The Blue Bear in the Backseat 

I am an educated woman, who has lived a life full of joy accompanied at times with sorrow.....and currently have a blue stuffed teddy bear in the backseat of my VW bug to help with the void created by two homegrown sons off into the world and an exchange son who returned to his homegrown family. The void is deep and I'm doing everything I can to keep the rift from widening and taking everything in with it.

 Now, no worries here....I can deal and am quite capable of moving through this. And that is the point: to move through it I need to move through it...feel everything...see it all...wonder....weep...smile....recall. It is the beauty of having lived one way for 21 years and now having a new way for the next 40 years (+).

So, the house is cleaned and tidied, with all of their stuff in their rooms but their rooms ready for guests. The house already has a visual sense of a new way, but to the knowing eye there are wisps of ghosts lurking, haunting, billowing throughout every corner. I hope those ghosts stay for a long time.

The goodbye was as it should be, and better than if the plan had gone as originally sited. Instead of a day long tear stained farewell, it was a pragmatic, comfortable and known pattern of road trip wisdom. Upon arrival Turner greeted us with a "Oh hey!" as he approached and Bennett moved into the cloud of staffers. There was this moment, when they stood side beside, these brothers who have declared since boyhood that they were brothers and not friends, looking like twins....faces happy and open, bodies full and strong, spirits playful and wise. This is the goodbye scene that is embedded in my body and it is sweet. If I never see them ever again, I will always see them standing beside each other, brothers...sons....ready. 

Yet, we will see them again. And again and again. they will come home for 4 days here, a week there, and perhaps even for a year of post college, loan payoff living where we all get to experience the adultness of one another instead of parent/child interaction. When they come home, our arms will be wide but not empty, because our own living will have continued.

And continue it does. The house will be filled with the offering of spiritual direction and acupuncture...healing for spirit and body. We've already hit the trail with our bikes, and hit the bed with the intimacy of the house. We will have as much to tell Turner and Bennett when they come home, as we will have things to listen to from them. The blue bear in the backseat will one day be unnecessary, but until then.....

Blessed Be. We reap what we sow, and the ground has been fertile. Amen.

Revolution (a long sermon)

A sermon written for the Bethany Theological Seminary worship community February 2011
John 20 Revolution: I have seen the Lord

It has been an enlightening month at Bethany. We opened with an MA presentation on Discipleship through Eros rather than Thanatos, moved on to a peace forum with Kristy sharing her story of coming back to God as the Divine revealed itself through the Goddess. We delved into the first half of Malcolm X opening our selves up to a particular Black History in the United States, then another peace forum this time focused on research into white privilege and racism, then returned to the rest of the Malcolm X story as we looked at the racism that continues, even within us.
My body, mind and spirit are swirling into all kinds of new worlds, exploding the outer bounds of what I thought I knew. Contemplating all of this is powerful. We are fortunate beyond all imagination to be here, contemplating hard topics, uneasy topics, confronting topics, with most of us welcoming it all. One day, When you leave this place, this seminary experience, you will leave behind a community that is part of evolving understandings, led by God into a new kind of wholeness. Enjoy the variety while you can.

Enjoy it while you can because Revolutions bloody and changing are roaring through the world in Egypt, Tunisia, Bahrain, and Wisconsin. On Monday I was riveted to NPR as they tried to cover the latest uprising, violent in nature in Lybia ....information leaking out in spite of communication blackouts for western journalists...The norm is overturning and the dictating structures are falling.
Even in the heavens the planets Uranus, Chiron and Pluto are waging a riot of revolutionary energy...similar celestial configurations as were seen in the race tumults of the 50s, the Beatniks and Kerouac. The same cosmic alignments of the mid 1960s with Dylan and Janis, King and X.

Its all around us. Inescapable. The energy of change is moving in the church, and we feel it in this seminary. We can listen, be aware, learn and recognize that a change is coming to life....or we can run for the nearest locked room when we confront what we know to be true but cannot quite understand it.

I wonder what the planets were doing while Jesus was in the tomb! A revolution was astir as he loved and taught, then walked toward Jerusalem, as he was tortured and put on the cross, and as his body held the silence of death entombed in the waiting.
We have this day a marvelous flow of stories of encounters, surprising, unexpected, crazy making encounters between Jesus' most beloved companions and the Risen One standing with them. What a turning must have been occurring within their own bodies, minds and spirits! Fear, amazement, Love, loyalty, stunned wonder. The times, they were achangin' baby and these good people could hardly believe what they were seeing.

