Termination Dust

Termination dust makes me happy. 

The fresh snow on the mountains marks the end of one season and the beginning of another (I'd say we only have two seasons - light and dark). And now it's time to terminate things. I get to chop down all the plants I haven't already killed, put my garden to sleep, and clean out the coop before the poop freezes. I'm not sure why these things make me happy, but I love the process of cutting everything back so we all can rest and renew over the winter. 

I'm kind of feeling the same way with my faith tradition. I've been thinking about getting rid of the labels "God" and "Christian." I feel like these labels need chopped down to the roots and allowed to rest because they have lost meaning, or more appropriately they are overflowing with too many contradictory meanings.

I think the word "god" is dull and worthless. The word simply means "supreme being" and what the heck does that mean? It's hard to hear the word "god" and not think of a big white guy in the sky. I don't believe in a big white guy sitting in a cloud somewhere far away ruling over us. 

So I've been trying to come up with a more appropriate word to describe the God we worship. Christian orthodoxy describes God as a trinity so I would argue that the best name is "Eternal Communion of Love." That's a grand theological solution in case you were wondering, but the logistics get messy. Eternal Communion of Love is a lot of words to write every time we talk about God and the acronym is way too much like E. coli and that does not evoke worship and praise. 

How about E.C.? Eternal Communion and it makes me think of E.T. who is more appealing than the big white guy in the sky or diarrhea. Come on. There's something holy about E.T. - he's a terrifying and fascinating mystery that draws people in.

Anyway, I'm going to try and let the word "god" rest because it's been invoked for way too many horrible things and talk about E.C. for a bit. At least for the rest of today.

I'd love to stop calling myself a Christian too. I feel like that label has been hijacked across the spectrum to equate to certain social agendas. I do think our trust in the Eternal Communion of Love may drive us to speak out on issues, but I also think it is probably best not to say our agenda comes from God.  If your social agenda leaves you hating brothers and sisters, then it probably isn't grounded in the love we see in Jesus.

How about "Lovers"? We get rid of the name Christian and replace it with Lovers. It's a way more dynamic name than Christian. And think about all fun new signs and songs. "The First Lover's Church", "Onward Lovers", "Good Lover Friends, Rejoice" . . . 

I know it's goofy, but there are times that it's helpful to cut back our assumptions, give our overused words a break, and try to look anew at our faith and world around us. 

Sacred

I've been trying to figure out why the recent Flying Spaghetti Monster prayer at the Homer assembly meeting bugged me. I'm not easily offended and I don't know if I'm a supporter of prayers at civic meetings, but I  found the publicity and the prayer itself offensive. 

"So, I’m called to invoke the power of the true inebriated creator of the universe, the drunken tolerator (sic) of the all lesser and more recent gods, and maintainer of gravity here on earth. May the great Flying Spaghetti Monster rouse himself from his stupor and let his noodly appendages ground each assembly member in their seats.”

I am currently traveling reconnecting with family and friends. I'm also doing some continuing education on grief, life coaching, and how the church talks about sex. All of this has given me a chance to reflect on what is sacred.

The word "sacred" comes from the word "holy" and the word "holy" doesn't mean you're super well-behaved. Holy means to be set apart for a specific purpose. To mark something as holy or sacred means to recognize the significance of that time, place and the people there.

Prayer is a way of marking sacred space and people. It's a way of recognizing that meeting or moment as significant; the decisions made by leaders (and all of us) have eternal ripples. What we do and decide matters. 

I get anxious when we go speeding into a sense that nothing matters. There is so much absurdity on a regular basis that I want to defend a few moments and words to mark the sacred and let the absurd take a break for at least a few minutes. It loses some humor and fun when every moment has an edge of ridiculousness. 

I am also offended by prayers that have an agenda of god the great wish granter or god on my side or believe what I do. They have no place in public gatherings, but I appreciate hearing from a variety of faith expressions about how we make this time and space set apart as significant. Prayer isn't about inviting a magic god in to fix things, but it invites us out of ourselves into a greater purpose; it reminds us to be compassionate, wise, and gracious (those tend to be qualities that stretch across faiths). 

The Wall

What three major events impacted your life?

That was Elijah's homework question for me the other day. It got me thinking.

9/11 was definitely top of the list as well as the genocides in Rwanda and Yugoslavia. These events destroyed any sense of naivete about humanity's capacity for cruelty. The killings in Rwanda felt very close because we were in seminary in Tanzania not long after and the stories of normal life turning into slaughter were chilling.

