wayfaring stranger

It has been a long, hot summer. The garden ran amok with weeds and greasy beans. Every day there seemed to be more squash than the day before. Mama and I have canned over 75 quarts of green beans, frozen 6 bushels of creamed sweet corn, frozen yellow squash and zucchini, canned tomatoes, picked and frozen berries. We are plumb wore out...
The weather on the farm has been hot and dry. Our hay cutting was reduced by drought to only one cutting and yielded half of our normal crop. The pastures were crispy brown in July and we had to begin feeding hay early. We cannot make it through the winter without buying hay. Putting food up for people and animals has been a long, hot gamble this summer. The late freeze followed by a drought decimated the apple crop, stressed and killed some trees. We ran our pump in the stream to water our garden most of the summer.
Like my beloved mountains, my soul has been parched this summer. No words of wisdom, no flowing streams of connection to the Holy, no soul searing experiences of joy and gratitude... only struggle with a change in medicine for my ADD, a sense of distance and separation from my spiritual home at church, a dryness in my mouth that has kept me from singing my song. In the middle of the summer desert of the soul have been glimmers of green pastures and cool waters... our grandchildren at the beach laughing at the waves... working along side my mother, sharing the old rituals of preserving the food we have grown... remembering those we loved who worked with us and are now dead... tears shed in remembrance as we shucked corn... old friends moving to town... it was not all dust and drought.
One of my dusty places has been my struggle to stay connected to my church. At sixty years of age I find myself once again losing my footing in an institution I love beyond measure. For the first time in my adult life, I turned down the opportunity to teach children in Sunday School. My language and theology are out of date... out of sync with the current liberal standards. I no longer feel free to speak my truth. If I use the word Lord or say Our Father or use masculine pronouns for Jesus, I will offend someone. I can no longer chuckle about the differences. I am gasping for air... for affirmation of my faith and language... for room to be one of the Wise Ones whose past and present are seen as a gift, not a handicap.
I am an anachronism. I know that... a white, southern, stay at home mom who mostly worked part time, married to one man since 1969, not poor, not gay, not oppressed, not living in a war torn country... just a woman who has loved her church, loves her family, loves her neighbors and tries to help out by "mom-ing" those who need mothering, offering the gift of hospitality to those who come my way. Why am I feeling less than? I do not march. I rarely sign petitions. I vote regularly but am not active politically. I hear echoes of the Social Gospel of the seventies in the current emphasis on peace and social justice issues. I agreed with it in the seventies. I agree with the current stands in our church on peace and justice issues. But then and now, like canning beans and freezing corn and squash and berries, it wears me out. There is not enough of me to spread out between all the causes... not enough soul in me to heal all the hurts of the world... it has become crucifixion without resurrection for me.
Maybe I am just getting old and crabby. Crabby runs on my mother’s side of the family. Maybe I am just tired of hearing nothing but bad news. Maybe I lost my belief in salvation by our works... salvation doesn’t show up often in my world because of my efforts. Like Elijah, I have been living in my cave this summer, afraid for my soul, weary of well doing, withered in the heat of a language and theology that provides no shade for my soul, waiting for God to save me and whining a little while I waited. As I wait in the cool darkness of the cave, I am listening for God’s still, quiet voice. All I have now is the silence... and hope.
"I am a poor wayfaring stranger, while traveling through this world below... I am just going home". Please, God, let me find home again.