The story opens up with a mournful tomb watch with Mary Magdelene, Peter, and the Beloved. A visit to the dead. But the stone is moved, and the death rags were here and there....but here and there in such a way as to infer validation rather than vandalism. Validation of curious stories Jesus had told. Validation of resurrection. Validation that Jesus was God's heir, and now was the Risen Christ.
We move away quickly from the tomb with Peter and the Beloved....both close intimates with Jesus who hadn't fully gotten who Jesus was while Jesus was. But in this empty death chamber, both Peter and the beloved disciple get it, get something, they believe something.....? But what they believe about the resurrection cannot override their fear of the Jews and their own survival. they flee in the face of Divine truth, back to a locked room where others were hiding out as well. Hiding in fear. Hiding from the changes they knew were coming.

Staying at the tomb was Mary Magdalene, who rather than fleeing, stood. Rooted in place...at a loss for what to do. There was no body to care for. So, no ritual to perform. How would she mark this moment if the very things that were predictable and normal were taken away from her? That mixed with the grief of death and the shock, the SHOCK of a missing body....well I would be rooted too.
Rooted in the numbing moment of disbelief, unbelief, beyond belief. Where Jesus' body should have been Mary Magdalene saw angels. Peter and the beloved disciple saw discarded linen. Mary Magdalene saw angels......(ponder). Mary Magdalene saw angels, heard angels, spoke to angels. We read that part of the story as if its not even a little bit strange. Rooted in that moment of belief gone awry a gardener steps up and speaks. The human mind grasps for what is recognizable, normal and comforting, when everything else is out of whack.
The gardener speaks her name, and reveals the Christ. She knows her Rabouni in an instant, the very moment Jesus shows the Risen Self to her in the way she needed in order to know and believe.

Even though She is not to grasp the ineffable ascending Christ, she could believe the new, the change, the revolution of all that had been normal.

These stories within story continues and we're back to Peter, the beloved, and others. Jesus is on the heels of their fleeing and comes to a room thick with desperation and anxiety. A fortress of fear Pulsating with anticipation of the worst.
The worst doesn't come...Jesus comes to that locked room. Locked doors and solid walls are no match for the ascending Christ, the Risen One.
Jesus comes to that locked room of hearts locked by fear and says.............

“Peace”.

Not only does he say it, he breathes it. He is no longer flesh and bone, but mist and vapor and that vapor wafts over faces in that hiding place and they feel it. As on the day of creation, that cosmic revolution of newness when the Creator breathed life into humanity. Jesus comes to them just as they need him to. Jesus brings an encounter in a way for them to see. For them to see and believe.

Thomas is outside of all of this yet part of it. Thomas was somewhere else while the revolution came...Somewhere else while things were happening, and people were telling their stories.
Of course he doubted this new evidence, this new turn of events.
Wouldn't you?
Of course he didn't believe his closest friends that they had “seen Jesus”, would you?

Of course, he demanded that only his eyes, his hands, his own understanding could determine truth from fiction, sacred story from blaspheme.
Only his eyes would he believe, this latecomer, this absent doubter.
I don't really know how ascension works, however Jesus, who was likely in that moment spiraled into the great yaw of heaven's entrance..........comes back. Comes back to doors that are shut.
But Jesus' limiting-norm of flesh and blood have given way to the no-need-for-norm of the Sacred Realm, and finds Thomas and others inside. Jesus not only comes to Thomas, but he comes back to Thomas exactly as Thomas demanded. The Christ, now a heavenly ether, comes with wounds available for proof. And Thomas believes. But before this loving Lord departs there is a small rebuke. A rebuke that we all must hear today. “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

Life during seminary is one focused on stories of sacred encounters: stories of barren wombs made fertile, stories of spit and mud turned into sight. Stories of subversive dunkings in a German river, stories of a young Pennsylvania girl who saw visions, stories of God calling the unlikely...yes I'm talking about all of us in this room, and God using the limitless resources of all of creation and human imagination to make known the Grander, Amazing, Sacred Story.
The Mdiv students get to tell their spiritual autobiographies and the MA students get to choose topics for in depth research that almost always exposes part of their spiritual autobiography.
All the while you/we move through study and ideas with simultaneous purposes: the goals of the individual growth, and the preparation for a life of public ministry. We can get bound into one of either of those pretty easily....sacrificing our own personal challenges as we stay keenly focused on those we will serve....or diving too deeply into our own development that we seldom stop to consider the story of another. From the occasional class to the Masters, to Dmin or PhD work, we are engaging in significant education and reflective development on behalf of ourselves and all the people whose spiritual growth or social economic change will be impacted by our leadership. By your leadership.
And we are defining what is normative for ourselves and the church along the way. So, have you asked yourselves, “Whose norm will you preach or live by?” Be careful if you think “God's norm” is an easy answer...There are so many godly and conflicting norms present in this room, that it is amazing that we are not all at each others throats, demanding proof or vying for our standard to win.
Actually, that has been happening here, this year.... most years to some degree. ...But this year, there seems to be more proving
this over that,
authority over love,
tradition over inclusion,
my type of faithfulness over your type of faithfulness.

