Graveyard

Darkness has descended. 

It is that time of year where I remember how dark dark can be. It's easy to forget until you try to drive and realize you can't see.

It's also that time of year where my girls tell stories about how I used to drag them through the graveyard in the dark when we lived in Michigan. Hannah tells the story; Sophie was too young to remember. 

I should probably deny taking two toddlers through a cemetery in the pitch dark, but I did. In my defense, we cut through so we could access the woods for a night hike. 

I got really stir crazy with toddlers and darkness. 

I'm pretty sure they put headlamps on, but then I made them turn the lights off and adjust their night vision.

That's how I raised my girls. We lived in the delicate mix of terror, boldness, and adventure. The dark cemetery and woods freaked me out too, but a house with toddlers and a black lab nearly made me crazy. 

Stir crazy: Used among inmates in prison, it referred to a prisoner who became mentally unbalanced because of prolonged incarceration.
It is now used to refer to anyone who becomes restless or anxious from feeling trapped and even somewhat claustrophobic in an environment perceived to be more static and unengaging than can continue to hold interest, meaning, and value to and for them. (Wikipedia)

I definitely had moments of stir craziness where I couldn't read Good Night Moon or play Barbies anymore so I had to venture out and feel my blood flow again.

Sometimes I think I stay sane by venturing into the places that freak me out.  I'd rather feel terrified than trapped. 

There's a subtle undertone in our culture that tells us to avoid hard things that cause discomfort. It's my act of defiance to walk in the dark and raise my kids to do the same. At least it makes for a good story.

Profane

We spent the first ten minutes of Mom's Group talking about penises. Or is that penii? 

I'm not sure who brought it up, but that same person kept trying to teach the baby boy in the room to say, "Nobody wants to see that." I think it's important for boys to learn this early, especially if they are going to be the only child in a room with twelve wild women.

I love our squirrelly Mom's Group and I love serving in a community of faith that hasn't fired me yet. 

Here's the thing. Get ready for the shock. . .

I'm not a prudish pastor. 

I think prudishness actually works against the freeing nature of the Gospel so you might find us talking about nearly anything at church. 

I don't want people to imagine grace is meant for the person they think they ought to be; grace gives us the freedom to live in the person we are.

That doesn't mean we stay where we are. There's something amazing that happens when people get to share their pain, laughter and questions together. 

We can be honest about what is lovely and what is absurd; what is broken and what has found healing. The defenses drop and we can be truthful with ourselves about what needs to change.

Maybe a dog with a deer leg will distract you
from the mention of penises

We don't do Bible studies at Mom's Group. I have no pithy devotional, but the living word is moving and grooving in that room. We've talked about hairy lesbian porn and penises, but it's also one of the most sacred hours of the month. 

Or at least one of the most real. 

Folks get to show up and be present in the mess without trying to pretend.

One of the things I love about Jesus' life is how he takes the profane and makes it sacred with a touch and a word of thanksgiving. Water, bread, and wine all become unexpected vessels of grace. I might be doing this pastoring thing all wrong and someday the church was be utterly scandalized and find someone who will behave. 

But, until then, we keep creating spaces for grace, places where folks get to show up in their messes, be touched, and a word of thanksgiving offered. That's how I witness the profane becoming sacred.

Temporary

Halloween stresses me out a little. I struggle putting clothes together for a normal day; I don't have the creativity or skill to put a costume together.

I was telling the girls about my hardest college class - costume design. We had to draw people and match clothes. 

My nightmare.

Keith Belli was our professor. He made the mistake of revealing to us that he hated The Gambler so we sang it every chance we got. He had so much patience and somehow I made it through with lots of tears and an A. Never underestimate the power of pity.

I got to visit a dear friend from college during my whirlwind trip outside (that's what we call the world outside Alaska). He made it possible for me to watch Death of a Salesman at Ford's Theater. I almost balked because I imagined the play had to be dated. Arthur Miller wrote it in 1949 about the collapse of the American Dream.

It's not dated; I wept through it. I should have brought tissues, because snot on sleeves is unacceptable at Ford's.

It's still a powerful commentary on the things we hang our lives and hopes on. One moment that stuck out so poignantly was Willy Loman saying, "I feel kind of temporary about myself." 

Thankfully, I had a dark yard and lots of time when I was in the sixth grade to lie there and stare at the vastness of the stars. Those were my crisis and calming moments. The vastness made me critically aware of my temporality. It cured me of any illusions of grandeur; there is no proving oneself worthy in the face of such enormity.

In some ways, I think of those nights staring at the stars as my baptism. That's when I died to any thought my story was central and realized I was part of a much greater narrative. My choices have significance and consequences. The hurt and joy I bring do ripple throughout eternity, but the universe does not revolve around me. 

Willy Loman's response to feeling temporary is standard American: buy stuff,
worship your kids,
isolate,
pick fights,
exaggerate your significance,
bully those with less to make yourself feel greater, 
and finally despair. 

My tears matched those of the father and son in front of me so I didn't feel so alone grieving this life we fall into so easily.

The gift of theater is letting us step back and see ourselves. We get to watch our stories, weep, laugh, wipe snot on our sleeves, and walk out a little more aware of how temporary we are in the vastness.

Tom Petty

“But, how did you get here?” 

This was the question the sweet twenty something kept asking my friend Lance and I at the bar at 1:00 am in Baltimore. He just couldn’t wrap his head around how two pastors, one from Alaska and one from Pennsylvania, could be in his neighborhood bar heckling the singer for Tom Petty songs.

We told him how I flew in and Lance drove down to have some time to catch up.

"But, how did you get here?" 

"Well, the place we ate dinner was closing at midnight and we weren’t done painting the town puce so we walked two doors down because we were promised live music and the musician promised Tom Petty songs, which never happened."

