Bringing New Meaning to "Trick or Treat"

The not-so-new but increasingly popular trend for women's Halloween costumes are the sexified versions of old favorites: Dorothy, The Queen of Hearts, Witch, Pirate. The weirdest one, if you ask me, is Sexy Nun.

What's next? Sexy Hermione?

(Actually, that's available too.)

Just when we women think we've come a long way, baby (the dumbest catch phrase ever), just when women are running everything from countries to multinational corporations to universities - it's still so much easier to attract attention with other body parts besides our brains.

My daughter and I started playing a game together as soon as she could carry on conversations with me. When we'd see girls at the mall dressed like this, we'd have this exchange:

Me: What do you think they think of themselves?

Daughter: They think they're important only because of their bodies.

We continue to have this exchange even today. My daughter never asks if she can wear shorts like this. Not gonna happen. But even the Halloween costumes for young girls have gone from fun to flirty. (Read this.) For all our diligence to raise healthy, strong girls, there will always be forces trying to tell them that they are only important because of their bodies.

So . . . may Halloween bring sweet little Dora the Explorers and Bob the Builders to your door. May the big kids who invariably show up be zombies or Hershey kisses or political candidates (because even 18 year olds need Reese's Pieces.) And may our daughters figure out that they are more important than their gypsy lips or their hula girl midriffs.

Photo by Louisiana photographer Haynes S. Ragas (1928-1998) from a New Orleans Public Library display.

Members Only?

"Membership has its privileges."

American Express ad campaign 1987-1996

Home with my codeine and lotion-softened tissues, I am pondering church membership. (The ecclesial pondering just never ends.)

My particular context for ministry is a highly transient neighborhood where many newcomers to Our Nation's Capital first live before either 1) returning "home" to raise their families near parents, 2) relocate with the military, or 3) move out to the more distant, affordable burbs. We have a steady flow of visitors, some of whom stay in the area a few months or a few years, and they wonder, "Why join?" if they are only going to be with us for a limited time.

"Why be a member?" I am asked. Here are possible answers to that question:

• Membership has its (practical, clubbish) privileges: you can be married in and buried from our sanctuary at virtually no expense. You and/or your child can be baptized. You can use the social spaces for family events. Pastoral care from clergy or church officer is at your disposal.


• Membership has its (constitutional) privileges: you can vote in congregational meetings and, if called to service, be elected to office (unless you are gay).


• Members are held accountable, subject to denominational standards and discipline.


• (To people who don't care about denominations but have a serious commitment to God) Membership is like marriage: a couple can be thoroughly commited to each other without benefit of marriage, but there is something about standing in front of witnesses and stating your intentions that seals the commitment.

Especially with our informal evening service, we have several people who have no intention of ever "joining the church" even though they may lead worship, facilitate small groups, and participate in outreach and social activities. For at least one, there is something discomfitting about the requirement to meet with the elders ("as if they are judging her," she says.) Others will ask, "Why join, if I support the church financially and can participate anyway without my name being on some list?"

Good questions.

There are countless congregations with large numbers in terms of the membership rolls, but their worship numbers (those who regularly attend Sunday services) are a fraction of that number. IMHO - a church with 500 "members" but an average of 150 in worship is fooling itself.

So, do we need membership rolls? Isn't this merely a blast from the 20th century-I'm-also-a-member-of-the-Rotary/Lions/Loyal Order of Moose Clubs era? Our names are on "the rolls" so that's all the commitment we really need to make?

Some find it unnecessary and maybe even unseemly that denominations charge apportionment dues per member to each congregation, groaning about "overhead" and paying for programs they may or may not like. But this is also the way denominations are equipped to do what they do best: join individual congregations together to serve in ways they could never serve alone to build hospitals, for example, or plant new churches. And we need administrative people to keep those programs running smoothly, much like any non-profit needs staff to make ministry possible.

We also need people to administrate the processes of 1) preparing candidates for professional ministry (as long as we have professional ministers) and 2) ensuring healthy boundaries and relationships within congregations. Example: Human sinfulness sadly means there will be narcissism, abuse, power games, and rank disobedience to God, and so we need people to keep order and hold us accountable.

In my denomination, there are plans to alter some of the rules. But I'd love to hear from some of my non-denominational friends on whatever covenants/rules/processes they have created as they've built their communities.

Is the answer actually about numbers? If we were all house churches would we need thick constitutions? Could we still collaborate to create life-changing ministries?

(Let's Not) Focus on the Family

As a newly ordained pastor (a couple decades ago) someone gave me a subscription to Focus on the Family, the monthly magazine published by the organization of the same name. James Dobson seemed especially popular in those days - The Go-To Guy for guidance on how to deal with rowdy toddlers, disinterested husbands, and (the 80s version of) desperate housewives. Before I arrived at my first parish after seminary, the congregation had ordered the VHS FOTF series to show to the whole community - a wholesome values sort of thing.

[Background: I love my family. I go on vacation every summer with extended family. Nuts about family time. Love dinner together, reading together, church together. Family rocks. However . . .]

Something always bugged me about the FOTF focus. Clearly the whole enterprise was not about "family" as much as it was about a certain kind of family that wasn't all that Biblical although they couched themselves as The Biblical Model. Not much Matthew 12:46-50 talk.