Im Sorry... sooooo sorry

One of the first lessons you learn as a child is how to say "I’m sorry", usually because you hit someone for behavior you considered offensive. You would be forced to mutter the words, extend a hand or give a hug to seal the deal. Forgiveness was a done deal in spite of the feelings of the two parties concerned, the hitter and the "hittee". For most folks, this view of "I’m sorry" carries over into adulthood. Saying the words is enough. No wonder apologies have become popular. Everyone... Paris Hilton, Mel Gibson, churches, governments, politicians and sports heroes... are offering public apologies for all sorts of behavior, past and present. This process of public apologies intrigues me.
Formal public apologies have their place. Churches can apologize for destruction of indigenous peoples religion by well intentioned missionaries. Governments can apologize for past behavior to ethnic groups like African Americans, Japanese and Native Americans in our country. Public figures of all kinds can apologize for offensive public behavior. This is all well and good but it is not enough.
I was taught in church that the words "I’m sorry" should be accompanied by another word not heard much any more... repentance. This word carries more weight, implies a process of recognition of wrong done and promise of change in the future. The only way an apology can have any meaning that one can count on is for repentance to take place. The twelve step folks have it right. First you say you are sorry, then you prove it... repentance in action.
John the Baptizer believed in repentance. His trademark was "Repent for the kingdom of heaven is at hand". Matthew 3:2 I like the eighth verse better. "Bear fruit that befits repentance". How can I bear that fruit in my daily living?
Old time churches had a mourners bench set aside up front. When you felt the need for public confession and repentance, you could go to the mourners bench and sit. If you needed to, you could say something, or you could just sit there and pray. Often the preacher or a deacon would come sit with you, pray with you and be present for you in your time of trouble. Confession is more than just saying "I’m sorry". Confession is a soulful process that recognizes the damage done to oneself as well as to the souls of others by our behavior. It is painful, honest, awkward, and difficult. Often I envy the Catholic ritual of confession. The rules are clear and the response is immediate. There is a place and a person to hear you, a pattern to follow for repentance and forgiveness. Our Protestant model, the priesthood of the believer, puts the responsibility for this on each person. Some of us do better than others with this job.
It seems to me that I must have a ritual that suits my need for confession and forgiveness. Sometimes this ritual comes in corporate worship but not always and hardly ever when I need it the most. Public worship these days for me, in most churches I attend, is good at naming the peace and social justice sins but doesn’t offer much help with how I repair my relationship with someone I have offended... how to name the places where I have caused hurt... what to do when I want to say I’m sorry and mean it.
Perhaps I need to have a mourners bench and ask some friends to sit with me... hear my confession and I will hear theirs...offer words of forgiveness and accountability. We could sit together at church, during the offertory write our confessions and share them with one another, be priests for one another in our daily lives. What a scary prospect... would they still love me when they really know me? I would need to start with the smallest sins on my own personal Seven Deadly Sins list. I wouldn’t want to blow myself or my friends out of the water the first time. And I wonder what the fruits of our repentance would be? Kindness, long suffering( another way to say patience), love, Christian community? I’ll be on the right front, third row down, if you want to join me Sunday. Here goes...

Revivals and Reunions... Homecoming for the Soul

My little country church, which did not follow the liturgical calendar, had two annual events that along with Christmas and Easter, shaped our church year... Homecoming and Revival. Only now am I coming to appreciate their importance in my spiritual life.
Revivals were held in the fall. Crops were in. The new school year had begun. There was a sense of new beginnings, an expectancy for what was to come along with the recognition of all that had been left undone or done wrong the year before. Our revivals began on a Sunday morning with the visiting preacher holding forth in the pulpit followed by "dinner on the grounds". Some preachers were better than others. Some were long winded. Some were loud and long winded. Some were really good. Some were awful. Some loved hellfire and damnation preaching and others were loving kindness. It didn’t much matter. We came anyway, sat in our pews, brought friends, prayed for those who needed to find God, sang "Just As I Am"for the invitation hymn, hummed "Just As I Am" with our eyes closed and heads bowed while the preacher exhorted those laggards to come, shook hands and hugged, welcomed new believers, shared our lives with each other. Women in the church volunteered to provide meals for the visiting preacher and the revival team ( our preacher and the music director). Dinner and supper were provided...fried chicken and gravy, ham, mashed potatoes, potato salad, deviled eggs, home grown green beans and creamed corn and sliced tomatoes, pickled peaches and cucumbers, homemade coconut cake and lemon meringue pie, yeast rolls and biscuits. At the end of the revival, regardless of the preacher’s competence or lack thereof, we felt renewed. If we had taken the revival process seriously, we had done a spiritual inventory and seen our souls as honestly as possible. Some of us may have been moved to re-dedicate our lives publicly. Some of us had made halting confessions in front of the congregation and asked for prayers and support as we moved in a new direction. We were given the grace of a second or fortieth chance. Lent and Easter in the space of one week...
Now, after sixty plus years of mistakes, I know how important revival is for the soul. We grow covered over with our daily living, our souls get crusty and tough. Revival was an in-your-face, kick your butt, don’t ignore me experience. By showing up we were forced to examine and consider our own shortcomings, our gifts, the state of our relationship with God through Jesus, the condition of our souls. I can laugh and tease about the form and sound and rituals of those revivals then. But revival is a necessity for me now.
The second tradition was Homecoming in the summer. Everyone came that Sunday. Even if you had left the church mad, you came. If you had moved to town and changed church membership, you came. Children came home with grandchildren in tow and folks you hadn’t seen since Easter showed up that Sunday. There was special music... duets and trios and quartets, choir specials... testimonies and prayers of thanksgiving, a church house packed full of church family with food waiting for the celebration feast afterward.(see list above).Worship was always fun and spontaneous with surprises lurking everywhere. Laughter, tears, hugs, noisy children, courting teenagers, new babies, vacant spaces in families death had visited since the last homecoming...all of life showed up for homecoming. For one glorious day, all the cares of church life were laid aside and we simply celebrated our connections to one another and to God. At the end of the meal, we would sometimes gather back in the church for a "sing". Led by our music director, sometimes with a visiting gospel quartet, we sang our souls out. Late afternoon would see us leaving the church grounds, sleepy children in tow, with full stomachs and hearts overflowing with joy and gratitude.
No wonder the old timers called death "homecoming". What a beautiful image for life after death. For one day, one small slice of time, all cares and angers and worries and fears laid to one side. All that has been done and is yet undone left behind as you enter the doors of the church. And what waits for you is an extravagant welcome home, even if you were just there last Sunday or if you haven’t been in years or if you were mad the last time you came. All that matters is that you are present and home... home for hugs and messy red lipstick kisses and hearty handshakes and food for the stomach and the soul... "My life flows on through endless song; Above earth’s lamentation I hear the sweet though far off hymn that hails a new creation: Through all the tumult and the strife I hear the music ringing; It finds an echo in my soul. How can I keep from singing?’

