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

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

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

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

Doctoral Project

The doctoral project is different than a PhD dissertation. Where a PhD dissertation can be up to 500 pages, this is ONLY 35 pages. It is an article that has original research and ideas that is worthy of publication. The combined practicum and project are the core capstones of the program. the DMin is a practical degree, not a research degree at the PhD level. But, the work we produce is equal to that of the PhD.

Having said this, I need to find a focus.

1) I have thought for years that I would love to study the spiritual formation that a seminary student undergoes...some with joy and others with bitterness.......but this is quite broad.

2) Church of the Brethren spirituality within our rituals of Love Feast and Service

3) Spiritual Formation within the history and current life of the Bethany Church of the Brethren

4) Individual practices of spiritual formation and the affect of that practice on the greater community of faith

The courses that I will want to take and the focus on my practicum need to be able to be tied to the final project.....for my own sense of research. Any others out there?

Doctoral Practicum

Well, one of the things I get to do is a 400plus hour practicum. This can be in my current ministry setting......student development @bethany........or in my congregation. Hmmmm, lets think about some ideas:

1) a small group of students from each year (junior, middler, senior) to explore their spiritual formation during their seminary careers thus far, with the planning and leading of an overnight retreat involving silence, direction, worship and discussion for first year students (this one would have to be done with explicit support and permission by our ministry formation professor as it overlaps with that program...probably faculty approval as well)

2) a small group series with my congregation of spiritual formation practices, ending in a retreat i.e. the one in #1

3) overnight retreats for various faith communities in the CoB i.e. rural, city, large, small.....

4) ????????


Any suggestions? The requirements are that within 400 hours, I plan, lead and reflect on spiritual formation events/series/sermons/ etc........

This Mother's Lament

This is a personal lament that I wrote in response to a lecture and discussion on the Psalms.

O God, Source of life, creator of every living thing, determiner of that which has breath.

How long must we wait?

By day, my son writhes in pain,
gut clutched by little hands that should be drawing pictures or building cities with blocks.

Caught by rhythmic and cyclical mystery that causes him to moan, and for me to murmur reassurances that are false, echoing through a tunnel of hollow hope.

My hands lay upon his skin, providing both of us with the comfort of the other.

By night, I lay beside him, tears streaming down my face as he fitfully sleeps.

I stretch out my hand to you and cry “Heal him. I know that you can. I know who you are. Why are you not listening and acting? What have I done to block your hearing? I preach your word, I live a life of gospel simplicity, I set aside family time when neighbors knock on the door asking for bread. It is my turn, I ask for the bread of wholeness and you have given me a stone of indifference. How long O God?”

But my cries lift with faith, only to dissipate like steam, unfelt by you.

O God, Source of life and all that breathes, I must turn to lesser gods of white coat and stethoscope. They placate me with words like “could be this”, “isn’t that”, “flu, IBS, imagination.”

But they are not around to see my son, my firstborn in anguish.

I know his imaginary pains that are given life to garner my attention.

I know the pains that diminish when a friendly face appears or ice cream is brought out. And these are not those.

Will this end in health or death? How long until we know?

O that it would be better that you were not in existence, for then my hopes and faith would not be beaten to a pulp each and every day.

But you do exist, and I do believe. So I raise my petition, my yearning, my soul to you. Please heal my son. Heal my son. Do not be far from us. Let him not lose faith in you. Let not my faith shrivel and my vocation become meaningless.

Within me, praise struggles to rise, but it is held back and I cannot let it go. It flutters inside and beside and all around, but cannot fly to full glory. It is tethered to me, waiting for you to prove yourself.

(August 1996, during a 9 month period where Turner had recurring abdominal cramps that came and went in two week cycles. The doctors speculated that it was the flu, that it was Irritable Bowel Syndrome, that he was making it up. On October 25, 1996, while doing the second shunt revision of the year, they swabbed the tubing at his belly, to find his peritoneum full of staph infection, having traveled upwards to his brain. Turner was in ICU for 16 days, as they administered antibiotics from an external shunt directly into his brain. We watched his cerebral spinal fluid fill bag after bag, because his body did not reabsorb it. Turner was 5 nearly 6, lying in a hospital bed, unable to move for the need to keep that bag perfectly aligned with his head….too high and his cerebral spinal fluid would not drain out, too low and it could drain too quickly. He went home on the 17^th day, with no more cramps. All along, God had been faithful. We knew it had been the shunt. But we listened to the empty reassurances of the gods of medicine over the heartbeat of the One True God.)