Angels

We talked on Sunday about angels and I did the typical post-enlightenment pastor thing where I talked about angels as messengers of the good news and how we all are called to be angels. I stand by that demythologizing message, but it's a bit dull.

No wings. No halos. No robes of white. 

(One kid did talk about angels being white and it made me think about how we picture Jesus and the heavenly hosts. I'll never forget sitting in a church in Africa and the only white people were Kirt, Jesus and I. But that's a whole different blog about race.)

My systematic theology doesn't have guardian angels in it. I place my faith and hope in Jesus as a glimpse of eternal love as witnessed in his death and resurrection. That's my core belief and guardian angels lead me into all kinds of weird places, much like Kushtakas and ghosts. 

But here's my problem. Those things don't fit into my theology, but I've bumped into them enough that they mess with my reality.

I don't believe in guardian angels because I don't know what to do with creatures from another plane of existence who intervene to save my ass while Joe Blow's guardian angel lets him get run over by a train. I can't get that to make sense, but I've had a guardian angel save my booty.

Atlanta 1994
I lived in a small intentional community in Barnesville, GA just south of Atlanta on Possum Trot Road. We got a small stipend and worked providing hospitality for friends and family of people on death row. 

I saved up my stipend to go see Cirque de Soleil in Atlanta. I stayed with some friends who worked with Habitat for Humanity, but they couldn't go see the show with me so I was on my own. 

This was before cell phones, before the Olympics boosted Atlanta's public transportation, and before I developed my entire brain to process good ideas. I'd traveled extensively so I told my friends I would be fine, except I really don't have a good sense of direction. I got off MARTA to walk back to their house, but there was a gang of young men gathered around the map so I decided now was not a good time to stand in front of it, in the dark, in the pouring rain, and get oriented. 

I chose a direction and walked confidently. 

This normally works out for me, except when it's dark, I have no money left, and it's raining. After a while, I realized I had no idea where my friends lived, I found myself in an area where there was no sign of life, no stores, nor even traffic in this burned out, boarded up part of Atlanta. 

I still remember stopping in the middle of the sidewalk with tears starting to roll down as I realized I was in some serious trouble. I uttered the prayer that has probably crossed more lips than any other, "O God, help." I've never felt so lost and helpless as I did at that moment.

Then, the door of what looked like an abandoned warehouse flew open and a large, intoxicated woman stared out at me and said, "What the hell are you doing out here?" 

She dragged me into her place and it was a large room with decorated toilet seats adorning an entire wall. With a slight slur, she explained to me that she was having a gallery opening of her designer toilet seats, but nobody showed up so she drank all the wine. She couldn't give me a ride home, but I could call my friend. 

My friend nearly had a fit when I told her where I was, but she came and got me. She made me tell the story several times, shaking her head each time. 

There's no doubt in my mind that my guardian angel would be an intoxicated woman who designs toilet seats. I've tried to come up with all kinds of rational explanations, but here's where I end up:

If I can't get things to make sense, then simple gratitude is the appropriate response. 

The day will come when we will see clearly and understand. For now it's enough to put our trust in the good news of God's eternal love, but always leave room for surprises.

Snow

This is as light as it got today

I drove out towards the end of the road today hoping to find a respite from the rain. Sometimes if you keep heading Northish the clouds clear and the sun pops out, but not normally. Sometimes it's just cathartic to remember the end of the road exists. It's a good reminder that you can't drive your way out of responsibilities and messes.

Margaret Atwood once wrote about the high suicide rate in Vancouver, which I think would speak for Alaska as well. She said something about people keep moving West thinking they can escape their past and start fresh until they reach the coast and realize they are still stuck with themselves. That's how I remember it, but I'm too lazy to find the quote and I think it rings true with the experience in the frontier.

It's a lot like snow. Not that we would know since all of ours is gone now. I'm bitter and slightly grumpy. I love snow and I like to think of it as an image for grace. It floats down and covers all the ugly with pure beauty.