James Dobson has been hailed, revered, feared, reviled, and occasionally ignored. Yesterday in the Sunday NY Times Magazine, he got some more attention. I find this frustrating because I have been done with him for a while now. But he's still The Go-To Guy - at least for secular journalists.

This article notes that he's lost his control over many of his former devotees. He will not be the kingmaker in the next presidential election. In fact, as we all know if we read newsmagazines, the candidates of his party seem considerably less FOTF-esque than the three leading candidates of the other party.

Of the people I read regularly, only Scot McKnight was quoted for this cover-story article. But some of the emergent ideas that have been brewing for about a decade bubbled up throughout. Our theology is shifting, and I believe the shift is more biblical (by God's grace.) It's less America First. The Focus is more global.

Jesus never focused on his family, unless we are talking about the universal family of God.

His family included promiscuous foreigners and desperate parents and people on the edge. His family includes James Dobson and his wife and two now-grown kids. But it also includes my friend D. and his partner J. (who doesn't particularly believe in God - yet.) It includes the immigrant parents who come into our church building every weeknight to learn computer skills and the assorted addicts who come through our doors almost every day. It includes the war civilians along with the soldiers and their families.

I'll go out on a limb here and say that Jesus' family even includes our Muslim brothers and sisters, who will never meet Jesus if we hate them.

My favorite story - told and retold:

(Muslim computer student from Morocco, on the night of his graduation from the training program sponsored by our church, insisted on having his picture taken with me to the point of not leaving me alone until he got the shot.)

Me: Tell me about this picture. What's it for?

A: I'm embarrassed to tell you this.

Me: (in my head) Just as I thought: he's going to tell his relatives that I'm his new American girlfriend or something, even though I'm old enough to be his mother.

A: When I told my family in Morocco that I was taking computer classes in a Christian church, they told me to get out of there, that those Christians want to kill me! But I told them, 'No, they don't want to kill me; they want to save my life.' So . . . I wanted to send them a picture of the priest of the Christian church that is trying to save my life.

Me: (in my head) I am an idiot. But God is amazing.

I am completely sure that A. is in Jesus' family. This kind of thing should be our focus.

(And now . . . still reeling from cold-turned-to-laryngitis/coughing crud, I'm going to try to get some sleep before doctor's appointment later this morning.)

Nodding Heads

Over 120 people showed up today at the Equipping Leaders Event with Tony & Sally which is a good turnout for this area, but considering what else was going on, we were fairly thrilled. It was a good day.

Positives: Lots of nodding heads. I love those moments when you think you are just one of a handful of people who has longed for something/hoped things could be different, and suddenly you realize there are quite a few more.

Negatives: (How do I put this nicely?) Colleagues in ministry who don't act like colleagues in ministry.

The fact that this event happened at all is a bit of a victory for the church I love. Conversation that makes us think in new ways - whether we agree wholeheartedly or not - is always a good thing.

Happy Reformation Sunday.

You can order your own Martin Luther bobblehead here.

Big Weekend

I have great hopes.

Two years ago, there was a Presbytery-wide Leadership Training Event that looked like the Leadership Training Event offered the year before that and the year before that. You know the drill: Lively keynote speaker/preacher. Workshops like Rotation Model Sunday School and Tips for Deacons Training and Ideas for Attracting Young Adults.

Last year, somebody asked me and S. to plan a different kind of Event - especially since only a handful of people registered in '06. And so we tried to do something a little different, and this is the weekend.

Tony Jones and Sally Morgenthaler are coming. We chose Breakout Groups intended to inspire actual Breaking Out. There will be music that - we hope - will stir souls. This is my prayer.

I love the church even though it makes me crazy. I'm frankly surprised that more people haven't gone the way of Sam Harris -- raised by a Jewish mom and a Quaker dad but now winning the hearts of good, thinking people who find the church to be hypocritical, intolerant, mean, out of touch, and basically nothing like Jesus.

But I have hope for this weekend. Not because there will be quick fixes or miracles, except for the miracle of people gathering on a Saturday when they could be sleeping in. We'll gather in hope because God can do great things, even in the church.

Window by Marc Chagall is one of the 12 windows representing the 12 tribes of Israel in the Hadassah University Medical Center in Jerusalem. This is the window of Levi, the tribe "appointed to serve the sanctuary" and teach the people of God.

Laying Low

. . . but need to stop.

Not feeling so hot today, so I'm laying low. Big weekend ahead.

"Teeter's" - Yesterday & Today

I had been anxiously awaiting October 23 for many months now -- not because it's the day my parents married in 1954 and not because we had a Deacons' Meeting scheduled (as much as I love our deacons.) I'd been waiting for this day because . . .

the new Harris-Teeter Grocery Store in our neighborhood was scheduled to open its doors.

We altered our family schedules last night to attend "A Taste of Teeter." Really.

My grandfather was the first butcher at the first "Teeter's" Grocery Store in Mooresville, NC back in the 1930s. Owner Willis Teeter was a family friend and fellow Presbyterian. I remember this store in the recesses of my brain. The meat section took up the back of the building which was about the size of your average 7-11. In addition, there were staples: flour, sugar, bread, eggs, butter. You could buy sacks of rice and oats. The produce department was rather small but served its purpose.

