had the book so I could use a direct quote, but essentially the idea that I've been wrestling with is our history remains with us today.

Don't get me wrong: I KNOW we don't live in "post-racial" America.  I KNOW that white privilege still exists, that people of color are perceived and treated differently, and have different challenges than I have had as a white woman, even as my gender has informed and affected my experience.

What I want to know is how is it that I, perhaps unwittingly or unconsciously, treat people of other races/ages/creeds/sexual orientations/abilities in a way that is Other and then, by definition, Less Than.  Where are my blind spots?  How can I more fully treat all people with love and compassion and kindness - and how can I more fully forgive myself and try again when I fail?

Science Guy vs. Creationist Dude

I just don't get the hubbub around the debate between Bill Nye and Ken Ham.  Or the argument that science and theology are mutually exclusive ventures.  Don't both only expand our understanding that the Universe and God are unknowable?  It seems to me that the more we "know" in either area, only points up the more we don't know.  The mystery that is Life, the Universe, and Everything; the mystery that is God.

The Creationist argument was debunked by Christian theologian Augustine of Hippo in the early 5th century. I mean, really.  Why are we still even having this discussion?  

As St. Augustine wrote, way back when: God is not what you imagine or what you think you understand.  If you "understand" you have failed. (quotations mine)

Bill Nye and Ken Ham debate (if you care): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6kgvhG3AkI

What to do? What to do...

I've been captured by the concept of "Uncertainty" lately.

I've been reading a lot: Anthony Marra's "A Constellation of Vital Phenomena," S.J. Gazan's "The Dinosaur Feather," John Dickerson's "On Her Trail," and Rob Bell's "What we Talk About When We Talk About God."  A novel about individuals in Chechnya caught up in the aftermath of the dissolution of the Russian government, a Danish mystery that also deeply engages scientific inquiry, a memoir that wrestles with finding the person within the flawed parent, and a book that questions God's relevance and even identity in our current cultural context. In a variety of ways, each of these addresses that concept: the idea that all is not necessarily what it seems, that a certain action does not always bring about the expected reaction, that Mystery is as much a part of Life as anything else.

Additionally, I spent last week at the Association of Presbyterian Christian Educators (APCE) conference, and was fed by wonderful speakers, preachers, and leaders.  I came back with my brain burbling with ideas and excitement and enthusiasm for ministry and education.  While ideas are good, and excitement and enthusiasm even better, I'm also aware that everything I bring to the table as we continue our journeys of faith in my church community may be received with joy or skepticism.  That the work we do together may succeed or fail - to some degree perhaps it is inevitable that it will do both.  That nothing is absolute, as much as I wish it could be or think it ought to be.

So the current question for me is: What do I do these musings?  In a world where the longing for Answers with a capital "A" is so strong, where the hope of direction that leads to positive response is so deep, how do we learn to live in the Mystery?  How do we accept that there is more that we don't know and will never know than there is that we do or will?  How do we live in the gray area that is Life not just without complaint but with acceptance and even joy?

More to come...

Takoma Park Presbyterian Church

I was blessed in the morning to worship with the folks at the Takoma Park Presbyterian Church, where my former colleague Rev. Mark Greiner is now the pastor. It was a wonderful morning of worship and song and a delight to be a congregant and not a worship leader. (Much as I enjoy being in the pulpit, simply participating as part of the community of faith is a welcome change every once in a while.)

I'm pleased to report that Mark (and his wife, Kolya and daughter, Sophia) seem to have found a home both at the church and in the community. After worship (which had a marvelous "coffee hour" sponsored by an Asian-American member of the church who had made Indian flat bread and chick pea salad with mint chutney), we went to the local farmers' market for fresh veggies and cheeses and fruit. Our lunch was delicious and the time together afterwards even better. Kolya (and Sophia) treated me to a mini-concert on the, oh, gee, what's it called, all I can think of is Zither and I know that's not right. Anyway, it was delightful and wondrous to see them all settled so beautifully in a place that seems just right for them.

On the Road Again

The next morning after having breakfast with Carie, I was off again. Here we are right before I get in the car. As you can see, Carie's ready to have this baby! (Although her due date is August 22nd, so she's still got a ways to go.)

The road was pretty easy until I got to Jersey Shore traffic; then it slowed down considerably. I still managed to get to Bethesda in pretty good time and had a wonderful evening with Nina, Christophe and their two boys. Christophe cooked which is always a delight - and I requested ratatouille, that wonderful French specialty for Sunday night, which he had (coincidentally?! :) just bought all the ingredients for.

Carie and Co.

My first stop was to see Rev. Carie and her husband, Jeff, and their two cats. Carie is about to have their first child and Jeff took some pictures of the two of us together which I've been waiting for him to email me, so that I could attach them to this post, but they've not arrived, so I decided to move ahead and write anyway.

The trip to NJ was long - I was fine across the Island and fine in NJ, but getting across Manhattan was a horror show. That's the tough thing about driving anywhere off the Island: you just never can tell about the traffic. When, where, or how it might be bad. I took my tried and true faster pathway along the Harlem River Drive and it took me an hour to go five miles. Ah, well...

Once I arrived, it was really good to see Carie. She's suffered a really difficult pregnancy, so prayers are most definitely in order to get her through the rest of it with a safe and healthy delivery. I was, however, pleased to see her happy in her home life and ready to be a mom. If/when I get the photos, I'll post even though it may not work with what's going on writing-wise :)...

Next Stop - Washington, D.C.

Well, I'm on the road again, this time locally. I'm actually stopping first in New Jersey this evening to visit a clergy colleague (who's pregnant, yippee!), spending the night with her and her husband, then heading to the D.C. area on Saturday morning. There I'll visit friends, former colleagues and former parishioners as well as get in a little sightseeing, perhaps, and maybe a movie. (I confess the guilty pleasure of "Hellboy 2" is calling me. I'll let you know what I think. :)

Church & Synagogue - Not

We were then taken to see the church built over where Joseph, Mary and Jesus supposedly lived while in Egypt followed by a local synagogue as well, but neither house of worship would let us take pictures. What I found far more interesting on this our last day was the plethora of satellite dishes atop even the poorest looking homes. You might also note the metal rods poking out of the top of all the buildings. We were told that if you are doing renovations or new building on your property, you are exempt from property taxes, so many, many, many homes, houses, buildings are intentionally left unfinished. Also these dishes that beam hundreds of channels from around the world cost only ~$80 U.S. A one time fee with no continuing cost like we have in America. The upside is that a broader worldview is entering Egyptian (and indeed Middle Eastern) homes on a daily basis, even those who are poorer and do not have access to quality education have t.v. The downside, I was told, is that over 300 of these channels are pornographic, thus giving the impression that Western society is decadent and corrupt. There is no understanding that we in the West do not have these channels on our television sets, nor do we watch them or allow our children to watch them. Their system is "pay once and get it all - good and bad". Ours is "pay monthly and only get what you pay for". But they don't know that...