December 26, 2008, on the way for a family post-Christmas day gathering, Phil and Louie (Louise) Baldwin Rieman hit a patch of ice, spun out and were hit by a tow truck, killing them instantly.
Phil and Louie were a married pastoral team, Sudan peacemaking missionaries, loving advocates for glbt persons and those who are marginalized by the church.....and two individuals who brought God's shalom to countless numbers. The Church of the Brethren has been struck by a stunned stand still as the word spreads quickly via phone, facebook, email, embraces and silent meditation of their deaths.
I have a memory. They were about 20 years older than me, and when I was a freshman in high school, my mother felt strongly that the youth of our church should have some solid (progressive) sex education from a religious perspective. She invited Phil and Louie to our church for a weekend long youth "lock in". We talked about everything that weekend, all centered on the love Christ calls us to. Because most of us had grown up together from infancy, there was a great deal of comfortableness in the conversation....a lot of humor during the embarrassing moments....but it was a deeply safe place to learn about our bodies, desire, responsible sexuality, realities of irresponsible sexuality....loving ourselves and others. I know that my own sexual health stems from this bold and open discussion.
While the talk about sex and stuff was interesting, eye opening, great fun, and serious business.....one thing that I've always taken from that weekend was the desire to be like Phil and Louie. I wanted to be wise, and open, and able to talk about uncomfortable subjects in comfortable ways. I wanted to be able to infuse wisdom and reflection into ordinary everyday conversations.
Phil and Louie went to the Sudan several times. It was their great ministerial love. I recall one story Phil and Louie shared about civil war in Sudan, where the women of both sides grouped together, refused sex to their husbands if the fighting continued. They were tired of their husbands dying, their sons dying, their brothers dying....and they used the only power they had. Phil and Louie brokered peace talks, they taught peace in war torn villages in a way that was not theory but reality.....
They made a difference. They will not be remembered just as nice people. There will be thousands of stories told of the impact that can be made by faithful individuals who take living the life that Christ teaches to live seriously, lovingly, compassionately, invitingly and without fail. If the Church of the Brethren had saints, Phil and Louie would be sainted. But we don't. Instead, all of us who have been shaped by their witness must let that impact grow....that the kindom of God may be felt by many more.
God bless Phil and Louie Baldwin Rieman. Amen.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Santa Clause
If there is anything I collect, it is pottery, local restaurant knowledge, and santas. I don't have many santas, but I have a nice row on a high decorative window in our living room. I've decided that I can only have as many santas as can fit on that window ledge.
I just read an article about a man who is on a mission to save Christmas, and redeem the story of Saint Nicholas, aka Santa Claus. His concern is that Santa Claus has replaced the creche, the red suit has replaced the manger.
Saint Nicholas was a compassionate bishop, who loved the poor and cared for those with needs beyond their own ability to meet them.
Santa Claus is about presents, more presents, many many many present to everyone whether they need them or not. In fact, the quality of one's Christmas is often summed up in how many presents one received, or how much money was spent.
But I want to go back to the dear man's concern that the religious meaning of Christmas will be lost, so something needs to be redeemed. Its an interesting fear that is driving him....he from the large Anglican Church. From my rather smallish viewpoint of the Church of the Brethren I ask: why the fear? The Church of the Brethren has instilled in me that I am to be in community with others. That does not mean the community of faith that I choose.....those comfortable if not quirky folks who sing like me, and share a common heritage. It is this, actually...but also a community beyond our choosing, when need raises its presence and I have the ability to act. I am connected to my brothers and sisters....those who worship as I do, and those who I do not know.
How "Christmas" be lost if there is but one person acting with love for another? How can Christmas be "lost" if one enemy deigns to love another enemy? And how can Christmas be lost as long as there is the Divine Source of Life, infusing the world. As my mentor and friend likes to say (or at least something like this): it is the height of arrogance to believe that humans can thwart the will of God.
Just because the majority do what they will with a holiday and the name of a good man who once was (Jesus? Santa?), does not mean that I....or any individual.... needs to bend their direction.....fearing to stand alone in the sight of what is loving and just.
Santa, Saint Nicholas, whatever.......