Clearly the "Teeter's" of my childhood and the new "Teeter's" near my house are completely different operations.

My new HT has a sushi bar and an elevator. On the second floor there is a pharmacy and a wine department. You can buy organic yogurt and free trade coffee and whole wheat pasta. And this is not even one of their Mega Stores. This store is your basic urban food market with all the necessities (birthday cards, deli) that you might find in any city with limited real estate.

But it's not just a small town versus big city thing. It's illustrates a cultural shift.

I once led a monthly church staff meeting at Wegman's which is the FAO Schwarz of grocery stores. The closest Wegman's to our house is a good 30-45 minutes away with traffic, but it was worth it to make a point.

The staff sat in one of the cafe balconies overlooking the colorful, bountiful aisles of gorgeous food. (You could have your wedding reception there.) We'd picked up dinner in the downstairs cafe which offered everything from a sandwich bar with endless deli choices to a hot bar with everything from beef stroganoff to lobster bisque to a salad bar with twenty kinds of lettuce.

And for others who came simply to fill their pantries, the balcony also provided a grand view of the shopping aisles: the fish market, the olive bar, the rows of cereal which included everything from Cheerios to Swedish power snacks. You could buy Italian pottery in the housewares department. You could find a high end grill to take home with your ready-made barbeque pork spareribs and wasabi slaw. There were generic brands for the cost-conscious. And there were brands you can also find at Zabar's in NY.

I asked our staff "So . . . how is this different from the grocery stores of your childhood?" The answers were obvious: more color, more choices, more activity.

And then I asked, "How is our church different from the church of your childhood?" Clearly the grocery stores are dramatically different after the passing of several decades. But our churches? Not so much.

*This is not to say that our places of worship must be more colorful with more choices and more activity. Again, it is a cultural shift. The people who now require something different from the "Teeter's" of the mid-20th C. also require something different from their mid-20th C. churches.

Again - it's not about offering a salad bar of choices (denominational curriculum vs. Nooma vs. Oprah or traditional hymns vs. soft jazz vs. Psalters.) It's a cultural shift.

We have been waiting for the opening of this new place for a long time. Last night there was wine flowing (the "taste" in "A Taste of Teeter") and people were hugging in the aisles. This was a grocery store opening and it was weirdly community-building. It was like a party.

Basic Human Need meets Wedding at Cana.

So it all makes me wonder: Will it ever be like this for the church? Was it ever like this? Do we even understand that the culture has changed and we can no longer be the church we were in the mid-1950s.

The metaphor is imperfect. But the questions are serious.

Old photograph of 1930s era grocery store in Crane County, Texas.

Professional

Spent monastery day in a museum with H. and was reminded why I love Vanity Fair. Annie Leibowitz takes pictures that look like fine paintings. Absolutely beautiful.

This exhibit includes lots of "relationship portraits" -- photographs of her own family together, of other families, of groups of people connected by work/ideology/projects. And H & I ended our time together talking about relationships - specifically relationships in the church.

We who are professional ministers are asked to keep professional boundaries. We are paid to be the confessors, spiritual guides, and even friends of a specific community of people. And when a particular "call" ends, ostensibly the relationship ends. Our judacatories require this.

Example: Let's say I serve a congregation for twenty years and come to love the people with whom I've worshipped lo those many years. We've been with each other through the sordid and the sublime. We've sat side by side in emergency rooms and outside ORs. We were called when it was time for the baby to be born or life support to be removed. They've whispered to us about their affairs, addictions, and legal problems. They are our family. We love them. They are a part of our story and we theirs.

But then we leave for next call and according to our Presbyteries, for example, we are discouraged from contacting - perhaps even forbidden to contact -- these people. I get that staying connected can be unhealthy in many situations. But I know of at least one pastor who has welcomed the former long-term pastor back for events, knowing that the congregation loves him. And it's been fine.

So much depends upon the emotional health of the congregation and the pastor.

Here's the thing:

• I wonder if it's really possible to be a "professional friend." Is my guard always up? Should it be? Am I always in an "elevated" place in terms of pastor/parishioner relationships - not because I am more important but because I am supposed to be "the professional"?

• Is it ever safe to disclose my own secrets to a parishioner - much less to the whole congregation? Is it appropriate to share my own doubts?

• I would think that - to be authentic - I have to be willing to share some of my life with those who share their lives with me. (This is one of the biggest concerns for my GLBT pastor friends: if they are closeted, the guardedness that comes with keeping The Secret spills over into basic relationships. There always seems to be a little distance - because there has to be.)

• This all impacts sexual misconduct issues too. As H. wondered out loud today: Is it possible that a "sexual misconduct pastor" is not necessarily "the predator" while the other party in the misconduct is not always "the victim"? We use this language when discussing such issues, but I wonder if the language tells the whole story.

As long as there are Professional Ministers, there will be questions about boundaries, etc. I never learned about any of this in seminary. But it's an important conversation to have when trying to figure out identity and role.

It's an art to negotiate these relationships. Sometimes we help create a beautiful portrait of what church is supposed to look like. And sometimes we don't. What do you think?

"Remember, When We Were Kids . . ."

When my sibs and I get together we often talk about life when we were kids.

