True Confessions (anybody else remember that magazine version of the Maury Povich show?)... I am a country music fan. If there is war talk on NPR, I switch to the local country music station and it never fails me. A song will come on that starts me to thinking. This morning on the way to get paint for mama I heard, “These are my people. It ain’t always purty but it’s real.” This is a wonderful description of my love affair with churches and church people.
I’ve belonged to all sizes of churches. Some had forty people in worship on a good Sunday and others routinely had over a thousand. The larger churches offered multiple programs for us and our children... choirs, youth groups, mission trips, many choices for adult programs, libraries. You could always find a small group within the large group. Worship that fed my soul with beautiful music and thoughtful proclamation was on the menu at these larger churches and our family flourished in these communities. The smaller churches, while not a cafeteria of options for the practice of my faith, provided a different way to live in community.
The smallest church I have belonged to was Pauline Baptist Church. The small, austere white frame no nonsense sanctuary with pine floors and pews that would break your back was crisscrossed with a framework on which curtains could be drawn to create Sunday School classrooms. The preacher, who belonged to the suck and blow school of proclamation, was a long lanky old man who still wore a black frock coat and string tie on Sunday.
We joined that church when I was a teenager who was sick at heart leaving the church and friends of my childhood. Only one other teen girl attended Pauline and I felt lost. Sunday mornings, once full of anticipation, now lay heavy on my heart. Slowly, a place was made for me in that small kinfolk congregation. I began to play the piano in worship, sing in a girl’s trio (another girl was imported for this group), listen to the stories told by Miss Flossie and Mr. Jess, visited the Rizer family and others who were our neighbors, and began to become a part of that church family. My first wedding was there and I was surrounded by those who had loved me through to young adulthood. I no longer saw what wasn’t there but celebrated what was there... kinship, community, a family of Christians who knew how to stick around for the long haul, unimpressed by fancy trappings(a good thing since we had none), straight talking plain Baptists.
The largest church I ever belonged to was in a growth spurt when we came. A charismatic preacher was pulling them in on Sunday mornings and the church was full of energy and excitement. Morning worship would have over a thousand souls sitting in the beautiful sanctuary. When we first joined, I would take our children on Wednesday nights for the evening meal and activities. Michael was often working and could seldom attend. Many nights in the beginning, I sat alone and left to go to the church library to read until prayer meeting began. I began teaching one of the children’s groups as a way to be useful.
Gradually we began to find community. We helped found a Sunday School class that used literature along with the Bible to hear the voice of God speaking. Sitting in the same place for worship every Sunday, we began to meet those who sat around us. I took organ lessons from the church organist and reclaimed a talent that had been neglected since college. I joined an exercise class that met in the church gym and brought my youngest with me to the childcare that was provided. There I met other young mothers who became part of my church family. A small church within a larger church...
Regardless of the size or theology or worship style, each community was chock full of people who were real, pretty or not. And, that included me. That is the gift and the curse of organized local churches... a place where folks are real like the Velveteen Rabbit, rough and worn out and angry and sad and happy and smart and dumb as a post. In other institutions where our livelihood or our public character needs protection, we play nicely. The church, however, is one place where most of us let it all hang out on the community clothesline to dry. To my mind, that is one very good reason for being a part of a faith community. Like home, most churches will take you whatever shape you are in. Alcoholic? Come on down. Nag? We have a seat saved for you. Single parent hanging on by your toenails? Sit by me. Upper middle class white male? Junior League soccer mom? Illiterate young adult? We have a spot for you. Come rub shoulders with the rest of us works in progress and lets be real together. Not purty, but real.
As I embark on a new church journey, I give thanks for all the real people who have been my faith family through the years. I am looking forward to being initiated into this new family of mixed up folks who are my travel companions on this trip. We are red and yellow, black and white, precious in the sight of the One who holds us together with the love that transforms the rough places into pearls of great price. Traveling mercies for us all, Lord, as we make our way home to you.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Beach notes 2010...
Beach notes 2010...