I want to know how we plan to unlock the doors,
how we plan to allow Christ to ascend,
when we're going to speak with angels in order to hear stories that conflict with our own. Stories of honest and earnest encounters with God. Stories from Kristy and Karen, and Malcolm X as they awaken untapped paths within me...within you.....paths that lead to unbidden encounters with the Divine ….
that make us look around to see if anyone else noticed what just happened. Encounters that we try to tell with words like “the presence of God”, “Eros”, “Ma'at”, “Christ's Peace”, “Incarnational”...with every word not quite enough.
We fear telling our deepest stories, because they may sound false, or deniable, or weird. I might not believe you. You might make light of my beliefs when I leave the room. And we stop the flow of stories within story because we fear. If fear is to be had, it should be of a bland and predictable path, born from living smack centered in the acceptable norm and never exploring outward.

It is to our advantage to listen to one another. It is to the advantage of all of creation to believe one another when we have seen the Divine in the multitude of ways that the Divine will come to us.

It is hard to trust someone else's story. We trust our own eyes. We trust our own experience. But we turn to some norm set long ago, like way back in the iconic churchly 50s or mid 1800s or early 1700s, to prove validity, when it comes to someone else's story. Testing it against tradition and text, as though current experience is an untrustworthy cousin. When confronted with something revolutionary, we are doubting Thomas all the way.

As far as revolutionary storytelling goes, we are still timidly flirting with the many storied realities of Postmoderism. A Postmodern reality allows us to critique the system of Modernity....that human structure and now uninspiring monovocal reality where those in power think they are speaking for all when they are really only speaking for themselves. The postcolonial movement and Aregentinian Enrique Dussel fuel some new ideas for me, that Modernity has been about a unified narrative, a singular world view where cultures and voices have been mowed down and squished into submissive invisibility, conquered by the western european Christian, mindset.

Postmodernism is not new. It is a revealing and validation of many stories of life, God, human triumph, refreshed understandings, stories that have been in existence for some time. It is as though the weighty stone of Modernism and the Norm God, is slowly being lifted by the shear strength of a host of voices filling their multitudinous lungs with the forgotten breath of life.. Up goes the stone and the cultures, narratives, and individuals that were squished and presumed gone, are springing back into their fullness.
Like linen turned to Angels,
Gardeners turned into the Divine.
One day, that heavy stone will be thrown off into the abyss, to reveal a beauty that will make us cry for its centuries of absence.
For it is all the glory of God.
The Beauty of the Sacred.
The encountered variety of the Creator.

Don't you want to hear someone else's stories of their encounters with God?
Our stories might blow us away, and in previous centuries might have gotten some burned at the stake.
But I, like you, know the sources of my holy encounters.
And incurious--disbelief cannot ….expunge.... the truth.... of the Divine..... from my experience. Or from yours.
When one says “I have seen God” we can respond with “Tell me more!”
When one names and metaphors the Divine in curious ways that are meaningful and life giving, we should say “Amen” with them.
Mature minds and wise hearts know when they are in the presence of narcissism, or predictable smallness, or when stories rise from growth and transforming development as God leads us onward.
Do we get to ask questions when your story does not confirm my stories? Absolutely. We better. We owe it ourselves, to a sister or a brother, we owe it to the world beyond these solid walls, so that all can learn to hear with interest, trust and awe.
When we judge, it is like Mary Magdalene's presumed impulse to hold on to Jesus, anchoring him to this known existence.
When we say “tell me more” it is like being caught up in the ascension toward a more heavenly understanding.
God is coming to us presenting life, comfort, salvation, challenges, power to forgive, revelation and revolution in just the way we need in order for us to get it. That is what our stories tell us.
And that is why when a sister says, that when she was about to walk away from God, God came to her as the Goddess, I believe.
That is why when someone shares that they felt God's direction and presence in the appearance of three blue jays...a story heard in last weeks joint chapel, I do not diminish it.