Except that's a shitty image for grace and one that the church clings to way too often. Cover up the shit, make it look pure, and we'll all be happy.

Then it melts, the rain washes it away and you're left with all the piles of dog shit and broken toys left in the yard. This year, we had the added bonus of our pumpkins. The first snow caught us by the surprise so once it was all gone, we had to scrape the rotting pumpkins off the porch.

I want grace to be like the pure and beautiful snow, but it's much more like the rain. It washes away the veneer and let's us face our shit with a garbage bag in hand. You can leave it, but it's way less fun to play in when it's all over your shoes, and you're sliding around, and then you're tracking it through the house.

Grace gives us the confidence that we matter and we are loved even if our backyard looks like a disaster zone. We don't have to hide it under snow, but can get to work cleaning it up. It's not pretty, but it's easier than moving just because your yard is full of feces.

I give thanks for the snow and for drives out to the end of the road where we get a bit of respite from the hard work of being human. I'm not opposed to denial and escaping reality. Sometimes you need a break from hard truths.  I just know sooner or later, reality returns and the longer you wait, the more piles of shit you have to clean up.

Instant Pot

I'm slightly pathetic when it comes to reading binges. I've found a new love so I'm staying up a little late and delaying work. I haven't resorted to a flashlight under the covers, but it's close. I'm reading Peter May's Lewis Trilogy set in Scotland. 

So I'm recycling an article I wrote in 2011 that still rings pretty true, except now I want an Instant Pot. Those are amazing. Not as amazing as Scottish mysteries, but still phenomenal. 

Paradise

Thanksgiving dinner at church is a little slice of heaven. 

It is paradise not only because I get to eat all the gizzards and hearts without sharing (I like to think of it as redneck chewing gum), but there is something about this gathering of folks that is especially lovely. 

This year we had quite a crew at dinner, close to forty. 

I tell folks it's not a charity dinner; I expect everyone to bring something. I truly believe everyone has something to offer and denying folks a chance to give undermines humanity. 

I made a couple of turkeys and a couple of beef roasts. My favorite turkey recipe is one of those nerdy science recipes that talks about chemistry stuff and it turned out super yummy. The other turkey was boring and the beef roasts didn't quite cook like I wanted them to, but that's life.

I do the best I can and I depend on everyone else to bring the rest. 

No one is in charge, we all chip in, offer our gifts, and God blesses them. We ate well, little kids were running around, folks played cards, and there was a general sense of joy and peace. We hung out for five hours eating and playing games. I won't mention who won the cribbage and ping pong games (it was me). 

Don't imagine we're one of those places where kids are allowed to win. We want everyone to offer their best and allow it be a safe place to fail and learn. But we try not to make them cry.

I'm never sure how to imagine heaven, but a feast where everyone brings what they have and God blesses it with peace and joy seems pretty close.

Give Up

I've given up trying to write my name in the snow.

I just don't have the leg, bladder, or balance control needed to pull it off. Today I admitted defeat after getting pee all over my boots and falling on my ass in the snow. 

That's cold.

As soon as I told myself to give up, I started thinking what an odd phrase "giving up" is. It sounds like surrendering to God. 

"Giving up" made me think of prayer rising like incense. I lift up all those things beyond my control that break my heart but I can't fix or save so I have to entrust them to a "higher power." 

There are things I need to give up. I try to play god and it doesn't work out well for anyone.

But I don't think peeing my name in the snow is one of those things.

It's more like something I need to put down.

There's probably a whole list of stuff I need to put down too.  

• Obsessions that aren't worthy of my time let alone God's. 
• Hurts that I drag along for a whole myriad of reasons, none of which are overly healthy. 
• Defeats, regrets and failings that I should set down in the snow and move on. 

I preach this sermon to myself on a regular basis and then promptly ignore it. My tenacity is one of my redeeming qualities and my fatal flaw. Once I latch onto something, it is nearly impossible for me to let go. 