I walk the beach early every morning. I wake, have my first cup of tea and go to the beach, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by my oldest grandson, Matthew. Sunrise and sunset are for me the most precious times of the day at the beach. Quiet, empty spaces of endless sand and water move me towards the boundless God who set this wonderful creation in the midst of an unimaginably vast system of planets, stars, suns and moons.
My first drawing for the week is of my foot on the beach seen from above. I walk the beach with my feet passing through a universe of small shells. As I examine the remnants of the little lives once lived in these tiny hard houses, I feel like a god. Then I lift my eyes to the flat horizon, the ocean waves that never cease their dance of praise, the dolphins with graceful leaps of joy, the pelican squadrons flying low and in perfect formation, ghost crabs lifting cautious eyes above their sand hole homes scouting out the territory, and I remember it is God who has made us all.
Ours was the last generation to worship the sun. Doctors prescribed walks in strollers outdoors for babies because the sun was good for us. We worked in the fields until we were old copper penny brown pausing in the middle of the day for respite from the heat. Ladies of leisure (and teenagers) laid out in their backyards coated in a mixture of iodine and baby oil in search of the perfect tan. We rode on the ocean stretched out on reflective floats with our feet and hands dangling in the water, riding the waves, feeling the rhythm of the earth dance in the waves that flowed beneath us. The sun was our friend.
Now like so many other body parts of Mother Nature, the sun has been transformed into our enemy. We slather on concoctions of chemicals designed to hold the sun at bay, to protect us from its harmful rays only to discover some of the cures may be as dangerous as the UV rays.
We beach walkers come in at least three models. There are the straight up walkers who walk (or run) standing tall with arms pumping, looking to the right and left occasionally but focused on the goal that seems to lie straight ahead. They speak but rarely linger for conversation.
Others saunter, relaxed, dipping in and out of the waves as they walk. Sometimes they bend over to inspect a shell or stop and survey the horizon line. If someone passes by, a conversation may ensue. They take time to pet the dogs, smile at children and speak to those strangers who might be new friends.
And then there are the shell seekers who walk bent over, scuttling like crabs amidst the treasures cast up on the beach by the shell god. They pick up shells, inspect them, choose to keep or cast away, and return to the search looking up only to avoid collision with other shell seekers. Occasionally they stand straight to walk to the next patch of shells.
I confess I am a member in good standing with the saunterers and shell seekers. I have no goal or purpose when I walk the beach other than the discovery of beauty in whatever form I find it... moon shells with their iridescent spiral towards center, Duchess the English bulldog who loved me, little children building sand castles, dolphin bodies glistening grey, the turtle nest protected by a web of orange plastic, the moonlight path on the calm evening sea...a labyrinth of beauty with God at its center.
I am fascinated with shell fragments, the left overs when sun, sea and sand have carved the original shapes into new forms. My drawings are of pieces of sand dollars, old clam shells that are pitted and worn, small whelk shells that are shaved off on two sides, beach glass worn smooth, jagged edged scallop shells. I am a shell fragment, my soul worn down over the years to its core shape, open on all sides, jagged scars where wounds have healed imperfectly, pitted and scarred by my passage through life. And I am beautiful in my own time, a creation of God that is perfect in my own imperfection.
“God has made everything beautiful in its own time and has put eternity into our mind yet we cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” Thanks be to God for the beaches in this world that remind us of endless love and boundless grace, perfection in imperfection.
I walk the beach early every morning. I wake, have my first cup of tea and go to the beach, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by my oldest grandson, Matthew. Sunrise and sunset are for me the most precious times of the day at the beach. Quiet, empty spaces of endless sand and water move me towards the boundless God who set this wonderful creation in the midst of an unimaginably vast system of planets, stars, suns and moons.
My first drawing for the week is of my foot on the beach seen from above. I walk the beach with my feet passing through a universe of small shells. As I examine the remnants of the little lives once lived in these tiny hard houses, I feel like a god. Then I lift my eyes to the flat horizon, the ocean waves that never cease their dance of praise, the dolphins with graceful leaps of joy, the pelican squadrons flying low and in perfect formation, ghost crabs lifting cautious eyes above their sand hole homes scouting out the territory, and I remember it is God who has made us all.