We have code words: Chamois. Brown Sugar. Tough Gminski. It's extremely annoying to our spouses and kids.
I have generally rationalized this behavior -- the re-telling of stories ad nauseum -- as part of our on-going grief process. Our parents died young. This is our way of holding the extended family together.

What I Learned at Parents' Weekend:

Yes, it has something to do with grief.
But no, it's not about dead parents.

My husband and I are very much alive. But we observed our kids reviewing their childhoods this weekend - as if their childhoods are over. Clearly, with one "gone" - off to college halfway across the country - that's how it feels. We even cried a little when we left each other Sunday morning. And I don't think it was about not seeing each other again until mid-December.

It was about the passing of time.

We cried because we love each other and we don't get to see each other every day and we don't know everything about each other anymore. (Actually I haven't known everything about them since they were babies, and HH and I were their one and only source of friendship and care.)

The grief is layered. We miss the daily camaraderie of siblings born so close together that their baby years are blurred. We miss FBC's pals hanging out at the house. We miss setting the extra place at the table. We miss the additional schedule to juggle.

But we know we're lucky. Our kids are alive. They like each other. They (usually) defend each other. FBC wanted his sibs to meet his new friends -- they'd heard "all about them."

Nevertheless there's grief. Just a little.

Life is flying by. There's a sense of urgency to do the things we want to do, say the things we need to say. Because flights must be caught and meetings are scheduled and there are assignments to complete.

I'm telling you, it's a blink.

Identity

I have been many things in my life: Pizza Hut Waitress, Social Worker, Head Cheerleader, Sorority Girl (Pledge Trainer) and Office Temp. I've been a Wimpy's Fry Girl (for a day), a Planned Parenthood Volunteer, a Girl Scout, and a Daughter. I've been the Star Projectionist at a Planetarium and an Art Museum Docent. I've been an Award Winner (Parallel Parking Award in Driver's Education) and a Flutist. I also won the Costume Contest at a bar during seminary. I was a Fairy Princess.

All those identities are in my past.

Also in my past are assorted Mom Roles: Babysitting Co-op Member, Elementary School Room Mother, PTA Board Member, Field Trip Chaperone.

This weekend I take on a new role: I will be A Texas Parent.
Actually, I've been A Texas Parent since August, but this weekend it becomes My Mantle, My Way of Being, My Primary Identity.

I will wear burnt orange (even though I'm "a summer" or maybe "a spring" and appear to be near death in burnt orange.) I will pose for photographs with a tall guy dressed as a Longhorn. I will eat copious amounts of barbeque and Tex-Mex. My neighbor tells me I will also eat Gingerbread Pancakes. (Might draw the line there.)

I will meet Other Texas Parents and we will compare notes on where we are from and how our kids are doing. We will nod a lot.

There will be hugging. And stories. And we will be amazed at how mature FBC seems. And it will be great. Back on Sunday.

Conversations

Emergent Church is called a conversation instead of a program, theology, denomination, etc. Conversations are a wonderful way to ponder a different way of being the church.

One of the best things about working with M - or any creative colleague - is the collaboration. And in looking at how we - the church - might serve God more faithfully, we are hoping to engage people to have conversations about how/why we do what we do. Asking questions gets us started.

A Conversation About Visitors

- Are regular visitors becoming connected?

- Do the visitor letters work?

- Is there a better way to track worshippers than (the ugly) folios?

A Conversation About the Offering

- What does it say theologically to pass a plate?

- Do people connect their giving to transformation?

- Is there a way to inspire giving by giving in new ways?

You get the picture. If everything is up for discussion, it's not a matter of voting at some point ("So who wants to get rid of the brown "friendship folios' - raise your hand.") Not everything is up for a vote. It's more about thoughtful discussion and being intentional in how we do ministry. Somebody invariably says, "What if . . .?" and interesting things happen.

And with time and grace maybe we'll discover that there are no more "solo pastors" any longer.

Way too lonely. Too much pressure.

Image by media artist Rafael Lozano Hemmer for bitforms. Lines created by tracking paths via surveillance cameras and other technologies.

Other People's Children

Whether you have kids or not, this article by Kathleen Deveny strikes a communal nerve. She overheard a couple of pre-teen boys make a racist comment, and she later regretted not directly calling them on it.

When - if ever - is it okay to correct somebody else's child?

When - if ever - do we step in?

There are obvious, heroic situations: A toddler's standing in the middle of the street and we have the opportunity to scoop her out of harm's way.

But basically, unless physical danger is involved, we mind our own business.

We say things like:

- "It takes a village . . ."

- "No child left behind . . ."

- "No one is somebody else's child . . ."

But the reality is that we live less like a village and more like a world of private enclaves. It's become taboo to discipline someone else's kid. We barely discipline our own kids. To step in seems to challenge another family's inalienable right to raise their children/live however they choose.

But what about these scenarios?

- You see a teenage girl you know at a city bus stop weeping. A young man her age is with her and he has a look of utter disdain on his face. Is this merely the neighborhood version of Dawson Creek? Has this boy literally hurt this girl? [I phoned my daughter and asked her if I should offer L. a ride home, and she said, "I'll take care of it, Mom."]