I'm not a bitter person. I don't hang onto grudges, but I will continue trying to fix something long after it should have been laid to rest.

So, now that my boots are dry and my ass is warm, I'm blaming my bibs, the dog, the depth of the snow for my failure and I'm thinking about buying a Shewee. One more try and then I'll put it down.

All are welcome

"All are welcome" is bullshit. . . 
at least as a slogan for the community gathered and grounded in the death and resurrection of Jesus.

It's entirely appropriate for most other gathering places.

It's a lie for churches. Whoever convinced the community of Jesus followers that our mission was to welcome all people into our building and hope they conform to be like us should have to sniff my girls' volleyball knee pads.

It's liberal Christian bullshit (in the historical sense not political sense). It's a by-product of the Enlightenment when dealing with death and resurrection didn't groove with rationality so we replaced it with being nice to everyone and trying to do good things.

Here are my top two complaints with this church slogan:

1. This is going to sound insensitive, but people who are filled with hate do not belong in our worship. Everyone shouldn't be welcomed into the sacred space where we gather around the table as the community of grace. 

It doesn't mean people consumed with hate are beyond redemption, but I don't think Sunday morning worship is where that happens.

Worship is the place where followers of Jesus gather to be fed with good news and the body and blood of Jesus so we may live as the body and blood of Jesus in this world.

That takes me to #2

2. The church's mission isn't to welcome people, it's to get our asses into the world to love and forgive. We don't welcome people consumed by hate into our worship, but we do engage everyone where they are, we seek to break into the isolation and hate with some love. When the church's mission is about getting people into church, then everything gets screwed up.

I understand that churches have been jerks to lots of folks who were called by the Holy Spirit to gather with the community following Christ and were refused at the door because they didn't look or act like people expected them to. That is bullshit too, but the remedy isn't trite slogans that make us pat ourselves on the back for being inclusive. The remedy is actually trusting what God is doing in this world.

I trust a God who is in the business of gathering, not a god who sits on his ass waiting for everyone to come to him. 

We are gathered by the power of the Holy Spirit and the Holy Spirit always messes with our expectations of who gathers around that table. 

And we are sent into the world to meet people where they are with love. We are the scattered church where people encounter the grace of God, the shattering love of God, and the all-welcoming embrace of God.

Silence

I curled up with Dostoevsky* last night. 

Kirt's gone so he'll never know and there is no better companion who can hold despair and hope together without diluting either (there are probably better options for warming the bed though).

The Brothers Karamazov all held me tight as I wrestled with the nature of evil, violence, and faith. 

The quotes that sustained me were from the lips of Father Zosima:

If the wickedness of people arouses indignation and insurmountable grief in you, to the point that you desire to revenge yourself upon the wicked, fear that feeling most of all

And

Fathers and teachers, I ask myself: "What is hell?" And I answer thus: "The suffering of being no longer able to love." 

I've just let those thoughts roll around in my mind as I find myself grieving and wanting to spew out blame and easy answers.

I feel reactive and raw so I spent a good chunk of today in silence. It is my protest to the violence of our words and culture. 

And then I did a Jesus thing. I fail doing this a lot so I feel like I need to mark it when it happens.

I gave thanks for the little things I could hold onto in the midst of the chaos. 

The part of communion that tends to stick out to me is "In the night in which he was betrayed, our Lord Jesus took bread and gave thanks. . . " The night his friend betrays him with a kiss, Jesus freaking gives thanks for a loaf of bread.

In the midst of wanting someone to pay for the betrayal of humanity, I tried to lose myself in thankfulness for the little things around me.

The elusiveness of the cranberry

My faithful companion

The grace of changing seasons

The beauty of icicles and waterfalls

I need to be quiet.

I need to give thanks even in the midst of such craziness. 

Because I don't want my righteous indignation to turn into my hell.


*Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881) was a Russian novelist who wrestled with the meaning of existence and the role of suffering and God. He was also much greater than Tolstoy could ever dream of being.