But, the one that was fun to talk about was the fall of the Berlin Wall. I got to tell him all about going to Germany as an exchange student when I was a Junior and being one of the last classes to go through Checkpoint Charlie. I was obsessed with McDonald's toys and I can still remember the East German guard going through my huge white purse. He first pulled out all these strange toys I insisted on carrying with me and then my rubber chicken key chain. He held that up and smiled, but that was about the only smile.

Since this was long before 9/11, we hadn't experienced much security before so this all felt really intimidating and then East Berlin was so gray and quiet. That's all I remember. There were lots of gray buildings, except there were some buildings that were mostly destroyed and had a giant painted drop cloth over them. Our money was worth a lot in East Berlin, but there was nothing to buy.

One of the highlights from our last trip to Germany two years ago was getting to explore the history of the GDR and  study how something that looks so reasonable on paper destroyed the human spirit. The constant suspicion and intimidation exhausted people. The alcohol consumption in the GDR was eight times higher than in West Germany.

We never imagined standing in line at Checkpoint Charlie in 1988 that within a year the wall would come down. There were many things that led up to that day in November, but the peaceful protests are close to my heart.

The pastor of a church in Leipzig held regular Monday prayers for peace until October 9, when the numbers were too great for the church. As the Deutsche Welle reported,

Around 6,000 to 8,000 people were crammed in to the churches in central Leipzig, and a total of 70,000 people had gathered in the city. Everyone was holding a candle, a symbol of non-violence - you need to hold a candle with both hands to keep it from going out, which makes it impossible to throw stones. 

This was four months after Tiananmen Square massacre and I think we all held our breath wondering if  tanks would roll into Leipzig and Berlin. I had a t-shirt around this time with the quote, "It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness." It was one of my favorites, but I don't think any of us imagined that candles would help bring down the wall.

I didn't take any pictures of the Wall, but I kind of love this one
in one of the bathrooms

Yes, my life was impacted by the tragedy of terrorism and genocide, but it has also been impacted by the power of hope and non-violence. Tyrannies and empires do not last forever, but I'm willing to stake my life and my strength on the hope that love and peace do.

Praise for Cranberries

Joy is 55 degrees with a light drizzle and I'm kneeling in the marsh hunting cranberries. The wild wind that blew the snot right out of my nose and onto my dog was a bonus. So much of my life is disgusting and amusing at the same time.

This is the carnivore of the bog, but
the tiny red branch is a cranberry plant

I was giddy with my numb fingers digging in the moss for the elusive cranberry. I'll pick other berries, but a cranberry bog on a melancholy day fills me with elation. Seriously. 

The low bush cranberry plant only produces one berry and you have to kneel and develop a keen eye to see them. Rarely does one walk away with a huge haul; my goal was a cup for ginger cranberry muffins.

I came home and once I got the feeling back in my fingers, I set to work making muffins. Baking is not in my skill set. I have the patience to lie in a bog and find single berries, but I can't measure more than three ingredients without losing my patience and calling it close enough. 

I'm always tempted to pray for patience, but what I really want are situations that don't require patience. I don't pray for patience because I know the only way to becoming more patient is practice and I don't want God to give me any more practice. 

But, what if I could turn the situations that get me irritated and anxious into cranberry moments? What if I could figure out how to kneel right in the middle of all the discomfort and look for treasures? I'd much rather be filled with joy instead of irritated and impatient. 

There are so many fun and wonderful aspects of middle age and menopause, but one of my favorites is feeling like a layer of skin has been removed and I'm so much more vulnerable and sensitive to the stimulation of the world. It's easy to lose patience when I feel that exposed so if I suddenly kneel when I'm talking to you, take note, I'm looking for cranberries.

Shirt

My favorite denim shirt has been found! 

It's close to 30 years old with more buttons missing than attached and I love it. This is the joy of cleaning out my closet.

It's my most comforting shirt, big enough to double as a blanket at a concert or beach. Many a ferry trip was spent in the solarium wrapped in the shirt like a make-shift sleeping bag.

I don't want to think about all the snot streaks that have crossed the sleeves - hikes without tissues or walking with a child at camp who saw my arm as a Kleenex
. There's a sizable coffee stain on the sleeve, but that just helps ensure no one will ever steal it. And one tiny blood stain from a bad idea.

This shirt saw me through three pregnancies. It's a man's shirt several sizes too big, but I think in the 80s I liked my clothes large like my hair.

I've found myself wearing this worn and ragged shirt nearly every day since its discovery. There is something comforting about being wrapped in old denim as I face so much new. I wondered today as I sat on it at the beach if I was trying to recover youth, but I don't think so. I've got anti-aging cream for that.