In hope,
amysgr
I just read an article about a man who is on a mission to save Christmas, and redeem the story of Saint Nicholas, aka Santa Claus. His concern is that Santa Claus has replaced the creche, the red suit has replaced the manger.
Saint Nicholas was a compassionate bishop, who loved the poor and cared for those with needs beyond their own ability to meet them.
Santa Claus is about presents, more presents, many many many present to everyone whether they need them or not. In fact, the quality of one's Christmas is often summed up in how many presents one received, or how much money was spent.
But I want to go back to the dear man's concern that the religious meaning of Christmas will be lost, so something needs to be redeemed. Its an interesting fear that is driving him....he from the large Anglican Church. From my rather smallish viewpoint of the Church of the Brethren I ask: why the fear? The Church of the Brethren has instilled in me that I am to be in community with others. That does not mean the community of faith that I choose.....those comfortable if not quirky folks who sing like me, and share a common heritage. It is this, actually...but also a community beyond our choosing, when need raises its presence and I have the ability to act. I am connected to my brothers and sisters....those who worship as I do, and those who I do not know.
How "Christmas" be lost if there is but one person acting with love for another? How can Christmas be "lost" if one enemy deigns to love another enemy? And how can Christmas be lost as long as there is the Divine Source of Life, infusing the world. As my mentor and friend likes to say (or at least something like this): it is the height of arrogance to believe that humans can thwart the will of God.
Just because the majority do what they will with a holiday and the name of a good man who once was (Jesus? Santa?), does not mean that I....or any individual.... needs to bend their direction.....fearing to stand alone in the sight of what is loving and just.
Santa, Saint Nicholas, whatever.......
In hope,
amysgr
Monday, December 15, 2008
advent for a year
Of late, I've been pondering the religious assumptions of my life. Not my faith assumptions, like the merit of following Jesus, God embodied in the life of Jesus, forgiveness, salvation (although not classically defined) etc. But more, the presumptions of "church" as the standard bearer and paradigm for living. It all started with a listening conversation of a good friend who was planning (is now doing) a ministry placement with the "churched" and "unchurched". "What do you suppose the 'unchurched' call themselves?" I asked......and have not stopped thinking about this.
I am one who is 4th generation Church of the Brethren, and have always known church as the present paradigm for my living. I'm ok with that. I have been one of the few lucky ones to have been brought up in loving, caring, thoughtful church families. My faith and religion is pretty solid, and has created me to be a good neighbor and a woman of open faith. Blessed be all of those churches that nurtured me.
But I find myself thinking about what it would be like to live without the presumption of church and church language. How does one express pure joy, transcendence, selflessness, community giving....without the words of the church? I'm certainly not saying that it can't be done. On the contrary! I want to know how to do it! I want to know what it is like to experience what I call God, without naming it so.
Our online hometown paper has a number silly and embarrassing chat threads going. Oh, how the pontificating just makes everyone look a little stupid. There was a thread about what good does christianity do. There was also the converse thread of what harm does christianity do. In neither case was my form of christianity cited. It was all about heaven/hell/judgement/narrowmindedness.
But, out of that blathering thread of inane thought, I've started thinking about what is the difference between the Kiwanis and the church? (I'm not picking on the Kiwanis. Rotarians and Ruritans fit as well).
Both are organizations that meet weekly, have words that express belief, some fun and fellowship, and they do good. I would say that probably most Kiwanians go to church somewhere.
I don't have the answer to the differences, and I think that this is ok. Perhaps we are not so different. And I don't think its important that we can name our differences.
This past Sunday, though, I had an experience that put an underline to my sense of church participation. I was in Sunday School, which is led by a Christian Education scholar, and attended by Old Testament and church history scholars.....I have an Mdiv and work in a seminary, so God talk is a daily thing for me. I don't go to church for God education, even though I geek out a bit on the scholarship of these people, they were all my teachers and the taught me well. Nothing they present deepens my faith. it deepens my knowledge, but not my faith.
Well, anyway, we are in a series talking about lives of purpose. Elizabeth was this week. A woman from the church....an incredible woman of many years of leadership....was invited to share about her life of purpose. I know much of her call and even more of her leadership so I assumed that I would be hearing a well told but well known story.