Ours was the last generation to worship the sun. Doctors prescribed walks in strollers outdoors for babies because the sun was good for us. We worked in the fields until we were old copper penny brown pausing in the middle of the day for respite from the heat. Ladies of leisure (and teenagers) laid out in their backyards coated in a mixture of iodine and baby oil in search of the perfect tan. We rode on the ocean stretched out on reflective floats with our feet and hands dangling in the water, riding the waves, feeling the rhythm of the earth dance in the waves that flowed beneath us. The sun was our friend.
Now like so many other body parts of Mother Nature, the sun has been transformed into our enemy. We slather on concoctions of chemicals designed to hold the sun at bay, to protect us from its harmful rays only to discover some of the cures may be as dangerous as the UV rays.
We beach walkers come in at least three models. There are the straight up walkers who walk (or run) standing tall with arms pumping, looking to the right and left occasionally but focused on the goal that seems to lie straight ahead. They speak but rarely linger for conversation.
Others saunter, relaxed, dipping in and out of the waves as they walk. Sometimes they bend over to inspect a shell or stop and survey the horizon line. If someone passes by, a conversation may ensue. They take time to pet the dogs, smile at children and speak to those strangers who might be new friends.
And then there are the shell seekers who walk bent over, scuttling like crabs amidst the treasures cast up on the beach by the shell god. They pick up shells, inspect them, choose to keep or cast away, and return to the search looking up only to avoid collision with other shell seekers. Occasionally they stand straight to walk to the next patch of shells.
I confess I am a member in good standing with the saunterers and shell seekers. I have no goal or purpose when I walk the beach other than the discovery of beauty in whatever form I find it... moon shells with their iridescent spiral towards center, Duchess the English bulldog who loved me, little children building sand castles, dolphin bodies glistening grey, the turtle nest protected by a web of orange plastic, the moonlight path on the calm evening sea...a labyrinth of beauty with God at its center.
I am fascinated with shell fragments, the left overs when sun, sea and sand have carved the original shapes into new forms. My drawings are of pieces of sand dollars, old clam shells that are pitted and worn, small whelk shells that are shaved off on two sides, beach glass worn smooth, jagged edged scallop shells. I am a shell fragment, my soul worn down over the years to its core shape, open on all sides, jagged scars where wounds have healed imperfectly, pitted and scarred by my passage through life. And I am beautiful in my own time, a creation of God that is perfect in my own imperfection.
“God has made everything beautiful in its own time and has put eternity into our mind yet we cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” Thanks be to God for the beaches in this world that remind us of endless love and boundless grace, perfection in imperfection.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Of morning songs and evening prayers
Dan, Wendy and their three daughters, Lily, Chloe and Em are back in the states looking for a home and jobs. For the past four years Dan has been pastor of an English speaking church in Beijing, China. It has been a grand adventure and an opportunity for the whole family to become a part of another culture. Dan loves being a pastor and hopes to find a church where he can exercise his gifts. Wendy, fluent in Japanese, with experience in the corporate world, would love to find work, too. Dan has been our friend since his days as a student at the seminary where Michael was a professor. Now he and his family are here at Montreat doing camp for the girls and themselves as they seek to find their new home.
Sitting on the deck last night, we were watching the sunset and the moonrise. Venus shone brightly as the stars began to appear. The moon was wreathed in a mist and the air was cool and damp. As we sat, my heart settled down and my soft evening prayers began to fly upwards toward the brilliant gilt edged clouds. It had been a hectic day full of work and traffic jams of many kinds. I felt frayed and tattered but the evening sounds and sights worked their magic and I began to see and hear the world around me uncluttered by a need to do anything or go anywhere. Swifts were flying through the air gathering their evening meal and they were soon joined by the bats dining on mosquitoes.
I gave the girls wide mouthed Mason jars so they could catch fireflies. Dan and Wendy spoke of the pollution, the brown hazy air that surrounds Beijing and the ambient light that blocks out the starlight. The saddest thing to me, however, was not pollution (we have our share) or the lack of starlight (go to any large city here) but the loss of songbirds. Mao ordered all the songbirds in the city killed during his tenure as ruler of China. There are no songbirds in Beijing.