- You hear kids you don't know talking about a middle schooler you do know and it sounds like the middle schooler is having sex with most of the high school. Your own kids confirm this rumor with evidence that the rumors are true. You know this girl, her parents, her friends, but not well. Do you directly say something to somebody? Would you want someone to tell you if this were your daughter? [Update: parents apparently know and think it's normal for their young teenager to be sexually active. Help me Jesus.]

Of course, I'm talking about two issues here: 1) mean/rude behavior and 2) danger. But both involve inserting ourselves into somebody else's life. In these uber-tolerant times, is that ever okay?

When my own parents left us with a babysitter or even a Sunday School teacher (several decades ago) my dad always said, "Treat them like your own" which meant "love them/protect them/correct them as if they were your own children." This is essentially what a congregation promises when they participate in somebody else's child's baptism in the name of Jesus Christ.

We once lived in a culture in which it was assumed that everyone knew and watched each other's children. And all children were baptized into God's family if not as infants then at least as young teenagers. What if we all looked upon every child as if we had made those vows for them too? Would that make a difference?

For the record - if you know them - please feel free to love/protect/correct my children as if they were your own. And please let me know if you see them crying at bus stops or if you hear they are hurting themselves. Or better yet, just step in and remind them - with or without words - that they belong to God.

Painting is It Takes a Village from unknown Nigerian artist.

Ripple Effect

Just got my copy of Everything Must Change: Jesus, Global Justice, and a Revolution of Hope and will be reading it on the plane to Texas this weekend.

Although EMC clearly covers far-reaching theological and cultural issues, I realize more than ever that even the smallest cultural/liturgical/organizational change can start a ripple effect that

1. makes us tired even before we get started because of the multitude of hoops we must jump through
2. disrupts the (not necessarily profound but beloved) everyday Rituals of Church.

For example . . .

Someone suggested last night after staff meeting that we stop collecting the offering during 11 AM traditional worship the way we collect it now/have been collecting it for 60 years: ushers passing the gold-colored, felt-lined plates.

Let's say we make the simple change from passing plates after the sermon . . . to placing donations in baskets at the sanctuary doors either on our way into or out of worship.

This small change would impact the choir (when would they sing their anthem?), the ushers (when would they count the collection?), the liturgy (when would we dedicate the gifts?), the finances (what if visitors don't contribute as much because there's not the same pressure to drop something into the basket?) not to mention the ones who are basically opposed to any change in the way we've always done something.

Any of us who've ever been in a Mainline Church worship committee meeting know that this kind of change - which seems ridiculous to readers not from a Mainline Church - would evoke sentimental comments like "I remember when my grandfather was an usher and collected the offering wearing white gloves" implying that -- if I have these memories then we cannot possibly change the tradition.

Our congregation has PayPal on our website and others mail their contributions into the church office. It's entirely possible that the ushers could pass around the plates on a given Sunday and almost nothing goes in, because everybody who's going to make a contribution has already done so. Nevertheless, these little changes are what cause people to "leave the church" or at least grumble in the parking lot. And in the grand scheme of life, this all sounds so ridiculous.

I look forward to reading Brian McLaren's new book. But - on my most pessimistic days - I realize that if we struggle so dramatically with small-time changes, how can we expect to change "everything" without utter collapse? Maybe that's the point.

Only Her Hairdresser Knows For Sure

Both the Sunday NY Times and the Sunday Washington Post had front page stories yesterday about Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, African American women . . . and beauty parlors. The setting for both stories: The Palmetto State.

Between color treatments and curling irons, those interviewed - predominantly black women over 60 -- discussed with journalists the virtues of electing someone of their same race versus electing someone of their same gender. Who would better serve them as president? Who would better serve the country? They talked it out over hair weaves and curl activators.

There is something soothingly comfortable about a beauty salon.

Although we sit in chairs - often in front of huge plate glass windows - not yet looking our finest, we feel oddly comfortable. Our heads might be wrapped in towels, our hair might be wrapped in foils or curling irons but it's perfectly fine.

My stylist's salon is literally in front of a metro station, but I have no qualms about strangers walking by and seeing me with an oversized bib around my neck and hair clips sticking out all over my head. I wouldn't even care if friends walked by. It's very strange.

Sometimes we are so comfortable in the stylist chair that we share secrets. It's as if we are thinking, "Heck, the stylist has already seen my roots, I may as well spill my guts too."

The shampoo person has already lulled us into a semi-numb state by massaging our skulls and rubbing great-smelling treatments through our hair. By the time we get to the stylist's chair, we'll say anything.

So when Kate Seelye of the Times and Krissah Williams of the Post asked questions of potential voters in the local beauty parlor, the customers were happy to talk.

• To Seelye: "I feel like the Lord has put man first, and I believe in the Bible.
• To Williams: (in reference Bill Clinton's misconduct) "I'm glad she stayed. Hillary's no fool."
• To Seelye: "Hillary's husband has a lot of wisdom and knowledge and that will help her."
• To Williams: (about Obama) "I think basically white people won't vote for him.

We who have experienced Bad Hair Days can identify history according to celebrity hairstyles (the 70s, the 80s, the 90s for white women; the 70s, the 80s, the 90s for black women.)

We understand the power of a good cut - a power only our hairdresser can wield. And so we trust them. We tell them what's going on in our lives. And they listen.

Should we trust them to offer wisdom about politics? Probably. They hear a lot of comments from a variety of people.