Guilt and Grace on I-85

Every day of my life I have felt guilty about something and yesterday was no exception. We had been to Montgomery, Alabama to visit Michael’s ninety four year old father. His journal had been published by the Alabama Baptist Historical Society and a book signing was scheduled for Friday. Michael, his brother from Texas, the two wives, the oldest grandchild, the surviving sister with three of her children and spouses represented the family. Over 100 people came to the book signing. For a man who has no living contemporaries, only remembered by those who were younger and worked with him, that was an affirmation of his life from our perspective.
The weekend was full of memories shared with laughter, stories told never heard before, moments of gentle sadness, recognition of painful changes in the father/brother/uncle/friend who was the reason for our gathering. The man we knew has been covered over by the shroud of dementia. His eyes now mirror confusion and loss not connection and presence. There was also celebration. This old, confused man had a life full of meaningful work, important work that changed the lives of many black and white people in his home state of Alabama. Black girls and boys went to seminary because he sent them. He preached in more black churches than white ones. He preached the dedication sermon for the new stained glass window in the church that was bombed where little girls were killed. He and Ann moved in a culture foreign to them in the beginning and found gracious hospitality that echoed their own spirits.
And yet... As the time for our leaving drew near, the guilt trip began, conducted masterfully by this old man. He spoke of how hard it was to be old, unwanted, lonely, a left-over. He is still searching for a companion, someone to share his life with, someone to live with. He can’t breathe easily and he has begun to fall when he stands up and walks. The last two hours of our visit were unbearably sad and painful. All that he says is true and untrue at the same time. He does feel lonely but he no longer calls friends and family as he did all his life. Often when the phone rings now, he might not answer it. After friends and family visit or call, he cannot remember their visits and calls. His loneliness is in a place that cannot be reached, cannot be soothed, cannot be eased. No matter, we felt immensely guilty anyway. The heart, while informed by the head, plays by its own rules and our hearts felt so guilty driving away.
The first few hours driving home were quiet, filled with sad, angry, guilty feelings. Then the phone call came. Our friends were driving home from a wedding in Tennessee on I-85. We checked our maps and met at a Wendy’s for sweet tea and communion. All of us have parents at the end of life. We speak the same language, love and guilt. As we sat at that tacky little plastic table in Newnan, Georgia, drinking our tea, telling our stories, Grace joined us and helped us forgive ourselves, forgive our parents, forgive God for not making death easier. This kind of forgiveness is hard won and can only come in the community of those who are struggling as we are, are willing to share their own painful places, hear our sighs without words and offer their shoulders to lean on. All four of us went to church yesterday at Wendy’s and worshiped... praise, confession, forgiveness, the Word among us, communion, a benediction... everything that was needed was provided. Serendipity? No. The grace of God, the Holy Spirit, the arms of Jesus, the Balm in Gilead were made available for us, for our souls sakes. All we had to do was show up and wait and offer ourselves as living sacrifices for each other. I am surrounded by guilt and grace and it is more than enough. Thanks be to God.