Every morning during spring, summer and fall, we wake to the sound of birdsong. The rooster is not the only one with a morning composition to sing. Cardinals, bluebirds, indigo buntings, wrens, finches, even the brash caw of crows give us a sweet transition from sleep to waking. I cannot imagine a world without songbirds... morning sounds that do not include songs that are sung for pure joy by creatures other than us.
From our beginning times, when God said, “...let birds fly above the earth... and let birds multiply upon the earth...” we have had winged song slip sliding through the air that surrounds us, often unheard and unnoticed, but there nonetheless. I am reminded that the voice of God can be heard singing in these multicolored creations that exist as pure pleasure in a world of utility and multi-tasking. Give me ears to hear today, Lord, the songs you send me. Let me lift my voice in song to join birds in praise to the One who gave me life and breath and joy in living. Grant me a heartsong that is as pure and joyful as the morning hymns sung by the birds, Lord. The old hymn is right, Abba...How can I keep from singing?
Sitting on the deck last night, we were watching the sunset and the moonrise. Venus shone brightly as the stars began to appear. The moon was wreathed in a mist and the air was cool and damp. As we sat, my heart settled down and my soft evening prayers began to fly upwards toward the brilliant gilt edged clouds. It had been a hectic day full of work and traffic jams of many kinds. I felt frayed and tattered but the evening sounds and sights worked their magic and I began to see and hear the world around me uncluttered by a need to do anything or go anywhere. Swifts were flying through the air gathering their evening meal and they were soon joined by the bats dining on mosquitoes.
I gave the girls wide mouthed Mason jars so they could catch fireflies. Dan and Wendy spoke of the pollution, the brown hazy air that surrounds Beijing and the ambient light that blocks out the starlight. The saddest thing to me, however, was not pollution (we have our share) or the lack of starlight (go to any large city here) but the loss of songbirds. Mao ordered all the songbirds in the city killed during his tenure as ruler of China. There are no songbirds in Beijing.
Every morning during spring, summer and fall, we wake to the sound of birdsong. The rooster is not the only one with a morning composition to sing. Cardinals, bluebirds, indigo buntings, wrens, finches, even the brash caw of crows give us a sweet transition from sleep to waking. I cannot imagine a world without songbirds... morning sounds that do not include songs that are sung for pure joy by creatures other than us.
From our beginning times, when God said, “...let birds fly above the earth... and let birds multiply upon the earth...” we have had winged song slip sliding through the air that surrounds us, often unheard and unnoticed, but there nonetheless. I am reminded that the voice of God can be heard singing in these multicolored creations that exist as pure pleasure in a world of utility and multi-tasking. Give me ears to hear today, Lord, the songs you send me. Let me lift my voice in song to join birds in praise to the One who gave me life and breath and joy in living. Grant me a heartsong that is as pure and joyful as the morning hymns sung by the birds, Lord. The old hymn is right, Abba...How can I keep from singing?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Of rifles and romance...
Daddy gave me my first lesson in shooting the rifle when I was nine or so. I learned how to load the gun, clean it, hit a target and basic safety rules. The Sunday afternoon practice sessions were utilitarian as well as fun. A gun on the farm was a tool just like other tools in many ways. The tractor and pick up truck I learned to drive were also tools that helped with farm work. The rifle was a necessity sometimes, not pleasant but required. A rabid raccoon, a dying cow, a rattlesnake, butchering animals for meat... the rifle was used to end life and we knew it. There was no romance attached to the firing of the rifle.
Daddy kept the rifle in the back corner of his bedroom closet, unloaded. The bullets were in the top drawer of the chest. If he needed to shoot coyotes threatening the baby calves, he had to load the single shot rifle on the run. I don’t know that he ever hit a one of them but he surely scared them off.