In my first parish, a more experienced friend told me that the most important person in a small town was the person who cuts everybody's hair. She advised me to get to know the town stylist/barber first. Apparently this is also something the press has figured out.

Painting is The Beauty Parlor by Rati Basu (1994) from a 2007 exhibition at the Casoria International Contemporary Art Museum, near Naples,Italy.

Why I Love Our Church

So many things to write about this weekend:

- Religious Comp Time

- Al Gore's Nobel

- "Muslims Call for Interfaith Peace"

- First Anniversary of M.'s Death

But instead I want to tell you how cool our church is.

I stopped at the church building around lunch time today, wearing sweats and sneakers, to pick up a Sunday bulletin.

Parking lot was packed with people and cars. Some people were carrying parrots. (Yes parrots, as in tropical birds.) Some were twirling batons.

Inside the building there was loud squawking (more parrots), lots of giggling (high schoolers in the women's bathroom), and many others walking and talking, going in and out. Adult computer students were practicing their skills at the end of the hallway. Assorted Twelve Steppers were meeting in the lower level.

I love this church. And I'm not talking about the building.

I love the attitude of a church that wants the building to be used 24/7, and not for money-making ventures because the leaders are wringing their hands saying, "we've got to pay our bills to survive!" Actually, the money comes when a community is sold on the importance of a church's ministry to that community and beyond. (And most groups donate something which makes them responsible for this space too.)

We happily recognize that our building is a tool for ministry and it would be poor stewardship not to use it every day. And while we use this space for worship and small groups and classes and church meetings and office space, it's happily used also to rescue abused birds, teach adults computer skills, support people addicted to alcohol and narcotics, and provide a place for our semi-famous local high school to line up their band and parade cars for Homecoming.

And in a perfect world - this is our home at least on earth: the church. Not the building (although it's nice to have a lovely, paid-for, centrally located space for ministry.) It's the people who fling open the doors of the building to the community and focus of healing, life-giving ministries. It's the people who equip each other, support each other, love each other.

Okay, can you tell it's a beautiful day in Our Nation's Capital and it's making me all soft and starry-eyed?

It's just that today is one of those days when the church is doing exactly what it should be doing. We can't say that about every day. But today? A glimpse of perfection.

Memories & Words

My Mother (at the stove cooking one random night in the late 1970s):

You've never in your life given us a single worry.

Me (stirring something):

You have a really bad memory.

How do we forget the past when it involves regret or disappointment?

What if it involves mass killings?

We have friends who are Armenian Christians. They have shared bitter comments about what happened between the Armenians and the Turks in 1915. Or maybe I should say "what happened to the Armenians by the Turks." Actually, it happened to their grandparents' generation.

We also have friends who are Turkish Muslims. They are perfectly nice people and liberal enough politically to - most likely - have no problem with what a Committee of the House of Representatives did Wednesday. Frankly, we haven't asked them.

But generally speaking, Turkish officials are up in arms over calling the mass killings of Armenians "genocide." They acknowledge it happened. Just don't like the "G" word.

Some say we need to keep Turkey happy in waging the war in Iraq, which is interesting because - stay with me here - it sounds like they are saying that - in our 21st Century effort to fight terrorism - we do not want to offend a nation that terrorized their own neighbors in the early 20th Century.

Clearly time does not heal all wounds. Ask the Palestinians. Or African Americans. Or Native Americans. For that matter, we could ask some of my Southern relatives why they still call Northerners "Yankees." How do we move on?

Some say just do it: Get over it already.
Some desperately need a powerful word attached to their experience so that everybody gets it: This Was Genocide.

In ministry, we often find ourselves declaring Acknowledging Words. Not Genocide, but other words - you know which words - that clarify the depth and profundity of human pain.

We hold people and pray with them and cry and say those words out loud. Attaching the honest word to their real experience legitimizes their pain.

We remember only as much as they need to remember before they can move on. And then we pray for that famous peace that passes all understanding.

Thank God most of us do not have to hear stories of genocide everyday. We are a sheltered people. But everyday, even in our comfortable little lives, we need to attach the right words to things that have really happened to our brothers and sisters.

And then, we can move on. And eventually, maybe . . . we can forget.

Painting is Parting by the Armenian painter Minas Avetisyan (1928-1975) whose parents escaped the 1915 Genocide.

Accountability for Dummies

These are Levitical Days . . .

I'm leading a small group studying Leviticus -- actually two of them: one on Wednesday afternoons (for the home-during-the-day crowd) and one on Wednesday evenings. Love it.

I had never studied Leviticus (except for those fun abomination passages) quickly losing interest during the repetitive how-to chapters on the proper way to burn a goat. But now that we are studying this as a group, it's not only tolerable; it's fairly fascinating.

Just as I was thinking, "What does any of this really have to do with anything in our post-modern 21st Century lives?" the connections began. I'm talking about sin and accountability and who doesn't deal with that everyday? (Check out Leviticus 5 & 6 for some semi-interesting early Honor Code history.)

Discoveries:
- It is impossible to commit a sin in a vacuum. Really. Name one sin with zero community impact. Obvious examples: drunkenness, promiscuity, stealing your neighbor's goat.
- Any faith community worth it's salt (metaphor intentional) encourages accountability. If we notice destructive/unloving/hypocritical behavior, we are obliged to speak privately with sisters/brothers in Christ and lovingly call them on it.