She surprised me with a circuitous route from death (she is in her mid 70s and hopefully a long way from death) and the limits of our days.....back to how she wakes every morning to a renewed sense of call. Not CALL, as in The Call. But call. Purpose. Reason to believe that she has been granted another day for some good she can do.
Now, that was a powerful witness to me. But mostly because I kept thinking, "Where else will we hear these stories? Where does the world gather to speak of purpose? Where do those who do not attend church get to talk about living lives out of an ethic of love?" Later, in worship, we had a powerful Advent service of Lessons in Song. Choirs, children, brass, scripture text, silence, prayers of the people.....it was magnificent. No TV production could have touched the truth of love and the highlighting of waiting and watching for something great to arrive. And again, I thought, this is why I attend church. I love the people. I love the message. And where else do we get to talk and sing about hope with the expectations of its arrival?
There will be more on this, as I step away from the church in slight ways this coming year. Not a disinvestment or weakening of my commitment do I plan. But rather, a broadening of my experience. I don't need to prove that going to church is best. I am not out to prove anything for anyone. I am out to seek the holy in its many forms, and to experience my belief that "God" is in all things.
It will be advent all year for me. For I know the end point. It is what will happen between now and then that I long to discover.
Peace be,
Amysgr
I am one who is 4th generation Church of the Brethren, and have always known church as the present paradigm for my living. I'm ok with that. I have been one of the few lucky ones to have been brought up in loving, caring, thoughtful church families. My faith and religion is pretty solid, and has created me to be a good neighbor and a woman of open faith. Blessed be all of those churches that nurtured me.
But I find myself thinking about what it would be like to live without the presumption of church and church language. How does one express pure joy, transcendence, selflessness, community giving....without the words of the church? I'm certainly not saying that it can't be done. On the contrary! I want to know how to do it! I want to know what it is like to experience what I call God, without naming it so.
Our online hometown paper has a number silly and embarrassing chat threads going. Oh, how the pontificating just makes everyone look a little stupid. There was a thread about what good does christianity do. There was also the converse thread of what harm does christianity do. In neither case was my form of christianity cited. It was all about heaven/hell/judgement/narrowmindedness.
But, out of that blathering thread of inane thought, I've started thinking about what is the difference between the Kiwanis and the church? (I'm not picking on the Kiwanis. Rotarians and Ruritans fit as well).
Both are organizations that meet weekly, have words that express belief, some fun and fellowship, and they do good. I would say that probably most Kiwanians go to church somewhere.
I don't have the answer to the differences, and I think that this is ok. Perhaps we are not so different. And I don't think its important that we can name our differences.
This past Sunday, though, I had an experience that put an underline to my sense of church participation. I was in Sunday School, which is led by a Christian Education scholar, and attended by Old Testament and church history scholars.....I have an Mdiv and work in a seminary, so God talk is a daily thing for me. I don't go to church for God education, even though I geek out a bit on the scholarship of these people, they were all my teachers and the taught me well. Nothing they present deepens my faith. it deepens my knowledge, but not my faith.
Well, anyway, we are in a series talking about lives of purpose. Elizabeth was this week. A woman from the church....an incredible woman of many years of leadership....was invited to share about her life of purpose. I know much of her call and even more of her leadership so I assumed that I would be hearing a well told but well known story.
She surprised me with a circuitous route from death (she is in her mid 70s and hopefully a long way from death) and the limits of our days.....back to how she wakes every morning to a renewed sense of call. Not CALL, as in The Call. But call. Purpose. Reason to believe that she has been granted another day for some good she can do.
Now, that was a powerful witness to me. But mostly because I kept thinking, "Where else will we hear these stories? Where does the world gather to speak of purpose? Where do those who do not attend church get to talk about living lives out of an ethic of love?" Later, in worship, we had a powerful Advent service of Lessons in Song. Choirs, children, brass, scripture text, silence, prayers of the people.....it was magnificent. No TV production could have touched the truth of love and the highlighting of waiting and watching for something great to arrive. And again, I thought, this is why I attend church. I love the people. I love the message. And where else do we get to talk and sing about hope with the expectations of its arrival?