And if someone says that God comes to them in the masculine terms and images of what has always been, I will learn to honor it while praying for more encounters that blow their minds.
It is not our relational responsibility to disbelieve. It is to believe when one has said, I have seen.
I don't think I really know the best way for God to come to me. And I'm reasonably well versed in unprescribed encounters with God. My heart breaks for those whose holy encounters are not welcomed by the church or others, and they have to sit in silence. As rising and current church leaders, how will you walk with your people when the choice comes for someone to stay and disbelieve their own encounters with God, or leave in order to know God beyond the definitions of the status quo?

Without our combined experiences and trust for one anothers stories,
we will stay the same,
and nothing will change.
The norm will win,
and we'll mistake God for the Gardener.



Benediction:
The Infinite One
cannot be bound by our human limits of imagination,
but can be known in full bloom from the imagination.
The Source of Resurrection,
the Breath of Courage and Purpose,
the One who walks through solid doors
and speaks peace
is an ungraspable
yet knowable Sacred story.
Ether and mist,
air and breath,
wound and wholeness,
here and ascending.

Wonder at the river Jabbok

(written for a wonderful assignment in my class at Columbia Theological Seminary on Job/Proverbs/Ecclesiastes...even though this text is from Genesis)

Genesis 32:22-31

To get at Jacob's wonder, possible wonder, at the river Jabbok, we have to recall much of Jacob's life.
I think that wonder filled moments,
strike us largely because of our back-stories.....

Jacob has lived a life of scheming....either as a schemer apprentice, schemed against, schemer in chief......he is now about to face his own original sin face to face.

And he is scared. He sends before him everything he owns: gifts to appease what may be an vengeful brother...
why wouldn't Jacob assume Esau would scheme against him?.....
he sends his household across the river,
he sends the very people he loves the most, and stays behind.

Jacob stays behind and is alone

WHAM! The wrestling begins as though snuck up from behind.
Not after a time of quiet contemplation,
not after a time of sizing up the opponent,
not after a grief stricken moment of seeing the backsides
of his wives and children...

He was alone, but not alone. We don't know who he wrestled with: God, river demon, self, fear, the past, the future.....but he wrestled all night long, never giving up, never giving in....daybreak arrived and the persistent opponent, seeing no victory, seeks to be released.

Jacob the schemer wants something for his trouble:
he wants a blessing and demands a blessing.

The blessing that comes is recognition of who he is,
what his life has been,
and who he will be.
This, I think, is the point, the moment,
the terrible and awesome place of Jacob's wonder.

He was/is Jacob, the heel grabber, the usurper, the life long schemer.....
He is and is to be Israel,
the one who has striven with God....
or “God strives”.

There is the wonder: God strives
with him
through him
for him
in spite of him

This blessing has always been present,
but in the seeing of it,
the naming of it,
it becomes known.

When we become known, it is~
the way we speak of being at ONE with creation,
with the universe, with God......
...it is as if we've seen the face of God....
even if its with our own ineffable being and not our physical eyes.

Fuller states that “Wonder, by helping us to feel connected with 'something more' transforms our world into a living 'thou' that invites our full participation.” (Fuller 93).

Jacob doesn't suddenly redeem his scheming ways, in fact I think he already knows that if Esau does not kill him...this reunion is but a moment and not for a lifetime.....he is already scheming his next move.....

But at Peniel he is invited into a fuller participation, he has seen God,
he has been marked by his lifelong ways,
he has been renamed....
and God has striven with him at all points along the way.



Personally, I find wonder in this
as I continually recognize my own schemes
founded in insecurity or lack of trust,

as my own denomination enters the collective frey
of determining
if we will be a Jesus and justice centered welcoming people
or biblically faithful and accountable people.....(it seems those to wondrous things are incompatible)...

in all our corporate scheming God will strive
with us,
for us,
through us,
in spite of us.

And there is the wonder that I find beside the river Jabok.

Twitter

It has taken weeks for me to pull my ideas together to provide a thoughtful post on the new phenom of twitter.

Unlike Twitter.

Twitter rules by the free flow of ideas....as they sprout from our minds. Fun. Sure.

But very little that just flows from our minds is worth the attention it gets on Twitter. In fact, the immediacy of Twittering makes any attempt at thoughtful posts...well, outdated. By minutes.

