Faithful and Perfect, Yes and No

A few years ago, I started to recognize and work on my perfectionist and achievement tendencies, thanks in no small part to encountering the Enneagram and learning about the gifts and troubles of my 3 type (you can learn more here and here). I read and meditated on being honest about my failures and limits, of working to be “faithful” instead of perfect. The idea here is that I can be faithful in my work and habits, plugging away and doing my best with grace for myself, open to the possibility that life can be good without being The Best. It’s the freedom to respond to one more invitation to responsibility with a “no,” when a “yes” for perfect’s sake would throw off balance, or rob emotional and spiritual well being.

Of course, if you adopt an idea and fail to re-examine it for a few years, guess what? “Faithful” is just a new name for “perfect,” a word well intended now hijacked by that addiction to have my shit together all the time and with excellence.

Suddenly this week I found myself in that manic frame of mind, thinking that a job change, buying and moving into a home, being our child’s primary caretaker, and adding a full-time summer intensive at Sewanee would be fine.

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But it’s not fine. I’m a human being and need to do things like eat and sleep and play with my baby and talk to my partner. If this formation to be priest is going to be more than just hammering out course credits, there needs to be adequate space to actually learn, not just regurgitate.

What dramatic life shift have I chosen, you wonder?

I’m just going to take one class instead of two, and try to remember to drink more water. That’s pretty much it. Because, frankly, I don’t trust myself to keep a good heart with a lofty goal plan—it’s too easy to slip into measuring and grading how well I’m doing… on letting go of accomplishment. And for someone whose identity is wrapped up in being turbo all the time, it’s harder than you’d think to say “no” to efficient, to closer graduation dates, to career advancement. Instead, this summer I’m going to say “yes” to a glass of wine in the evening with A., “yes” to good sleep, “yes” to painting my new bathroom and meeting our neighbors, “yes” to actually reading for class. Maybe even “yes” to potting herbs on the balcony or doing more little yoga videos.

How about you? What are you saying “no” to this summer? What gets a resounding “yes”?

Catching up

It’s been awhile since I’ve updated the blog or carved out space to write. Seminary mama has been hard at work on finals, life transitions, and new projects. Don’t be fooled by a nice blog template—there have been a lot of hot mess mama moments and half-developed term papers, and I’m trying to find the grace in good enough parenting and good enough theology.

Shoot. S. just woke up from his nap…

Alright. We’re settled with an iced coffee for me and a dumptruck full of cheerios for him. No, really, this is how we snack.

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To start, I’m now three weeks into a new position as the Director of Youth and Children’s Ministries at a great little parish in Nashville. This position came as a major answer to prayer, providing financial stability, career development, and more structure for our family in just the right season. St. Ann’s is a beautiful bunch and I’m honored to join and serve their community. Some of my blogging energy has been redirected to developing a regular content feed for the parents, providing some conversation starters and lectionary tie ins that families can use through the week. Feel free to subscribe and let me know how the conversations unfold!

Screen Shot 2017-05-18 at 3.43.25 PMWe’re also in the process of packing to move to the Little Condo, which will probably get its own story in time. Sufficient for now is that we are lucky and privileged to know where our next home will be. Nashville, like many other cities right now, is developing in economically unjust ways. My partner’s work for the last couple of years is mainly in tenant organizing and policy change for better development, so we’ve been aware of these problems for a while, but the process of searching for housing with the added anxiety of a child in our lives has brought a deeper dimension to it. Check out the work of Homes for All, that everyone can have a roof over their heads.

 And finally, right now I’m transcribing an interview for my friend Michael, whose next book will explore conversations of power and justice and reconciliation. It’s such an honor to contribute to his work and get to hear the first draft conversations with some amazing peace and justice workers. This guy is a great interviewer picking great minds—keep an eye out for the book!

As things settle out I’ll be getting back in a groove with making space and quiet where the reflections can grow. But of course, baby is about to start walking, so we shall see how the writing schedule goes.

Good Friday

We’ve moved into Easter season, but I only just had time to edit and organize these jotted thoughts from Good Friday. Please excuse my disconnect from the liturgical calendar! 

During the last two seasons of Advent and Christmas, I felt connected to Jesus in a profound way. Not too surprising that I could meet Jesus as son—I was pregnant along with Mary through Advent, and the following year, supplied my own baby to be Jesus in the manger. What I didn’t expect was to see Jesus as my son this week, Holy Week. In church I sat with S. listened to the trial, the beating, the execution, the burial. An astounding sermon by a friend colleague who also did chaplaincy work in the pediatric ICU, bravely speaking about the dying children.

The beloved child is being killed. He didn’t outlive his mother the way he was supposed to.