There will be more on this, as I step away from the church in slight ways this coming year. Not a disinvestment or weakening of my commitment do I plan. But rather, a broadening of my experience. I don't need to prove that going to church is best. I am not out to prove anything for anyone. I am out to seek the holy in its many forms, and to experience my belief that "God" is in all things.
It will be advent all year for me. For I know the end point. It is what will happen between now and then that I long to discover.
Peace be,
Amysgr
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Voter Fraud
Kurt left this morning for a 5 day trip to his home place in Virginia. 5:00am was a late start for him, and an early start for me. I got up and went to our 24 hour grocery store (Kurt fears I'll force the boys to subsist on poptarts, fruit loops and frozen pizza while he is gone....the "boys" are 14 & 17 mind you) to stock up on fresh fruit and veggies, and other delectable foods that require cooking/baking/something more than microwaving.
Upon return, I settled into the kitchen to make a Hollandaise Sauce for the Eggs Benedict I was making for breakfast (see!), and to put away the groceries. Then, nestled by the computer with soy-chai-latte in hand, I surfed Huffingtonpost.com.
There was a blog (which I am now blogging about) on voter fraud being a very real obstacle to an Obama win (Obama 08!!). And the early lovely start of my day became sober (really, it was only soy in the chai).
For a number of years, I served as a elector in the polling location in Constantine Michigan. Those were the days of paper ballots. We were highly trained for this truly detail oriented, and incredibly important work. We met all requirements for equal representation of Dems/Reps, we counted things umpteen times, we were very serious. Because it IS serious. A vote is a privilege. It is a treasure to use or not use, as you see fit. Not voting is a vote about voting. It is all part of our democratic republic we belong to. "A profound statement about democracy."....as Jed Bartlett of West Wing would say (Ok, he said it about going in person to file his candidacy, but I think he would agree with me.). Paper ballots were counted by machine, and at the end of the night, if something didn't add up, we took those paper ballots and counted them until we had 2 Or 3 consistent counts. We had the paper ballot in our hands for verification. Paper Ballots rule.
I voted early this year, with the use of an electronic ballot. It was simple, and at the end I returned to the beginning to make sure that my vote for Obama still had a check. But, once I hit "submit" I have no idea what the machine did with my vote. In North Carolina, the machines do not include the presidential vote if a person votes a straight ticket. In West Virginia, the machines flip an Obama vote into a McCain vote.
I saw this last one on a Homer Simpson cartoon. It shocked me then as a possibility (although Homer is truly funny) but it scared the living daylights out of me when it was reported as fact through early voting taking place in West Virginia.
The world needs to send Election Observers to North Carolina and West Virginia. They need to check the credentials of every person on the street claiming to be a democrat volunteer offering to hand deliver absentee ballots, only to truly be a republican volunteer dumping the ballots (my God, its true in Florida!).
I want to believe that the United States is above all of this. I do.
But we are not.
We are scoundrels who watch Jerry Springer and think this is life.
We are news whores who believe everything.....left or right....that is printed.
We are ignoramouses (did I spell that right?) who think vernacular talkin' pretty girls who have been mayor of a town smaller than Three Rivers Michigan can be the VP. (Tom Lowry was a fine, fine mayor, but Tom....would your experience as Mayor of Three Rivers qualify you to be the VP? Perhaps the running of your fabulous bookstore "Lowry's" might!)
All of this is to say that we need to grow up and accept the fact that we are easily swayed by what we want to be swayed by. Admit that we read the news outlets of our choosing, and choose their biases as well (i.e. Huffingtonpost.com). Step up and say that no politician will save any of us, bring in the kingdom, or create a decent place for us to live.....we have to do that ourselves. It is a democracy.
Finally, the bottom line. Love God with all your heart, soul and mind, and love your neighbor/enemy (ok, I'm mixing scripture texts here) as yourself.
Love God.
Love neighbor.
Love enemy
Love yourself.
