Faith of our Fathers... and Mothers... a rose is a rose is a rose

I am my past.
Those who sang God of our Fathers
Those who sang God of our Mothers
Those who prayed to our Heavenly Father
Those Church of God women preachers unadorned and passionate
Those farm women whose rough hands held babies tenderly in the nursery
All those women and men who brought food, dug graves, wept, sang songs of Zion, laughed and prayed, met at church twice on Sundays and on Wednesday nights
Those Aunt Thelmas who ran the Womens Missionary Union and the preachers
Those missionaries from far away places who came to tell their story
Those fathers dipped down in baptismal waters who came up singing "Praise the Lord"
Those preachers who stood in simple pulpits with no education save love
Those children of God had a dream, too.
Those children of God built seminaries for me to attend so I might learn Greek.
Those children of God built hospitals to serve the sick, poor and rich alike.
Those children of God fed the poor, visited the prisons and nursing homes, comforted the sorrowful and heard the same call I do... Follow me.
Those children of God whom I did not know, loved me.
Those children of God wanted the best for me.
How can I not honor them?
How dare I judge them by language that no longer suits new learning?
They were not all faceless racist misogynistic submissive non-entities.
They were my first teachers in the way of Love.
They were the ones who came when my sister committed suicide.
They were the ones who pray for me still, not knowing who I have become.
They were my mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandmothers and grandfathers in faith.
When I sing "What a fellowship, what a joy divine", I remember and give thanks.
When I pray "Our Father and Mother in Heaven", I remember and give thanks.
When I hear women preach, I remember and give thanks.
When I hear the King James words, I remember and give thanks.
When I look at my faith life... begun in a simple country church with only the bare necessities of education and theology... with an abundance of love... with those whose names I still remember... Sunday School teachers... deacons... missionaries... preachers... song leaders... I remember and give thanks.
I will not rewrite their words, their language without honoring them.
Someday, my words of faith will be rewritten, I hope with love and tender care, not judgement and disdain. I hope my words and theirs can be heard as written sometimes without the overlay of others hurts and needs causing them to be changed forever. I hope my words and theirs will be judged not by the standards of new theologies but by the Heart of God... the One who knows who we are and loves us anyway. Thanks be to God for the Faith of my Fathers and the Faith of my Mothers, for the language that first called me out and still sings in my heart. Thanks be to God for the new language of God, its open, affirming, including images that spring from the language of the past. I am a rich woman... rich in history and future. Thanks be to God.

my Bible, not yours... a rose is a rose is a rose

I wonder if anyone keeps a family Bible anymore? Michael’s dad gave us an old family Bible and carefully recorded in it are the births, deaths and marriages of a family I never knew. The lettering is carefully done and precise. A family’s history is recorded in the pages of that ornately bound large leather covered Bible. When Michael’s mother died, her Living Bible was full of underlined favorite passages, margin notes, newspaper clippings and handwritten notes. She read that book, loved it, studied it, and her life was recorded in its pages. When I look through her Bible, I can see her sweet, simple faith reflected in the words she left behind.
Baptist children were taught to bring their Bible to church. You marked it off on your eight point record keeping system along with contacts and offering. You used your Bible in Sunday School and worship. The minister asked you to get out your Bible to read along as the Scripture was read aloud. I wore two Bibles out by the time I graduated from high school. As an adult I had a red leather covered Revised Standard Version with my name stamped in gold on the front. This Bible is neat and tidy... no pages for family entries... no margin notes... no poems or clippings inserted in the pages. I used to carry my Bible to church faithfully... underline the text, take notes if some phrase or idea caught my ear. Somewhere along the way, I lost the habit. I want to change that.
When I die, I want my Bible to be chock full of my life... full of little pictures, notes, underlined passages, scribblings in the margins, a love letter left behind for those whom I love. After all, the Bible is essentially a love letter to us from God. In it we find the assurance of our worth as children of God, the loving words of Jesus who could see underneath the leprosy and blindness and social restrictions of his time, the promise of a full abundant life now and after death. Our faith family tree is listed in those pages, the names of our ancestors who told the stories and wrote them down. Margin notes and underlined passages in that ancient book reveal how much we were loved before we came into being.
If I am serious about being a Christ follower, I must be more intentional about reading the Bible. If I can read the newspaper once a day, read the online news, read delicious murder mysteries, read Anne Lamott and Wendell Berry and Henri Nowuen, I can read my Bible. I will read the New Testament again this summer. I will carry my Bible to church and use it while I am there. I will mark up the pages, take notes, underline and highlight passages, save an occasional church bulletin, store my spiritual life in the Book that continues to inform, inspire, challenge and change me.
My theme song for the summer..."The B-I-B-L-E, yes that’s the Book for me. I stand alone on the Word of God, the B-I-B-L-E".

mother, me-ma, mama, mom, ma... a rose is a rose is a rose...