Along this same path, Nathan moments abound this week:

• Thanks goes to S. who asked me to name what restful things I'd done this week. And to M. who always asks if I took my day off.


• Thanks to J. who asked me if I'd done something I was asking ornery colleagues to do in a recent Presbytery newsletter article. (I hadn't.)


• And I've also found myself in the Nathan role for someone else.

And so it goes. Anybody else thinking about sin today?

Blogoversary

On 10-10-1886, the tuxedo jacket debuted in NYC.

On 10-10-1933, the first synthetic laundry detergent (Dreft) went on the market.

On 10-10-1959, Pan Am introduced its global airline service.

On 10-10-2005, A Church for Starving Artists was created with the encouragement of a blogging sister and others.

Thanks for reading.

New Favorite Movie

Saw Darjeeling Limited on Columbus Day with HH and loved it.

That's about all I can say without ruining it. Please - somebody else watch it so we can talk.

What I can say is that the E Street Cinema in DC is so fabulous. Looking forward to this movie there too.

For W.

(Not that W.)

On Sunday morning we had some kind of Twilight Zone Thing going on with our church during 11:00 worship. The Head Usher didn't show. One of the Godly Play volunteers couldn't make it. The communion servers were not around. The reader during communion could not be reached. It was weird. And a bit stressful.

We cannot do ministry without our community, and by that we're talking leadership. Because we 1) have a building and 2) need logistical support, we cannot lead worship without people to turn on the AC, lights,and mikes, teach our children, and serve communion. We really depend on the musicians, the choir, the volunteers who arrange plates of cookies and make coffee. We are blessed with committed people, and yet we (I) worry about what happens when people can't keep their commitments. We are all overwhelmed.

So today, I'm immensely grateful to a Hill worker, trying to make a life, who is amazing and gifted and committed. He made it all happen on World Communion Sunday. Thank you, God, for W.

PS Also, on another note, I just realized this is my 500th post. wow.

Garden & Gun, Life & Death

The best thing about getting my haircut - apart from the haircut itself - is checking out the magazines in the salon. There is always something interesting I don't read at home.

Yesterday I discovered Garden & Gun: 21st Century Southern America which was interesting to find in this salon since the owner is a Jamaican woman who doesn't seem to be a big Pat Conroy fan. And because I still consider myself a Southerner and am defensive about Southern stereotypes, I picked up this glossy periodical and looked for foolish gun articles to criticize.

But as The NY Times reported when G&G debuted, the magazine is more garden than gun.

What's funny about the south is that it often feels like we are all related. At least everybody in the Carolinas seems to be related. I looked through the editorial board and contributors and came across people I know or feel like I know.

And then the next person who sat down and picked up the magazine said, "Oh look, there's Jimbo" to her daughter as if she was reading the local newspaper. "I'm from Alabama," she said to me, as if that explained everything.

Maybe everybody in Alabama knows each other too.

But what really feels strange is that -- stay with me here -- reading parts of this magazine felt like home. I am utterly connected to my roots - not the gun part, and not even the garden part (although I come from a long line of farmers.) The literary part feels very close to me.

I read through lyrics that James Taylor writes and can picture the very creek in the song. I read the works of Reynolds Price and Clyde Edgerton, and feel like I know those people. Actually, I do know those people. It feels like home.

So, Garden & Gun is not really about either. And church is often not about faith. And life is often not about life, but about death. And it's because of death that this magazine struck a cord. And it's late and I'm probably not making much sense at this hour.

And I'm thinking that Garden & Gun might not have a long life in the publishing world. But I hope it does.

Found

I once was lost but now am found,

was blind, but now, I see.

John Newton

I recently purchased a subscription to Found Magazine - a strange little periodical that publishes stuff people have found on sidewalks, in ditches, along paths:

• A contract between a young man ("Mason") and his mother ("Deborah") involving Mom's agreement not to punish her son for selling drugs to buy soccer equipment. (Mom had not yet signed said contract.)


• A post-it note from "Buffy" from a friend regarding a jail incident.


• A message jotted down on lined paper defending "Millicent's" decision to park where she did, because she "didn't know he would be arrested and they'd search the car." (?)

This is a bit like PostSecret. It feels like we are peeking into someone's private life. And I suppose we are.

I'm amazed what people tell me as their spiritual advisor. It is a privilege and a humbling responsibility to carry secrets. I know who is addicted, unfaithful, suffering, and guilty. I know who has longings and cravings. I know who pines away and who suffers in silence. It is - again - an awesome privilege to be the one told.

I wake up in the wee hours, floating in twilight sleep, and I pray for them. Their secrets are safe. But this is against my natural personality.

I like to share news - especially good news. It's not my place to share who is pregnant and who is engaged. I can't possibly share who has been sober for five years and who is recovering from an ugly breakup. But what an awesome privilege to know.

Here's the thing: I should not be the only one to know.

I want people to have the kind of relationships with others in our spiritual community that they could tell their secrets/confessions/hopes to others too. I want them to feel safe doing this.

Years ago, a great guy confided to me that he was dying of leukemia. This was a guy with lots of friends. He didn't tell a single one of them. He played sports with them, spent weekends with them, participated in projects with them. But he would not tell them. It made me nuts.

