Death

I had a moment of silence when I heard George Michael died. I had his poster on my wall as a teenager. He wasn't Simon Le Bon but he was lovely. 

And I knew the words to "Let's Talk About Sex, Baby." Words that seemed scandalous but were so freeing. I don't know how men experienced that song, but it gave women control and voice. Intimacy is something talked about not something you're talked into or worse.

There are moments I shake my head with the new sex ed restrictions where we try to stop the knowledge and quiet the voices. If sex is not freely discussed in our homes and schools, then why would we imagine our children will find their voices when they are most needed?

But Carrie Fisher. 

I finally let my tears run. I'm embarrassed to grieve for a star like this, but she was so much more.

Carrie Fisher as my friend described her was the first of the "badass princesses." She was so strong and capable. Princess Leia was our hero in the 70s because she was a woman with a blaster and a mission. 

She was a woman with authority and grace.

I know it was a character, but Carrie Fisher was truly a strong and brave woman. Folks who figure out how to live with addictions are some of the strongest and bravest people I know. 

There weren't many women who modeled that for us as little girls in the 70s. 
We had Barbies as our norm.
Women were breaking ground in new fields of work, but that was not the norm and often fodder for jokes.

The thought of female pastors in the Lutheran Church was still scandalous and slightly ridiculous.

Princess Leia changed it all in our minds. We could live with authority and grace.

I once had a woman drop her kids off at VBS and ask me if I would have authority over a man at any time while her kids were at the church. She would be unable to have them participate if I went against that Biblical mandate. 

Yes, I have authority. And grace. It's part of the calling.

It doesn't stop the humiliation from bubbling up and biting at times; the shaming of sex and gender. But I like to imagine that Princess Leia gave us all some courage to blast our way through those times.

I swear it was a swivel

There were no Wookies. I won't complain about anything else in the new Star Wars movie because that is damning enough. 

No more critiquing.

I'm just thankful for getting to see Darth Vader enter with a hip swivel. 
Seriously. Watch him walk. 
I've been imitating it all night. 

I'm also thankful for the brilliant dialogue that makes George Lucas look like a mastermind in comparison. "Probe the shield" has given us a new euphemism to replace "taking a nap." 

Okay, the movie was not my favorite. I felt like I paid for every action scene by suffering through way too many sermons.   

But, the weird part was that the sermons seemed to ennoble a warped rebellion. 

When I took physics in high school, Mr. Bible had us write an essay on whether the "ends justify the means." I had no idea what that meant or what it had to do with physics so I wrote a pathetic piece regarding Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" campaign. I'm sorry Mr. Bible. I'm still not sure how it is related to physics.

Does a noble goal justify destructive or less than noble methods? 

Do you fight for the idea of peace?

There is one scene in the movie and I'm not going to get this totally right, but part of the rebel crew is ready to go into battle and the speech goes something like, 
"We've all done horrible things in the name of the rebellion and if it ends with surrender how will we live with ourselves?" 

I suppose I would have enjoyed the movie more if they had actually wrestled with that dilemma more, but probably not. I just like the fight scenes anyway. 

Do the ends justify the means? It's worth the wrestling.

There are several guiding principles that I hold onto in the midst of rebelling:

Dostoevsky's quote, "The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular." Beware of self-righteous ends that leave us despising and destroying the people around us.

St. Paul's quote, "Faith, hope and love abide, but the greatest of these is love." Rebellions are built on hope, but so is terrorism. 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer's, "We must be ready to allow ourselves to be interrupted by God.” Pay attention. Listen. Hold courage and humility in tension.

Baby Jesus

I'm not a huge Christmas fan. I love Christmas and I love Jesus, but right now I'm thinking about dancing naked in the street around a great bonfire. It's solstice tomorrow and I have no idea how people celebrate, but it makes me want to dance and burn something. I'm thrilled that the light will return and I will be able to see the smiles on my chickens' faces without a flashlight.

I do love Christmas,

but it tends to be filled with anxiety and nostalgia so I find myself treading gently. This is not a natural gift of mine and the effort is exhausting at times.

I have lovely moments:

Curling up by the tree on Christmas Eve with my love when all the worships are done, presents are wrapped, and children are tucked in their beds.

Celebrating Jesus' birth with deep fried goodness as we fondue everything in the house with beer batter. This is how we do all birthdays and major holidays.

Opening presents, talking with family, worshiping, singing Silent Night . . . it's all lovely.

One of my weird favorite moments every year is baby Jesus. 

I've never had a real live baby Jesus, because that is pure zaniness. I'm all about taking risks as congregations, but that one sends shivers. We all hold our breath when the acolytes light the Advent wreath hoping they don't burn down the church. Hand-eye coordination as well as rhythm tend to be challenging for Lutherans.

So we use dolls. 

Ragged, well-loved, often naked dolls.

I swear it's the same doll every year because they always look identical. 