The precious roly-poly manger baby grew up. He listened to your lessons and corrections, he paid attention in synagogue. All grown up. He took all the law and the prophets to heart, listened more than you anticipated, and gave up everything to go around, healing and loving and listening and preaching. You spent the last few years loving his loving heart, sending your prayers, shaking your head at his strange ways, worrying that he might be stirring up trouble with his strange friends.
The stakes were high. Too high. If it weren’t all so horrifying, you’d be proud, so proud and astonished that the little speck of cells in your womb, the toddler you spanked, the teen you grounded, is this grown, beautiful, brave man.

There is no resurrection today. No hope. There is only the echoes of pain in your own body as you watch his broken. That pulling knot deep in your belly—you haven’t felt that since those first days after you birthed your last baby, that painful jerk of womb and breasts at their little cries—it’s back and stronger and bringing you to your knees.

Spirit is a She

Last weekend, I preached 3 back-to-back services in a congregation where I’d never preached before. S. and I had gone to stay with my parents in Georgia and he refused to sleep more than 45 minutes at a time for two nights in a row.

On Saturday night I had a weepy meltdown—maybe the system is just too hard. It would be easier not to do this work, not to keep fighting over and over for space for myself as a mother, to justify the beauty of my embodied roles that weave into my priestly roles.

Sunday morning after the first round of my sermon (Father Óscar Romero as one who, like the man born blind in John 9, had his physical and spiritual vision transformed and followed a risk taking God into costly grace—Amen?), I stood dutifully by the door of the church between the priest and deacon, shaking hands. “Thank you, beautiful day, happy to be here.” A woman, probably in her 70’s, grasped my shoulders and leaned to my ear. My stomach plummeted in the half second of waiting. What on earth had I said to warrant this? Am I in trouble?

“Did I hear you say that the Holy Spirit is a ‘she'”? she asked in a loud whisper. “Yes ma’am you did,” I whispered back. And she hugged me tight then let me go again to clap her hands and exclaim, now loudly, “I always thought so too!”

We chatted a bit more and I told her what I’ll tell you: This isn’t some shock value contribution, a sneaky added pronoun to ruffle feathers. The female Spirit is part of the Christian tradition, moving from Lady Wisdom in Proverbs to a God experiencing labor pains in bringing new life in and from the world in Galatians. It matters that Spirit is comforter and counselor, roles of feminized association. That which is debased as women’s work is the divine person and work of God. And that matters a lot.

While God is beyond the social construction of gender, we have so far to go on our anthropologies and theologies of gender before that can be practically  meaningful. As long as I have to retreat to my car to pump breastmilk between services, separated from my breast baby for hours in order to preach the gospel, we need to name and highlight the “she-ness” of God. As long as a guest can still assume that the two full-time women priests on staff at the chapel must be filling in for their part-time male counterpart like some sort of spiritual understudies, we need to name and highlight the “she-ness” of God. My little nieces and nephews and my son need Her, comforting and counseling. The seventy-some-year-old church ladies need Her, seeing themselves made in God’s image in their particularity. God knows, when I’m crying because I don’t know how to shoulder through one more sleepless night, doing the work that my female body must do, I need Her, nourishing and tirelessly keeping watch with me.

Yes ma’am, Spirit is a She!

What has the she-ness of God meant for you? When do you need Her?

Rolling on clary sage, fennel, and ylang ylang for all the embodied woman support.

This week in Lent

Matthew 11:28–30
“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

From A Room Called Remember by Frederick Buechner
To be commanded to love God at all, let alone in the wilderness, is like being commanded to be well when we are sick, to sing for joy when we are dying of thirst, to run when our legs are broken. But this is the first and great commandment nonetheless. Even in the wilderness — especially in the wilderness — you shall love [God].

I recently told a friend, “Nothing will make you pray to Jesus like having a baby.” And it’s true. Not always in some profound way, but often like “Dear God make him sleep” and “Lord have mercy, I don’t know if I can keep nursing him with all these teeth,” and “Keep me kind, keep me sane.”

In these weeks of teething, rocky sleep, and small but strong opinions, parenthood is breaking me, sapping me of what I thought I had to offer, what I knew, what version of self there was before, what capacities for accomplishment were wrapped up in my life and work. I’m deep down in my bones and deep down in my spirit tired. I haven’t done laundry, much less checked in with God beyond those stretched-thin mama pleas for present grace.

In the above passages, two of this week’s readings for Wednesday Eucharist, there was so much deep acceptance for those stretched-thin mama pleas for present grace. The difference between my tired efforts and the efforts of God in me is blurred, brokenness and wholeness together all at once. In the Ash Wednesday liturgy we are reminded, “to dust you shall return,” and I am dust and dirt, all broken up and low, and at once rich and full of life, more promising and complex than meets the eye, nurturing the next things in myself and in S.