I do not rely on any presidential candidate/winner to prescribe my embodied faith. I do not rely on any preacher to tell me how to live my faith. I do not rely solely on the bible as my guide, as the divine continues to illuminate the pens of women and men, poets and prophets....thus affirming the biblical teachings, and unfolding greater poetic understanding. My mind is a gift (limited, a bit...ok) and my heart is beating deeply and steadily. My love that is active, not sentimental, is true as I can make it, and I long for a corner of the kindom to break forth in the world I inhabit.
Thats my vote.
amysgr
Upon return, I settled into the kitchen to make a Hollandaise Sauce for the Eggs Benedict I was making for breakfast (see!), and to put away the groceries. Then, nestled by the computer with soy-chai-latte in hand, I surfed Huffingtonpost.com.
There was a blog (which I am now blogging about) on voter fraud being a very real obstacle to an Obama win (Obama 08!!). And the early lovely start of my day became sober (really, it was only soy in the chai).
For a number of years, I served as a elector in the polling location in Constantine Michigan. Those were the days of paper ballots. We were highly trained for this truly detail oriented, and incredibly important work. We met all requirements for equal representation of Dems/Reps, we counted things umpteen times, we were very serious. Because it IS serious. A vote is a privilege. It is a treasure to use or not use, as you see fit. Not voting is a vote about voting. It is all part of our democratic republic we belong to. "A profound statement about democracy."....as Jed Bartlett of West Wing would say (Ok, he said it about going in person to file his candidacy, but I think he would agree with me.). Paper ballots were counted by machine, and at the end of the night, if something didn't add up, we took those paper ballots and counted them until we had 2 Or 3 consistent counts. We had the paper ballot in our hands for verification. Paper Ballots rule.
I voted early this year, with the use of an electronic ballot. It was simple, and at the end I returned to the beginning to make sure that my vote for Obama still had a check. But, once I hit "submit" I have no idea what the machine did with my vote. In North Carolina, the machines do not include the presidential vote if a person votes a straight ticket. In West Virginia, the machines flip an Obama vote into a McCain vote.
I saw this last one on a Homer Simpson cartoon. It shocked me then as a possibility (although Homer is truly funny) but it scared the living daylights out of me when it was reported as fact through early voting taking place in West Virginia.
The world needs to send Election Observers to North Carolina and West Virginia. They need to check the credentials of every person on the street claiming to be a democrat volunteer offering to hand deliver absentee ballots, only to truly be a republican volunteer dumping the ballots (my God, its true in Florida!).
I want to believe that the United States is above all of this. I do.
But we are not.
We are scoundrels who watch Jerry Springer and think this is life.
We are news whores who believe everything.....left or right....that is printed.
We are ignoramouses (did I spell that right?) who think vernacular talkin' pretty girls who have been mayor of a town smaller than Three Rivers Michigan can be the VP. (Tom Lowry was a fine, fine mayor, but Tom....would your experience as Mayor of Three Rivers qualify you to be the VP? Perhaps the running of your fabulous bookstore "Lowry's" might!)
All of this is to say that we need to grow up and accept the fact that we are easily swayed by what we want to be swayed by. Admit that we read the news outlets of our choosing, and choose their biases as well (i.e. Huffingtonpost.com). Step up and say that no politician will save any of us, bring in the kingdom, or create a decent place for us to live.....we have to do that ourselves. It is a democracy.
Finally, the bottom line. Love God with all your heart, soul and mind, and love your neighbor/enemy (ok, I'm mixing scripture texts here) as yourself.
Love God.
Love neighbor.
Love enemy
Love yourself.
I do not rely on any presidential candidate/winner to prescribe my embodied faith. I do not rely on any preacher to tell me how to live my faith. I do not rely solely on the bible as my guide, as the divine continues to illuminate the pens of women and men, poets and prophets....thus affirming the biblical teachings, and unfolding greater poetic understanding. My mind is a gift (limited, a bit...ok) and my heart is beating deeply and steadily. My love that is active, not sentimental, is true as I can make it, and I long for a corner of the kindom to break forth in the world I inhabit.
Thats my vote.
amysgr
Monday, June 23, 2008
Bike commuting
I am surrounded by inspiring people. In our church, we discuss sustainable living as part of our faithful living. There are many who ride their bikes to church, including my husband and my oldest son.