As our agrarian roots have disappeared from the life experience of the majority of us, the fascination and unreal romance with guns seems to be exploding (pun intended). Television shows, movies, and video games show a no muss-no fuss approach to the life and death power of real guns. Albert Schweitzer’s reverence for life has been replaced with a reverence for firepower. Everyone has the constitutional right to own an AK47, it seems, even if it defies common sense. The bigger the gun, the faster it fires, the safer we are. I beg to differ.
Guns have never ensured one’s personal safety. Occasionally they protect from personal attack or home invasion or robbery. But, more often than not children die from accidental shootings because Daddy has guns and the children are playing with them. Or an “unloaded” gun goes off and a friend dies. No one living in a three bedroom suburban home with children “needs” an assault rifle. And if you are not a hunter or a farmer or in law enforcement, the gun is not a tool but an indulgence, a dangerous toy that needs supervision and training.
How is it, I wonder, that we need to take a driving test and get a license to drive a car but any fool can buy a gun as long as he passes the background check? A gun safety and training course should be required of anyone who wishes to purchase this instrument of death for that is what a gun does. It kills. If you skeet shoot or if you hunt... if you belong to a gun club and target practice at a safe location... if you collect guns like others collect china dolls...you use a gun that can kill. There is no inherent sin in owning a gun or in using a gun, but there is cowardice in ignoring the truth about guns.
Pretend guns, pretend violence, pretend blood, pretend death, pretend life... there is no safety in gun numbers. My help comes from God who made heaven and earth, my shade by day and the one who keeps me all the days of my life. Naive? Perhaps. But then I serve the one who urged his followers to turn the other cheek and forgive seventy times seven. No mention of guns or spears in Jesus’s plan of salvation. We’ll keep Daddy’s old single shot rifle for the true life and death crises on the farm. We will not depend on the illusion of safety to be found in gun ownership but we will depend instead on the One who in life and in death is never separated from us. Thanks be to God for life beyond life and death that is not the final answer.
Daddy kept the rifle in the back corner of his bedroom closet, unloaded. The bullets were in the top drawer of the chest. If he needed to shoot coyotes threatening the baby calves, he had to load the single shot rifle on the run. I don’t know that he ever hit a one of them but he surely scared them off.
As our agrarian roots have disappeared from the life experience of the majority of us, the fascination and unreal romance with guns seems to be exploding (pun intended). Television shows, movies, and video games show a no muss-no fuss approach to the life and death power of real guns. Albert Schweitzer’s reverence for life has been replaced with a reverence for firepower. Everyone has the constitutional right to own an AK47, it seems, even if it defies common sense. The bigger the gun, the faster it fires, the safer we are. I beg to differ.
Guns have never ensured one’s personal safety. Occasionally they protect from personal attack or home invasion or robbery. But, more often than not children die from accidental shootings because Daddy has guns and the children are playing with them. Or an “unloaded” gun goes off and a friend dies. No one living in a three bedroom suburban home with children “needs” an assault rifle. And if you are not a hunter or a farmer or in law enforcement, the gun is not a tool but an indulgence, a dangerous toy that needs supervision and training.
How is it, I wonder, that we need to take a driving test and get a license to drive a car but any fool can buy a gun as long as he passes the background check? A gun safety and training course should be required of anyone who wishes to purchase this instrument of death for that is what a gun does. It kills. If you skeet shoot or if you hunt... if you belong to a gun club and target practice at a safe location... if you collect guns like others collect china dolls...you use a gun that can kill. There is no inherent sin in owning a gun or in using a gun, but there is cowardice in ignoring the truth about guns.
Pretend guns, pretend violence, pretend blood, pretend death, pretend life... there is no safety in gun numbers. My help comes from God who made heaven and earth, my shade by day and the one who keeps me all the days of my life. Naive? Perhaps. But then I serve the one who urged his followers to turn the other cheek and forgive seventy times seven. No mention of guns or spears in Jesus’s plan of salvation. We’ll keep Daddy’s old single shot rifle for the true life and death crises on the farm. We will not depend on the illusion of safety to be found in gun ownership but we will depend instead on the One who in life and in death is never separated from us. Thanks be to God for life beyond life and death that is not the final answer.
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