Mama went to church with us yesterday... Mother’s Day. As I sat by her before worship, Amy came in with her new baby boy and sat behind us. Cindy came in with her children Caleb and Katy... and her mom whom she is now mothering through Alzheimer’s. A young family, new to our church brought their son Leo to be baptized into the Family of Faith during worship. I spent most of worship thinking about mothering as a verb and as a noun.
In the paper this week there was an article about Alpha and Beta mothers. Alpha mothers reflect their own "super achieving" style in their parenting. Beta mothers are more laid back. In my mothering days, we called them pushy mothers... those who were never satisfied and always jockeying their children into the Advanced placement positions whether it suited the child or not... and regular mothers... those who saw childhood as a protected time with room to explore and be happy without adult expectations superimposed on their growing up.
My generation was the first generation to be told we could have it all. And, boys and girls were the same. So we raised little boys and didn’t give them toy guns but dolls. They made guns out of their hands and went on to save the world as they knew it from all sorts of evil. We raised little girls and taught them to be doctors instead of nurses, and CEO’s and they went to work as grown up mamas only to find out what their grandmothers already knew... you can’t have it all. Whether you worked on the farm or in the cotton mill or as a secretary or as a college professor or as the Chairwoman of the Board, as a woman and a mother, choices had to be made. You did the best you could for yourself and your child and tried not to feel guilty. Regardless of style or age, all good mothers share some common characteristics.
Good mothers give birth. For many, the act of giving birth to a baby is not possible but giving birth to our children is not just a one time happening. Everyday we give our children a new birth. We have the opportunity to help them be born into the Family of God in this world. As they grow and change, our job as labor and delivery coaches is to assist our children in their own birthing, to help them find their own song to sing, to equip them for each stage of expansion as they move towards adulthood, to celebrate the new creation they are and the creation they are becoming. So my mother took me to endless piano lessons as a child and never complained about the time she waited for me. Then she took me to recitals and other churches where I played the organ for real money and celebrated my skill, rejoiced in my becoming. She helped birth my love for music and saw that I learned the skills necessary for its becoming a part of my soul.
Good mothers are steadfast. They are present for the good times and the hard times. When a child is struggling, whether it is with school or other children or nightmares or fear of failure or managing success, good mothers are there. When the "livin’ is easy", good mothers are there to enjoy the moment. Their ability to be there for the long haul, to accompany their children as they travel through the mountains and valleys of growing up reminds me of Mother God... the name we gave our friend Pitts Hughes. She was Mother God to generations of young men and women. Her work in nursing schools, universities, seminaries and mission boards kept her close to many of us who needed her steady presence. When you became one of her children, you were hers for life, no matter where you lived. When we moved to Texas, Pitts would show up. Her work required her to mentor and supervise young people who were serving as short term missionaries. Somehow her long bus trips always seemed to include a stop over in Texas. Her body doesn’t co-operate with her spirit very well now so her trips are limited but all of us who are her children know she is with us always.
Good mothers know how to party. What else can a mother do but celebrate and party when given the gift of motherhood? It is both the most fun and the most pain you will ever have in your life. It is the most creative and the most boring of roles. It is a gift some days and a curse on others. It defines who you are for the rest of your life... once a mother, always a mother. Good mother, bad mother or indifferent mother, you will never be able to return to the time before you were a mother. You are changed in some essential way that defies definition, whatever your style... alpha or beta... pushy or relaxed... you are a mother for the rest of your life. Hip, hip, hooray!!! Bring on the spend the night parties, the lock-ins, the trips to amusement parks, picnics, camping, hiking, birthday parties, soccer games, high school musicals, life in the fast lane of celebration of growing up. Bring on the party... break out the noisemakers and the funny hats... loosen up and enjoy the ride... laugh more and yell less... don’t take yourself so seriously... have a blast as a mom. They all leave home eventually and you will need those happy memories to warm your heart in the winter of your life.
Good mothers are everywhere, not just in your family. Your aunts, your best friend’s mother, your piano teacher, your next door neighbor, your mother’s best friend... there is no shortage of mothers. Many mothers instead of just one provide many arms for encouragement and a broader view of parenting. We are called to mother one another and mother each others children. I am grateful for all the women who were second and third and fourth mothers for my children and for me. I didn’t have to do it alone. Nina and Toni and Judy and many others were my co-mothers. Thank God for the gift of their presence in my life and the lives of my children.
Good God who gave us mothers knowing what was necessary for our growth and our children’s growth, thank you for being our mother. Thank you for birthing us into your Family, for your loving arms that provide refuge in times of darkness, for your laughter that accompanies our growing up in your Love, for your healing touch for our booboos, for your steadfast presence in all our lives, celebrating our being in this world and the next. Happy Mother’s Day, God. I love you. Peggy