We are part of a supper coop, a collection of 3 families who eat together twice a week to share meal resources as well as to foster relationships and interpersonal connections....and one of our members is a bike enthusiast. He rides nearly everywhere. My admiration for him is immense and am frequently listening to him as one would a guru. He knows what he is talking about when it comes to bike as primary vehicle. I want to learn.
I want to commute to work. I dearly want to be a bike commuter. But, I am 44, overweight by a significant amount and out of shape. The bike I bought 2 years ago, while a great bike, is the wrong one. It is made for pleasure riding. It is not made for a middle age woman to commute to work on.
So, I'm making changes to make the commute to work by bike possible. I joined Curves, so that I can get in shape. I don't mind being the plump middle age woman I am, but I want my heart to be able to pump blood without exploding, and I want my leg muscles able to pedal me uphill and through town. That was a great move and I can already feel the benefits of a good cardio/resistance program.
What I haven't figure out yet, is how to show up at work without looking like I commuted by bike! Helmet hair! Sweaty and red faced! Oy!
So, I guess this is my public confession, hoping that i will be more accountable with these thoughts outside of my head rather than inside my head. I don't think I have to be a bike commuter overnight, so will continue to take the small steps toward this goal until I reach it.
amysgr
We are part of a supper coop, a collection of 3 families who eat together twice a week to share meal resources as well as to foster relationships and interpersonal connections....and one of our members is a bike enthusiast. He rides nearly everywhere. My admiration for him is immense and am frequently listening to him as one would a guru. He knows what he is talking about when it comes to bike as primary vehicle. I want to learn.
I want to commute to work. I dearly want to be a bike commuter. But, I am 44, overweight by a significant amount and out of shape. The bike I bought 2 years ago, while a great bike, is the wrong one. It is made for pleasure riding. It is not made for a middle age woman to commute to work on.
So, I'm making changes to make the commute to work by bike possible. I joined Curves, so that I can get in shape. I don't mind being the plump middle age woman I am, but I want my heart to be able to pump blood without exploding, and I want my leg muscles able to pedal me uphill and through town. That was a great move and I can already feel the benefits of a good cardio/resistance program.
What I haven't figure out yet, is how to show up at work without looking like I commuted by bike! Helmet hair! Sweaty and red faced! Oy!
So, I guess this is my public confession, hoping that i will be more accountable with these thoughts outside of my head rather than inside my head. I don't think I have to be a bike commuter overnight, so will continue to take the small steps toward this goal until I reach it.
amysgr
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Church BrewWorks
It began in Pittsburgh, and a question of where to eat. “Amy wants to eat Pittsburgh.” My friend offered to our host. “Interesting image.” Said he. “No, I want to eat food and experience something that can only be experienced in Pittsburgh.” “Which Pittsburgh? Polish Pittsburgh? Italian Pittsburgh? Working class Pittsburgh?” “I want to eat someplace where we can eat, drink and be merry.”
“Oh”, said the host, “I have just the place. The Church BrewWorks.” We climbed into the jeep, which sat at the curb overlooking the Cathedral of Learning and the Heinz Chapel. A good way to start. We drove into neighborhoods that had histories that were shifting and redefining their character. Turning left we entered an old Italian neighborhood, that had bike lanes actually used by bikes and respected by cars, taverns, pedestrians, lights and sights to garner my interest.
We were looking for the former St. Johns Catholic Church. It served the Old neighborhood well, yet when the neighborhood was beset by economic downturn and an exodus of original neighborhood folks, the church dwindled as well. So, it was sold. To a micro brewery. The Church Brew Works.
We pulled into a side lot, looking for parking space. It seems that the restaurant had evangelized their good news well, as there was nearly no parking to be had. As we walked up to the front doors, there was a friendly and welcoming vibe to the place, carried in the dark thick wood and brick of the architecture and on the faces and bodies of eaters going in and out.