It tends to be the doll found in the frantic search after the frantic phone call realizing we don't have baby Jesus. It is never the favorite doll. That's too much to ask out of a child, but a doll who gets pulled out of the bottom of the toy box often stripped. The doll whose hair has been cut and one eye closes when you lay them down, but one is broken and always stares at you knowingly.

Dolls still creep me out, and baby Jesus is not exception.

I suppose that's what I love so much. We sentimentalize Christmas into sweetness and peace, when it is the story of raw love entering a terrifying world. Or terrifying love entering into a raw world.

Baby Jesus stripped, staring, hair cut wildly dangled by a distracted Mary and then crushed in her sudden remembrance and love. 

Baby Jesus the star and the forgotten one in the pageant.

Baby Jesus naked and terrifying. 

The kids in bathrobes come and go clinging to and dangling the savior forgetfully. I love all those angels, shepherds, animals, and stars, but I tend to hear the mystery of God made flesh most loudly in the ragged, well-loved, naked doll. 

Fullness

I thought of whining about the cold on our hike yesterday, but then I decided to give thanks I don't collect snowballs on my butt hair. Watching the poor dog try to deal with the collection of snowballs on her backside was slightly painful, especially when she tried to lick them.

So, I'm thankful my fingers and face were chilled and snowballs did not accumulate anywhere on my body.

I'm also thankful for Billy Collins this morning who spoke words of grace much louder than the prophet Isaiah. 

Love by Billy Collins

The boy at the far end of the train car
kept looking behind him
as if her were afraid or expecting someone

and then she appeared in the glass door
of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door and let her in

and she entered the car carrying
a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.

She looked like an angel with a high forehead
and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.

And because of all that,
he seemed a little awkward
in his happiness to see her,

whereas she was simply there,
perfectly existing as a creature
with a soft face who played the cello.

And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together

is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.

I was struck yesterday climbing through the meadows with my husband, realizing it was too cold for hanky panky in the snow, that I love being alive. It is enough to bask in the beauty and fullness of life. I caught myself looking at him, the sparkling meadow, the goofy dog with total adoration. 

One of the gifts of my faith, my life, is that I get to live out of a place of abundance. It doesn't mean there aren't dark and desperate places. Sometimes I move into unhealthy busyness and neediness, but for the most part I get to live out of a place where the love of others and the beauty around me fills me up and pours into the people and places I encounter. 

I used to weep every time I read the Giving Tree. I actually hate that book about the tree who cuts herself down to the stump giving to the selfish boy. It is enabling at its worse. Many years later, Silverstein wrote The Missing Piece Meets the Big O. I don't know if he or someone he loved went through rehab during that time, but this book is about finding relationships not as a means to complete oneself or obliterate oneself, but as companionship for the journey. 

Delighting in another seems essential to love, but we so often distort our relationships as a means to fix ourselves or others. When we look to another for what we lack in ourselves or try to fill an other's needs, we often end up as a stump.

This last part of Collins' poem is what I catch myself doing at my best moments of ministry and living:

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.

I am closest to faithfulness when I watch with those eyes filled with adoration.

• Lying on the floor with the kids at church while they play with the Little People manger giggling hysterically when we put the cow where the angel belongs.
• Watching the boy who drives me a little zany play piano while the woman who can't remember why I'm here dances around the room.
• The acolytes bowing way too many times just to make sure they get it right
• The song of the congregation continuing without accompaniment while the pianist participates in communion
• The sun shining through the crystallized snow
• My daughters wrapping their arms tightly around me during the sharing of the peace
• Writing Christmas cards with an electric blanket and glass of wine seeing all those faces of loved ones who've been delightful companions.

Sometimes I think the church and each of us would be better off if we stopped talking so much and we just looked. If we allowed the delight and wonder of the remarkable break into our lives and we basked in the fullness of the love and beauty around us. 

Fetal position

I'm writing quickly because it's cold. I know you're tempted to remind me that I live in Alaska so naturally it's cold. 

But I live in the rainforest part of Alaska where it tends to be mild. I'm sorry Fairbanks and even sorrier Barrow, I'm cold at ten above.

So, my husband is now warming up the bed and if I wait about fifteen more minutes, then it will be cozy and I won't scream and swear when I get in. I'll cuddle up with him and chat until it is serious sleep time.

Then, I will curl up in fetal position with my feet outside the covers. No, it's not easy, but I manage it every night.

I fall asleep in fetal position and I'm sure there are studies about people who insist on sleeping like a potato bug, but it's how I'm wired. 

I read once of a culture, which I can't remember, that buried their dead in fetal position. I'm sure I could look it up, but I like the idea much better than flat in a box, burned in an oven or even worse made into a paperweight. 

I'm thinking about fetal position, sleeping and dying, because it's Advent. As the rest of culture celebrates Christmas, happiness and buying lots of stuff, the church puts on darkness, stories of endings, and the profound hope of something new rising. 

It's hard to be funny in Advent and my sermons are never the sharpest, but I'm okay curling up in the dark in fetal position to wait.