Weekend Recommendations

Keeping it simple on the blog this week with some recommendations for the weekend. These are the things filling up my heart and mind and keeping our home happy on this Mid-March snow day.

Our dining room window looking out on a spring pollen tree and an inch of snow. Hello, climate change…

To watch: The Great British Baking Show 
If you haven’t found this gem, check it  out. A refreshing, positive break from US American competition shows, it’s all beauty and encouragement and delicious baking ideas.

To diffuse: patchouli and orange
High quality patchouli has more depth and complexity and less funk than you might associate with the name. It’s so grounding and relaxing. The orange adds some lightness and sweetness. Relaxing and sweet—what more could you want from your weekend?

To listen: Laura Gibson Pandora station
Mostly 5+ year old music, but I’ve been returning to this curation since college, and it’s perfect for a slow weekend of home project catch up and quality time with my boys.

To imbibe: stovetop chai latte
I mixed together some goodness this morning and it couldn’t have been easier. Put 1/2 tsp each of cardamom and cinnamon, a crank of black pepper, a smidge of coriander, a heaping Tbsp of looseleaf black tea in a saucepan and cover with water (about 2 cups). Bring it to a boil, then turn down to simmer for about 10 minutes. Take it off the heat and add almond milk and honey to taste, then pour through a sieve. This was enough for me and A to each have a big mugful.

To read: this article from The Atlantic
Since moving away from rural East Tennessee, my interpersonal encounters have moved more left of center, having fewer conversations with folks described in this piece. But these were, and still are, my people in North Georgia and East Tennessee. I think it’s important to remember, particularly for white leftist organizey folks, that the backlash against Muslims, immigrants, and people of color is rooted in fear. That fear might not be backed up by statistical evidence or historical experience, but it is real, and it makes itself known through violence. I must stretch myself to remember this part of my formation and to face my violent fears, the remnants of Trumpism that are in my heart. Otherwise I’ll just be responding from my own fear and anger in turn, unable to respond with the compassion that actually brings about change.

That’s all for now. I’m going to slow dance with my baby to Laura Gibson and maybe mix up another batch of that tea.

What are you watching? Listening to? Savoring? Thinking on?

God made known in generosity and courage

St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church
Harriman, TN
15th February
Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18 and Matthew 5:38–48

Epiphany is that season of the liturgical year when we crane our necks and peel our eyes for all the ways that God is showing up around us. We are invited to see the Holy Spirit in the life of Jesus, to wonder at the proclamation of God’s glory written on creation, and today, we are asked to consider how God could show up in the way we treat one another.

Now, I know a lot about good behavior. I grew up in North Georgia, just a couple of hours from here, and was raised to have good manners and be a good girl, a nice young lady. In my little Georgia city, when we were about 12 years old or so, those of us from certain families found ourselves stuffed into our Sunday best and shuttled off to the gym of the United Methodist Church for afternoons of what they called “Junior Cotillion.” Do you all have this in Harriman? Did some of you poor souls undergo the same trial as children? It was excruciating! I can think of twenty things I would have rather done on a Saturday afternoon. And while we were beginning to like the idea of liking boys, to our horror, when we got up close, the girls realized that by and large, they didn’t know what they were doing any more than we did. They were all a head shorter than us and had terrible sweaty palms. And while the abilities to do a basic waltz, write a thank you note, and know my dinner utensils have served me well, being a nice girl has not.

Here’s the thing about being a nice girl, about niceness in general. Nice is too often a poor replacement for loving. Nice is too often silent in the face of injustice. Nice is so accommodating that it begins to fear any confrontation. Nice keeps to itself. Nice cannot discern when, for the love of God and neighbor, we can no longer afford to be nice, and our love needs to be fierce and creative and courageous, rippling out from us to impact the world.

Today’s scriptures are about so much more than nice. This gospel passage is God’s invitation to a holiness that is huge, a move toward making ourselves and our world whole. In Leviticus, the law tells us not to hate anyone in our heart, but then situates this inner love is in our culture, society, and economy. This is a love far beyond nice. God’s love and justice are about setting our relationships and community right, and God is calling us now to gather courage and participate in this work. The Old Testament reading offers us first a vision of proactive love, courage, and generosity. The Gospel reading gives us a way to think about responsive love and courage in the face of oppression or hurt.

Stay with me this morning. This is hard and demanding and runs counter to most of the values of United States culture in our time. But it is also more creative and fun and satisfying and joyful than any other vision of ethics I’ve seen.

So first we have this call to proactively care for the vulnerable.

“When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap to the very edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest. You shall not strip your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen grapes of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the alien: I am the LORD your God.”

Do you remember Ruth? Hers is the story behind this commandment. She was a widow and a foreigner in need, who went out gleaning in the fields, taking the bits of grain and produce left behind from the harvesters. Her story is a story of hope because Boaz, her late husband’s relative, kept this law of Israel and recognized that what was seconds to him could be more than enough for someone in need.