Once we entered the outside doorway, we found ourselves in a vestibule. A place for stamping the Pittsburgh winter off one’s shoes, shucking a coat, straightening Sunday finest. We simply walked to the second set of tall, majestic doors. We entered the Sanctuary. Stained glass, raised chancel, wooden pews smoothed by faithful behinds on many a Sunday morning. Instead of ushers and bulletins, we were greeted by a hostess and menus. The wait for main seating in the sanctuary....er.....main dining area would be 20 minutes. But we could wait over in the bar to the side. We slid our own behinds into pew and chair, in a section that had baptized babies. We baptized our delight in discovering that Pennsylvania still allows smoking in restaurants.
Our server came over. She wore the vestments of apron, tightly fitted T, multiple piercings and an engaging smile. She expertly took us through the liturgy of hops and brews, appetizers and main courses, asking us questions in order to be able to highlight the most enjoyable offerings. Her sermon was of flavors, scents, textures and experience. We listened as disciples, so that we would choose well.
I began to become aware, at this point, that I was still only observing my surroundings. As though patron, servers, and food were elements of a divine gourmet play that I was attending. Isn’t that how it often is in church? We wait for chorister, worship leader and preacher to evoke God for us, to create space in our sanctuaries so that we can sit and observe. We listen to the parables and texts and hymn tunes as something we agree with and find pleasing....not often presented with too much challenge.....but let it slip past us through lack of making the experience our own.
So, I in haled deeply of the blue swirling tobacco smoke to my side. I felt the vibration of the clinking glasses of we three, as we raised our brews in a yeasty homage to friendship. I heard my own voice speaking the lesson of the day as we passed between us comments of institutional politics, postmodern sensibilities, scholarship of Riceour, Didera, White and Holland....and yes, even Ritchie.
In a state of sedate fullness, my vision wandered to the raised altar in this micro brewery. Where once was chalice and bread, now stood hops and mash, where once the priest robed and latined his way through transubstantiation, now the brewers did their thing in the altar of the brew house to bring tasty pleasures of Celestial Gold, Pius Monk Dunkel, and Pipe Organ Pale Ale..... to our lips.
As conversation and food gave way to dessert and comfortable silences, we gathered our belongings to take leave. And, just as one often takes home a bulletin from a particularly meaningful worship service, a token of the evening came with us.
Our tithes and offerings were left with the bill and we ushered ourselves out into the night: blessed, connected, and indeed in the presence of the Holy who resides in all places.
Blessed be,
Amysgr
“Oh”, said the host, “I have just the place. The Church BrewWorks.” We climbed into the jeep, which sat at the curb overlooking the Cathedral of Learning and the Heinz Chapel. A good way to start. We drove into neighborhoods that had histories that were shifting and redefining their character. Turning left we entered an old Italian neighborhood, that had bike lanes actually used by bikes and respected by cars, taverns, pedestrians, lights and sights to garner my interest.
We were looking for the former St. Johns Catholic Church. It served the Old neighborhood well, yet when the neighborhood was beset by economic downturn and an exodus of original neighborhood folks, the church dwindled as well. So, it was sold. To a micro brewery. The Church Brew Works.
We pulled into a side lot, looking for parking space. It seems that the restaurant had evangelized their good news well, as there was nearly no parking to be had. As we walked up to the front doors, there was a friendly and welcoming vibe to the place, carried in the dark thick wood and brick of the architecture and on the faces and bodies of eaters going in and out.
Once we entered the outside doorway, we found ourselves in a vestibule. A place for stamping the Pittsburgh winter off one’s shoes, shucking a coat, straightening Sunday finest. We simply walked to the second set of tall, majestic doors. We entered the Sanctuary. Stained glass, raised chancel, wooden pews smoothed by faithful behinds on many a Sunday morning. Instead of ushers and bulletins, we were greeted by a hostess and menus. The wait for main seating in the sanctuary....er.....main dining area would be 20 minutes. But we could wait over in the bar to the side. We slid our own behinds into pew and chair, in a section that had baptized babies. We baptized our delight in discovering that Pennsylvania still allows smoking in restaurants.
Our server came over. She wore the vestments of apron, tightly fitted T, multiple piercings and an engaging smile. She expertly took us through the liturgy of hops and brews, appetizers and main courses, asking us questions in order to be able to highlight the most enjoyable offerings. Her sermon was of flavors, scents, textures and experience. We listened as disciples, so that we would choose well.