Hudsons, Fords, Chevrolets... a rose is a rose is a rose...

The second fight Michael and I had was about my car. I’ll tell you about the first one another time. When we married, I owned a two toned, navy blue on the bottom with white top, Chevelle Malibu, straight stick, no air conditioning (no one had air conditioning in those days), slightly snazzy but mostly utilitarian. While Michael finished his first seminary degree and worked part-time, I drove to my job as a social worker each morning through Louisville city traffic in my dependable little car. Every afternoon at five o’clock, it brought me home over the expressway and down Frankfort Avenue.
As I was reclining on the couch reading one Saturday morning, my day off, Michael came through with buckets and sponges and soap. After several trips through the living room passing by me, accompanied by suitable sound effects, I finally asked the question he was waiting for. "What are you doing"? I received an instructional edifying statement about my participation in washing my car. I replied I had not asked him to wash my car and the battle was on. His expectations and my expectations about our individual modes of transportation differed We worked that one out. He lives with my trashy car and I don’t say much about his truck. Compromise is so good for the soul... and the marriage.
My father enjoyed cars. My earliest car memory is a rusty green Chevrolet. When he could afford it, daddy always paid cash, we would buy a car as needed (or not, depending on your point of view). Once Mama, Gayle and I took the train to Virginia for a visit with family. When we got off the train and began walking down the street in Valdosta, Georgia, Mama kept asking where the car was. Daddy led us to a HUGE black Hudson, elegant inside and out, but HUGE. It rode like a boat in calm waters. My sister’s embarrassment and my mother’s judgement sent the Hudson on its way. It was traded for a new Ford. Daddy was the first person in our community to buy a compact car, a two tone green Valiant. He bragged about the gas mileage while Gayle and I were stuffed in the back seat. Cars were transportation and needed to be dependable but he knew how to have fun with cars.
My sister was often mortified by Daddy’s choices in transportation. She would slip down in the seat so none of her friends could see her riding in the latest monstrosity. In later years, my girls would wait until all their friends had been picked up at school before they would come out to get in Michael’s big red noisy pick-up truck. I could care less. I am currently driving a geezermobile, Michael’s father’s car, a Mercury Marquis. My transportation standards are low. It must run and get reasonable gas mileage.
It occurs to me that sacred language and Bible translations have much in common with cars. They are a means of transportation to the Infinite. We all have our brand loyalties, our preferences for particular bells and whistles, our need for it to feel comfortable. But the purpose of all translations and all sacred language is to get us to God. If the King James version was what spoke to my friend Dan Bowers, if inclusive language is necessary for my friend Dorri, if my friend Wally can read and translate from the Greek and doesn’t need any one else’s interpretation, "good on you". Do what it takes to get you where you need to go. Try not to slink down in the seat when someone else’s Hudson Bible or Chevrolet sacred language pops up in worship. We are all trying to get home to God the best way we know how. You never know when you will have a flat tire and help might come from the persons who speak Ford.
Written in grateful memory of my father, Thomas Anderson Calhoun on May 8, 2007. It would have been his eighty second birthday.