Leviticus is reminding us that there something more important than maximizing the profit margin. God’s telling us that our fields and our harvest are not really ours. We don’t possess any of this. Let the anxiety of owning nothing wash over you. Feel the precariousness of all we think we have sit for just a moment, and then notice if there is an inkling of relief along with the nervousness.  We are called to build in a margin, a gap between what we need and what we could take.

This generosity takes foresight and thoughtfulness. It sees that the laborer, the one living check to check, needs their wage sooner than later. This generosity takes the disabled person into consideration, seeking to make the community accessible.

And so we see that love, the creative, courageous love that God is inviting us to practice, moves from the state of our hearts outward and back again. We tend to our inner circle of a loving heart, then move from there to just work in the world. Then we come back to home base, think about what we have seen, what we have been doing. We meditate, consider, cultivate deeper thoughtfulness and compassion.

The laws go on to say, “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the LORD.” and this brings us to the Gospel reading.

We know from Jesus’ teachings on the Good Samaritan that our neighbor is rarely someone easy for us to love as ourself. Neighbor ends up being all kinds of people we’d rather not deal with. And here, Jesus is talking about how to respond to acts of aggression and violence in the context of Roman occupation. The way that we face unjust leaders and laws, the way that we respond in the face of vitriol is the response to a neighbor. More than ever, separated by partisan politics and the cloak of facebook comments, we need the reminder that we are connected, that our responses to one another aren’t just a bomb we get to set and walk away from, that the conclusive mic drop doesn’t exist.

“If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you.”

These instructions deserve a look at their cultural and historical context. First, turning the other cheek. Most people are right handed. A blow to your right cheek from a right handed assailant isn’t a punch in the face. This is a backhand slap of humiliation. If I’m hit like this, to turn the other cheek doesn’t mean that I’m being a doormat—saying, “Ok, hit me twice.” It means I’ve turned to look them in the eye. If they hit you again on the other cheek it will be after seeing your face, your humanity, and to hit you on the left side, your assailant would have to hit you as an equal.

If someone is suing you for your coat, that means that they are pressing you in court for resources you don’t have. You don’t sue someone for clothing, you sue them for money, for payment to right the wrong. Jesus is condemning the exploitation of taking someone to court when all they have is the clothes on their back. To give not only the coat but the cloak is to strip yourself naked, right there in the court. You are saying, “See me! See that I’m a human like you! See what your injustice is doing, stripping me of everything!”

Under the rule of the Roman Empire, a soldier could force a subject to carry his gear for one mile. It didn’t matter what you were doing, going about your day. If a soldier wanted your help, he could command it, no questions ask. You can imagine that this experience would range from an aggravating inconvenience to a humiliation that drains the last of your time and strength when you’re just trying to hold things together. But imagine, won’t you, the soldier who’s conscripted you to walk his gear. He stops and says, “Ok, that’s your mile.” But you don’t stop. You grimace under the weight of the work and keep trudging along. “Wait a second! Stop! That’s your mile!” Now he’s jogging to keep up with you. Maybe other travelers on the way have stopped to watch, surprised and laughing. By continuing on, you are confronting the soldier and the unjust practices. You have forced him think twice about his behavior and the harmful system without moving toward violence or detraction in your confrontation.

I recently heard a story about Martin Luther King Jr., when he was marching in peaceful protest alongside the community in Chicago. This was during the same time that he was hit with a brick. As they were marching, they passed one of many angry counter-protestors, a white man there to harass the marchers, screaming profanity at them. Dr. King looked at him and said, “You’re too smart and too good looking to be filled with so much hate.” The Civil Rights protestors saw that the hatred and racism was eroding the souls of white antagonists who were so bent on racial segregation and oppression. Calling for a more just world meant calling out the humanity even of the most hateful and harmful people.

And this is how we go, in the path of a Christ who drove the moneychangers out of the temple, but put his whip not to the human beings, but to the tools of oppression. We follow his footsteps, with our eyes on the grace and goodness of the Father, accepting the invitation of the Holy Spirit to deeply notice ourselves and one another, the invitation to move beyond nice, to take the sacred risk of generosity, love, and courage.

I want to leave us this morning with a few questions.

What is your field and harvest?

Are you stripping it bare, keeping the plenty and resources all for yourself?

Who is the neighbor who could be nourished by your abundance?

How are you experiencing that backhanded slap?

Where do you see the abuse of empire at work in your community?

Who is looking you in the eye, inviting you to see their humanness?

Whose eye must you look into, to commit that brave act of vulnerability and asking that your humanness be seen?

May the God who created us, lived among us, and breathes in us now, be made known through our treatment of one another, glorified in our generosity and courage. Amen.