I began to become aware, at this point, that I was still only observing my surroundings. As though patron, servers, and food were elements of a divine gourmet play that I was attending. Isn’t that how it often is in church? We wait for chorister, worship leader and preacher to evoke God for us, to create space in our sanctuaries so that we can sit and observe. We listen to the parables and texts and hymn tunes as something we agree with and find pleasing....not often presented with too much challenge.....but let it slip past us through lack of making the experience our own.
So, I in haled deeply of the blue swirling tobacco smoke to my side. I felt the vibration of the clinking glasses of we three, as we raised our brews in a yeasty homage to friendship. I heard my own voice speaking the lesson of the day as we passed between us comments of institutional politics, postmodern sensibilities, scholarship of Riceour, Didera, White and Holland....and yes, even Ritchie.
In a state of sedate fullness, my vision wandered to the raised altar in this micro brewery. Where once was chalice and bread, now stood hops and mash, where once the priest robed and latined his way through transubstantiation, now the brewers did their thing in the altar of the brew house to bring tasty pleasures of Celestial Gold, Pius Monk Dunkel, and Pipe Organ Pale Ale..... to our lips.
As conversation and food gave way to dessert and comfortable silences, we gathered our belongings to take leave. And, just as one often takes home a bulletin from a particularly meaningful worship service, a token of the evening came with us.
Our tithes and offerings were left with the bill and we ushered ourselves out into the night: blessed, connected, and indeed in the presence of the Holy who resides in all places.
Blessed be,
Amysgr
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
dying for another
...my dearly beloved husband Kurt, sat down to watch Motorcycle Diaries.....a story of Ernesto Guevara on his way to becoming 'Che'. It is a deeply moving story of sweet honesty and ardent purpose.
The scene that has stolen my heart and mind this evening, is the one where Ernesto has just been given a birthday party by the staff of a leper colony where he and his friend Alberto have been working for three weeks. He is given the opportunity to say a toast. He uses this opportunity to honor the people of Peru....and makes a political statement about the connection of all people in South America. Reflectively, he walks to the river's edge. This river separates the housing for the staff and those who have leprosy. He decides he wants to celebrate his birthday on the other side, jumps in to swim. It is a dangerous River. No one has crossed it swimming before. He is breathing and making the same noise he makes when he is under a severe asthma attack. The medical personnel are calling for him to come back. The Lepers here the commotion and come to their river's edge to see what is happening. Soon, they figure out that Ernesto is swimming to them. He is swimming to them. They begin to call and guide him, encouraging him to make it. He tires near the the end, and several men jump in the water to bring him on land.
He lands as one near death. He is out of breath. He is cheered by the people, raised up, and led at the front of the crowd.
The thought that went through my mind just then was, "He almost died to cross that river." Then..."He was willing to die for them." This is an emblematic scene of his future revolutionary ways....honoring a people, empowering them, giving them dignity, swimming to them even at the peril of his own death.
Che Guevara.
Peace,
Amysgr
The scene that has stolen my heart and mind this evening, is the one where Ernesto has just been given a birthday party by the staff of a leper colony where he and his friend Alberto have been working for three weeks. He is given the opportunity to say a toast. He uses this opportunity to honor the people of Peru....and makes a political statement about the connection of all people in South America. Reflectively, he walks to the river's edge. This river separates the housing for the staff and those who have leprosy. He decides he wants to celebrate his birthday on the other side, jumps in to swim. It is a dangerous River. No one has crossed it swimming before. He is breathing and making the same noise he makes when he is under a severe asthma attack. The medical personnel are calling for him to come back. The Lepers here the commotion and come to their river's edge to see what is happening. Soon, they figure out that Ernesto is swimming to them. He is swimming to them. They begin to call and guide him, encouraging him to make it. He tires near the the end, and several men jump in the water to bring him on land.
He lands as one near death. He is out of breath. He is cheered by the people, raised up, and led at the front of the crowd.
The thought that went through my mind just then was, "He almost died to cross that river." Then..."He was willing to die for them." This is an emblematic scene of his future revolutionary ways....honoring a people, empowering them, giving them dignity, swimming to them even at the peril of his own death.
Che Guevara.
Peace,
Amysgr
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