I don't want to read what you are thinking if what you are thinking is simply verbal processing. I'll be that sounding board for my friends as they work through issues and struggles. I'll continue to be the driver in the car who talks to herself so that by the time she has arrived at a meeting or conversation the mental sludge has slipped away, leaving the processed thoughts. But for the masses, pull yourselves together before you put it out for all to read. And if you don't have anything worth reading, then twit not.

I want to hear your thoughts. I do. I want to hear the ideas that have taken the time to consider multiple sides, to consider what really needs to be said, that sets aside anger or other driving emotions that do not help public discourse.

Twittering is fun, presumably. Yet the good stuff, the stuff that might actually mean something gets lost in the, "I'm throwing away this used tissue" posts that surround the good stuff.

Twitter away. Meanwhile, I'll be 10 paces behind you: considering, thinking, and making reasoned conclusions. Hopefully.

Best of luck,
amysgr

Turner's Video

In an effort to distract myself from things I needed to do.....namely write a sermon and put off thinking about the impending departure of my oldest son....I spent Saturday afternoon putting this together.

Enjoy!

And, Turner? You are absolutely ready.

Much love,
Mother

mothering the president

"Washington is all in a tizzy over who’s at fault. Some say it’s the Democrats’ fault, the Republicans’ fault. Listen, I’ll take responsibility, I’m the president."
PRESIDENT OBAMA, over executive bonuses at the American International Group.

New York Times online ran this quote this morning. I'm feeling very protective of the president right now. He needs a mother. He needs someone to say, "Take what is yours, but don't take anyone elses." In many years of ministry, I always felt that a life long example of responsible living could help set people on a good path (those who were on rather wobbly paths, that is). But in hindsight, those who do not know how to claim what they are responsible for, will simply allow others to take the responsibility. Example is not always enough. Teaching must have a place in the change.

I think that President Obama is offering a fearless example of stepping up and showing everyone that taking responsibility when things are going awry does not signal weakness or ineptitude. But those who live in fear of losing their power and position need lessons, not just examples. How do we get the dems or the repubs to take their own stuff without the other side doing a "nana nana boo boo" at them?

The other night, I was blamed by my beloved son for being the reason he couldn't possibly get his home work done. It made me mad. And so I told him so. I said, that the reason his homework isn't done is because he played on the internet all day, and waited until 6pm to figure out just what he had to do. All day I had offered gentle reminders about getting homework done. All day he said, "Im a man with a plan." In the end, the plan failed and I was blamed. He was angry that I had the nerve to stand up for myself and not take what was not mine to take. He was still mad later because he just didn't want to see how it was his own fault.

I fear that each time President Obama takes the responsibility for something someone else really did, he only teaches them that they can still get away with it. It is enabling action. Those who wont' come forth and say, "No Mr President, it wasn't you. These are the reasons this failed..." will cower in their corner offices, hoping nobody notices who is truly at fault.

Yes.....to taking responsibility for what you've done.

Mr. President, lead without fear, with courage, with openness.....and teach others how to do the same.

amysgr

smart power

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/22/opinion/22kristof.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink This link is to a New York Times article by Nicholas Kristoff.

This mix of soft and hard power is what Professor Nye calls “smart power” — an update of Teddy Roosevelt’s notion of speaking softly and carrying a big stick — and it seems to be an emerging theme of the new administration.

Kristoff refers to a melding of Soft Power and Hard Power....both of which were referenced in the Inaugural Address. It is, well, powerful. It is a balance of brain and brawn which may lead to lessening the brawn once the brain finds third ways of conflict management.

...just me on a NYT roll......

amysgr

pre-emptive informing

"Details of the directive involving the C.I.A. were described by government officials who insisted on anonymity so they could not be blamed for pre-empting a White House announcement. Copies of the draft order on Guantánamo were provided by people who have consulted with Mr. Obama’s transition team and requested anonymity for the same reason."

This quote comes from a New York Times article today, regarding issues with Guantanamo Bay and other secret prisons. But my issue is not about the closing of these prisons.

My issue is with people not being able to keep their big mouths shut. "...insisted on anonymity so they could not be blamed for pre-empting a White House announcement."

It is such juicy currency to be the one with the information. To be the one that others come to, to find out gossip, to be the one who will tell important information before the proper timing of its telling.

And it pisses me off. Perhaps there is a reason that the White House planned for the release of the information when it did or to hold on to it. Perhaps there are other issues that needed one last conversation before the announcement was made. Perhaps there were people who needed to hear it first in person, before a general public announcement was made.