"But, how did you get here?"

He really wasn’t letting it go. Finally Lance made up a ridiculous story that made us giggle for a long time.

But, “here” was an unpredictable place to be.

We met as young pastors fourteen years ago as part of a Lilly Endowment gig to retain pastors and we’ve walked with each other through secrets, sorrows, and silliness I rarely get to explore. 

How did you get here? I’m not going to whine about being a pastor, but there are times that I carry responsibilities and secrets that get heavy. There are times I forget to delight and laugh so hard that my stomach hurts the next day.  I get wrapped in the drama of  the world and forget to be here.

And here is a good place to be. Tending friendships, confessing struggles, playing with theology, and laughing are good places to be. When I fret about the world, I admit that I can’t fix it all, but I can rebel against the increasing division and isolation by digging deeply into meaningful relationships.

So if you are ever at 1919 in Baltimore and a sweet twenty something shows up at 1 in the morning with friend chicken and potato wedges and asks you how you got there, just tell him that Lance and Tari sent you.

Umbrellas

Let me begin by saying how thankful we are in Juneau for tourists. It is a gift to have guests and show off the land we love. Thank you for visiting. 

And now two confessions:
1. We are always a bit relieved when October rolls around and the ships stop coming. It's like after company leaves and our entire town puts on pajamas to lounge on the sofa and drink wine. I personally appreciate the return of quiet. There were no helicopters, crowds, or float planes when I hiked today to disrupt the melody of the water and wind.

2. If you visit Juneau and carry an umbrella or wear a poncho, then we point and laugh. I'm sorry.  I don't know why this is true, but those things seem appropriate for Disney not a rain forest. An umbrella is a sure sign that you're not from here because people who live with 285 days of precipitation know how to handle rain.


Those of us who live here wear whatever and get wet. Like idiots. Or locals. However you want to cut that one.

I've given into the Juneau pressure to fit in. I'm not sure if it is self-consciousness, pride, or seeking acceptance, but I just stood in the pouring rain with lots of other parents at a cross country meet without a rain coat, umbrella, or poncho. It's like defying the wet of the rain. 

We live with so much rain, we don't need any protection; we're above it. 

Except we're not; I was cold and wet. 

The web of self-consciousness, trying to fit in, and pride can tangle me into some stupid choices. I'm old enough to know this. There have been too many opportunities I've passed up because I thought I might look ridiculous or get teased.

So, I've started carrying an umbrella on Sundays. I always walk to church on Sunday morning regardless of weather and one Sunday I was wrapping my backpack so it didn't get wet and putting on all my rain gear because I didn't want to show up to church all wet, when it finally hit me that I could use one of the myriad of umbrellas my parents have either brought or purchased when they visit. 

I carried an umbrella while walking on a busy street. 

People did point and laugh. I took some heckling, but I realized two things:
1. I stayed dry with less effort

2. Umbrellas make me happy. I sang Singing in the Rain and Mary Poppins' songs the whole way. The pointing and laughing might be related to that, too.

This past Sunday was a little too windy for an umbrella and I started thinking how amazing a transparent poncho would be (I don't know why transparent, they just seem a little cooler), but I'm not quite self-confident enough to walk down the street in a transparent poncho yet.

National Anthem

I heard the news. I read the news. I'm thankful I don't watch news because I can't take anymore. The written descriptions of Las Vegas are enough.

I had to step away and pull out the Juneau Empire whose main story was about the Juneau man who can tie cherry stems with his tongue. I drank my coffee, talked to my chickens, dressed all in black (I'm not sure Johnny Cash would appreciate the glazed donut streak on my black pants, but I still carried a "bit of darkness on my back") and I headed out to wander the woods.


And rant.

I needed to rant. To get out all the things I'm so sure are wrong with our world and who's to blame out of my head. I ranted to the dog and ravens. My beloved children have taught me the ineffectiveness of ranting to people. Ranting about putting laundry away or unpacking backpacks is nearly as effective as bashing my head against the wall. I got it out of my system; I realized I don't have any amazing answers or good people to blame. Then I dug through my brain for some kind of soothing balm.

I landed on Tuesday night's national anthem. Tuesday night was a huge volleyball game with the stands full of Thunder Mountain and Juneau Douglas football players, friends, parents, and fans. The air was already electric with the cross town rivalry. 


I know and love the young woman who stepped out to sing the national anthem to this crowd. She blanked. She started the anthem twice and blanked. Then something lovely happened. She started it a third time and we all sang. The football players, friends, parents, and even the volleyball players sang what words they knew to the tune they could carry and we lifted the song of our nation when it faltered.

I'm not a fan of national anthem performances so this was exactly what the anthem should be. We all risked raising our voices the best we could. Even with our differences, we offered what we had and the song filled the space and I saw more than one teary eye.

I'm pretty convinced we need fewer public rants and more leaders who make space for every voice when the national song falters. We need fewer egomaniacs and more who are willing to risk being part of a song that is bigger than themselves.

And as the rants start, when I am tempted to join in the vomiting of what is wrong with this world and who is to blame, I will remember the quote from Dale Earnhardt Jr. in today's paper.

I am about to quote something from NASCAR. The closest I've come to NASCAR was on the Autobahn when I made race car sounds and a running commentary on my maneuvers, but our Monday paper is pathetic so once I finished the cherry stem article, it was either the Classifieds or the full page article on Earnhardt.

So here's the quote from Earnhardt that feels like a bit of a balm in our broken world, "I don't always claim to be right, but I think in transparency in conversation and compassion you can learn from others. There is only one way to sort of do that and that is by communication and sharing."

Transparency, learning, compassion, sharing . . . those are probably some helpful words as we wrestle through the faltering of our national song.