Life is lovely now and I wouldn't trade it for any other time, but there's something about this shirt that feels real. This shirt wraps me in stories and experiences that keep whoever I become rooted in the person I have been. Clothes can hide so much for us, but not this shirt. It reminds me of nearly every adventure, heartbreak, sunset, and joy I've known. It wraps me in the courage and memories I need to face the adventures ahead.

Robot

I think I might be a robot; it's impossible for me to pass the verification things to prove I'm not a robot so I must be one. 

There should be an automatic pass when you don't complete the clicking on squares for more than a minute because obviously you're trying to find your glasses so you can identify all the crosswalks, cars, and storefronts in the pictures. 

Or you should get an automatic pass when you fail finding all the stupid buses more than four times. Do they mean a tiny part of a bus or does it have to be an entire bus?

Sometimes I overthink things, but it is all making me pause before I click the "I am not a robot" box. Shouldn't there be another choice, like "I am a middle aged woman who can't see or figure out how to verify my identity, but you can probably hear me swearing so that should be enough" or maybe a button saying "I might be having an identity crisis and starting to think I'm a robot".

I'm now on a mission to prove I'm not a robot. Here is my plan:

1. Make more irrational choices. I think I need a few more of these to protect myself from the systematic processing of a robot so I do things that are uncomfortable and don't have a good reward. Today I went for a long hike in the pouring rain without my raincoat. No robot would do that, even though it wasn't a choice as much as I just forgot my coat. I'm pretty sure having water drip down my back into my underwear could be a verification test to prove I'm not a robot. 


2. See the world without a utilitarian agenda. People and things do not exist for me to use for my personal agenda. They are not steps in my program to get me to the final result. Every being has an integrity on its own; I do not get to control or manipulate others for my machinations. I get to hang out in the mystery of being without pretending I'm in charge.

3. Take time to laugh and cry. Our ability to experience joy and pain will always set us apart from machines. Even if machines could figure out how to laugh or cry at appropriate moments, I would still have them beat because I do these things at inappropriate times, just ask anyone who has watched a movie with me. 

We are not robots, consumers, work units, tax payers, electors, or plebeians (that's just too fun of a word to pass up). We are unique mysteries or as my faith tradition states, "we are beloved children of God." Maybe that could be a box to check at the end.  

If I Had A Boat

An inflatable row boat saw me through middle school. I lived on that thing in the middle of the faux pond in the new sub development where we lived.

I would drag my boat to the pond as well as an anchor, sail, radio, snacks, books and fishing pole. And that's how I stayed relatively sane. Nobody could call me a dork or nerd because all the popular kids lived in town and those who didn't couldn't see me hunkered with my book deep in my imaginary ocean. I loved that boat and I'm so thankful that Elijah got one for his thirteenth birthday.

That's why I carried it out camping with us this past week. I'm guessing I carried over 100 lbs at least ten miles by the end of our week camping, but it was worth it.

We all took turns on the row boat in the cove by the cabin and I got to experience one of those brief and eternal moments of pure joy. The sun was shining, the water was calm, and I was tired of rowing so I lay in the boat face first looking down into the water. It was just the kids and I and they were running around the cliffs giggling and daring each other to explore a little further. I was basking in the sun watching the jelly fish, sea anemones, and sea stars dot the water below me. And it all was perfect for that moment. All was right with the world and I was filled with beauty and joy until it was overflowing.

So I started to cry. 
Naturally. 
Because such moments are precious and fragile; one cannot hold onto them and everything changes.

And that's okay. 

The kids started yelling for me to row over and catch them in the boat as they jumped off the rocks. That's a bad idea so instead they dove off and climbed out of the freezing water into the boat and I taxied them back to shore. They all pushed and encouraged each other to make the dive and I helped get them back safely. That's what family does on our best days. 

I also started to cry this last Sunday during communion; I'm noticing a pattern. Presiding over communion is often emotional for me. I know about the struggles and brokenness people face and I place a moment of perfect love in their hands hoping it will bring some wholeness and connection. It means I absorb the fragility and changing nature of life as I place the body broken and made whole for us into outstretched hands. 

It's kind of intense every Sunday, but when we're saying good bye to a slew of young adults scattering to the winds, it gets cranked up a notch. I made it through three of them, but buckled with the fourth. The tears just started flowing; one cannot hold onto them and everything changes.

Luckily, I serve a congregation where I could wipe my eyes on the sleeve of someone's shirt as they came through the communion line when tissues were not accessible. I did not blow my nose; even I know that crosses a line. 

I wish I had brilliant advice and spiritual tools to survive the chances and changes of life, but right now I'm leaning heavily on time spent in an inflatable boat.