How close can you really be if you are afraid to share a secret?

God, of course, knows. But I believe God wants us to feel safe enough/trust enough to share our failings/news/tragedies with our brothers and sisters in Christ. This is what makes a community of faith. They tell me, perhaps, because I'm sworn to confidentiality. My prayer is that they will tell someone else because they share a common bond through Christ.

I once found a diamond ring in my back yard. I'm talking about a nice, platinum-set, multi-carat ring. I was 10. It was quite a treasure to discover in the dirt.

I've also found meaning (and treasure) in relationships. Sharing secrets makes us see life a little clearer. Do you know what I mean?

Sacrifice

We are studying Leviticus and I've got sacrifice on my mind: the gory (dash the blood against the side of the altar), the curious (it shall be slaughtered on the north side of the altar), the seemingly senseless (throw away the crop on the east side of the altar).

While sacrificing bulls and pigeons is not necessary these days -- at least for 21st c. followers of Jesus -- I'm here to admit before God and you that I'm not very good at making sacrifices unto the LORD.

I have quite a few Mom/Self-Sacrifice points*:

• Bought cleats today for TBC that cost more than the last three pairs of shoes I bought for myself. (But she needs better cleats -shin splints- and she wears them for several hours every day of her life.)
  
• Let my kids eat the last CakeLove cupcakes for dessert while I ate a banana . . . looking pathetic.
  
• Offered the lone hair cut appointment available with our favorite stylist to TBC -- and I (sort of) meant it -- but I must have been having a really bad hair day because she said, "No Mom - you take it."

Okay, so . . . maybe I'm not even that great with Mom/Self-Sacrifice.

Spiritual sacrifices, however, are very hard. (*And about scoring "points"? It's clearly not about that.)

• If we have lots of time on our hands, is it really a big sacrifice to volunteer an afternoon at a shelter?
• If we have lots of money and everything we need, is it really a sacrifice to tithe?
• If we are "professional Christians" who find "Pray" and "Study" as part of our job descriptions, is it really sacrificial to take time and energy to do these things. Not really.

The point, it seems, is to stop. God wants us to stop and make some effort that really means something. Just look at Leviticus 1 and notice what a pain it was to make a frickin' burnt offering. You couldn't just slaughter the bull and be done with it. There's all the detail about washing the entrails . . .

Maybe it's just me, but I'm sacrifice-challenged. It's even hard to give up Wednesday nights at home for Leviticus. But my hope is to create a closer relationship with God and those who gather. I'm fed too, so how much of a sacrifice is it really?

So is anybody making real sacrifices in your community of faith?

Painting is The Sacrifice of Abraham by Rembrant (1635) in the Hermitage, St. Petersburg.

Stealthy Insects

. . . and I'm not talking about the church officials bugging one of my RevGalBlogPal colleagues in this 19th week of Pentecost. (They know who they are.)

I woke up to read in the newspaper this morning of a $ 2 million Stealthy Insect Project to train honeybees to sniff out explosive devices. This is my favorite part:

Researchers placed each bee in a tiny harness, exposed the insects to various explosive scents for six seconds, and then provided a sugar-water reward.

I want to know more. I want to know if there is a general "bee manager" or if there is a flow chart of various bee personnel: the harness fitter, the explosive scents designer, the coordinator of sugar-water rewards. I want to know exactly how stealthy they really are. (Do they hover as if looking for something to pollenate? Or do they zoom in from afar, take a whiff, and then zoom away?)

Clearly the soldiers must be specially trained to look for a honeybee's "extended proboscis" using a tiny television camera. It sounds like a lot of trouble, but we are talking about life and death here.

I've written before about church people as bees in a colony. The same bee who can sting me, can also work to help save my life. Amazing.

The stealthy part of this story is that these bees are surreptitiously working for good. The downside is that they don't live long, so the window for usefulness is small.

Sort of like the way our own lives are. Unfortunately -- again thinking about my blogging friend in another state -- her supervisors seem to think their purpose involves stinging. Ouch.

Tired

Cynthia Rigby mentioned last week, when she lectured about imagination at our Presbytery meeting, that everybody seems to be tired. She's right. It's how we now live.

We are Tired People.

Notice how many people, when asked how things are going, will say, "I'm tired." Or "I'm really tired." Or "Things are crazy busy and I'm a little tired." Or "I've never been so tired."

My grandmother raised seven children on a farm without a dishwasher, and I never heard her say she was tired. Of course, she didn't also have to run the kids to an array of activities, commit to PTA events, work outside the home to pay the mortgage, or keep tabs on her email every day. Still . . .

When will this stop? I'm thinking that by the time I'm not dealing with parenting my kids and going to meetings and working to pay the mortgage,* my bones will be too tired to do some of the other things I hope to do.

There is a website called simply http://www.tired.com/. They want to know why we are tired. Slate wrote about this site a few years back. No answers are offered by the people/tired guy at that site. They just want to know why we are the way we are.

I don't want to be tired, and so I am asking - for the sake of abundant life and for all of us -- let's encourage each other not to work all the time, not to over-function.

Mostly, let's give each other (and ourselves) a break.

Cartoon by Drew.

Painting is of Sukkot by unknown artist .