At our seminary, we faced the transition of one of our beloved faculty. He was moving to a new position that was a very good move for him. Our seminary community found out about it, because the institution that was receiving him made a public announcement a day before the agreed upon announcement date. So faculty and students alike were finding out from phone calls they received from others associated with the receiving institution. It felt like an act of betrayal. And it was.

Why could they have not abided by the agreed upon announcement date?

Why cannot government officials speak plainly because they have the authority to, or not speak because they do not have the authority to?

Are we all so very insecure, that we need to scrabble for importance any way possible? Does this action not demean our own sense of authority and dignity? And is it not an act of betrayal? To our own self respect of nothing else.

In one of those letters found in the New Testament, the writer writes that we should not think of ourselves greater than we are. I agree. I think that we should think of ourselves with self respect for who we are. Not below and not above who we are, where we are. But where we are. Recognize that there really are people above us who are in charge, and that I cannot, should not, must not reveal what is not mine to reveal.

So, to all the self serving, insecure, immature Anonymouses out there........

Stop it. Just stop it. Shut your mouths with self respect and say, "This information is privileged right now and it will be announced in the proper time. I do not have the authority to speak on this topic."

See? How simple. And that would get my respect.

grrrrrrr,
amysgr

In memoriam

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.

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

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

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.)

Starting the DMin (Doctor of Ministry)

Most of the blog posts from here on out will be about this DMin process and its impact upon my own spiritual development.......changes are a brewin..........

The day arrived to pack my bags and drive to Decatur Georgia for my doctoral work. We have a group of 12 pastoral leaders (some congregational ministers, some administrators) who are hear because we want to be. We've had a couple of days of introductory sessions, but are shifting gears toward the academic thinking that goes into this program.

My mates in this venture are from many denominational backgrounds: Presbyterian, Methodist, Anglican, Quaker and Church of the Brethren (me). But all have a deep love for those with whom we minister, and a desire to further their spiritual formation.

And that is what this is all about: Group Spiritual Formation. What is that? Well, maybe I'll let you know next week. Really. What I know now is that it is about how we move together in our lives of faith, growing, deepening, and being shaped. Spirituality is under the clear canopy of Christianity. Not much room for New Age, or eastern practices here. Spirituality in this context is specific to Christ's Church and those who follow his teachings.

I'm here from November 5-17....missing my family (I just now took 15 minutes to call and hear their voices: Kurt, Turner and Bennett....my heart's desires)....but really really glad to be taking this time just for me. Selfish I know......but so worth it.

Nothing pithy or deep to add.

asgr

A first time.........

This morning, I sat on our deck overlooking our back yard, for an hour of prayer. I'm not a nature lover per se. I enjoy nature from the view of my office window mostly. But this day, I was participating in a world wide hour of prayer to connect with and heal the earth. It was called Fire the Grid. As I anticipated this event, I wondered how I would ever fill an hour with prayer in nature?

My prayers were of connection. Claiming the one who empowers me, Jesus the Christ, and respectfully acknowledging all how join this time of prayer from whatever tradition they pray from. Prayers of unity, of earth love, of respect for the Source of Life who creates all.

It was a powerful and joyful experience. Truly. Wow. Who knew?

At first, it was about watching the playful birds: a swoop of red from the cardinal, calling back and forth, silence when the cat strolled through.......

Then it was about thoughts of love. Not random romantic notions, but love...deep and purposeful and earth shattering.....like that between parent and child, lovers, friends.........

At some point, my body and spirit began to lighten and relax, deepen and wait. And then the oddest thing happened.

An old prayer language that I used way back in college days (during my charismatic exploration days) bubbled right up and overflowed from my mouth. This language has always struck me as being similar to a Native American or Hawaiian tribal tone. As always, I vocalized the word glyphs rising from inside/outside.......until it was done. Then, as always, sitting until interpretation comes. Like the oily warmth of a massage therapists hands moving from lower back to upper shoulders, the understanding that I had just spoken these words ebbed over me, "Holy holy holy. Holy Jesus."

Now, I am not a "Jesus thumper". I most often use the term "Christ" to depict something more cosmic than "Jesus" which is too solid and point-in-time-ish. But this was the interpretation and I'm sticking with it. Great peace followed.

Then, the words to a familiar hymn rose from within and I sang:

For the beauty of the earth
For the glory of the skies
For the love which from our birth
Over and around us lies.
Source of all to thee we raise
This our hymn of grateful praise.

What a morning.

amysgr