This little piggy went to market...

It was cold at the farm last night. I know this because after I stuck my feet out to cool off after the first hot flash of the night, they cooled off quickly. As I lay there waiting for sleep to return, listening to the night noises (a full moon night full of barks and bellers and train whistles) I began to think on feet. The only pretty feet I have ever seen are the feet of babies and small children. Most feet get so much wear and tear they look worn and torn pretty quickly. Some of us get pedicures ( a wonderful sensual experience), use foot cream, paint our toenails, buff the calluses with scratchy pads, cover them up with socks and shoes and go on our way. As you age, it gets harder to ignore your feet. They hurt sometimes, ache and creak, spread out as the day goes by but still they hold you up. They are not pretty but they are a very important part of our body.
When I look up "feet" in my concordance I find a long list of references to feet.. Kiss his feet lest he be angry; Thy word is a lamp to my feet; How beautiful are the feet of him who brings good tidings; How graceful are your feet in sandals, queenly maiden; She wet his feet with her tears. My favorite foot passage is in the Gospel of John. "Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things in his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, rose from supper, laid aside his garments, and girded himself with a towel. Then he poured water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the towel with which he was girded. He came to Simon Peter and Peter said to him, "Lord, do you wash my feet?" Jesus answered him, "What I am doing you do not know now, but afterward you will understand." Peter said to him, "You shall never wash my feet." Jesus answered him, "If I do not wash you, you have no part in me." Simon Peter said to him, "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!"
The only religious folks I knew in South Georgia who washed feet were the Primitive Baptists. They believed in predestination and foot washing as a sacrament, equal to the communion meal in significance. It was easy to dismiss them from my lexicon of spiritual practices until our church had a Lenten service where we washed one another’s feet. Those of us who showed up were a little nervous. Showing your naked, ugly, possibly smelly feet to someone you don’t really know THAT well was almost more than we could bear. Letting them place your feet in a basin of warm water, pour water over your feet, lift them out and tenderly, awkwardly dry them with a towel was one of the most intimate sacraments I have ever experienced. Trust, humility, loving kindness and laughter transformed a mundane seeming act into a hallowed moment. I will remember that worship until I die. Washing and drying someone else’s feet, having my feet washed and dried by another person was a power full way to act out being a servant priest. As I looked at my feet, cradled in another persons’ hands, I remembered the old nursery rhyme. "This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had roast beef, this little piggy had none. And this little piggy cried Wee Wee Wee all the way home." All of our little piggies, our knobby, ugly, long toed, crooked, covered up selves for a brief moment, rested in the hands of Jesus, clean and warm and safe. What a surprise... what a joy... all because of the humble act of foot washing. Thanks be to God.

Oh, Mary, don't you weep, don't you mourn...

Jerene held her new granddaughter cradled so tenderly and proudly, her face shining and happy. Amy brought her baby boy, the miracle child, to worship for the first time and I wept. Cindy is a new mother and my heart leaps for joy. Her journey through the valley of the shadow of death with the birth of her first born son has not been forgotten but is now transformed. Alison called to tell me Aidan, who has learned to crawl through the doggie door, fell and skinned his face. I remember getting a phone call from the sitter when Alison was two telling us to come home. She had fallen and skinned her face. Megan called and the not so joyful noise in the car was the descant for our conversation. And my mama fell yesterday...
My heart stopped when she told me. She is sore... a sprained wrist and some other aches... but nothing broken except our complacency. My mama is supposed to live forever even though Michael and Judy and Jeannie and Mona’s and Lisa’s mamas have died, my heart wouldn’t let me go to the place where my mama dies. Yesterday it did an I was plunged into the abyss. The old spiritual "Sometimes I feel Like a Motherless Child" has a different feeling today.
My mama... One of my tender childhood memories is resting my head in her lap and feeling completely safe as she brushed my hair. When I got bored in worship, mama’s lap was always available for a nap. For my twelfth birthday, she granted my wish (over my father’s protests) to have a permanent so I could have curly hair. She told me I was beautiful and because of her, I was. She isn’t perfect. The "Irene Gene", from her mother, that is sure bad weather is always just around the corner, was passed down to her and then to me. But she is my mama, my first experience of Love that knows no end. I know some people have had different kinds of mama’s ... mothers that hurt and demand are not Love. It is a hurt I can only imagine and one that I grieve.
Now, after the fall, I need my Mother God more than ever. She, like my mama, offers a love that is different from father love... both necessary, just different. Being a mother is first of all giving birth, whether biologically or emotionally. The act of creating new life, not holding back any part of yourself, jumping off into the river of life and taking the risk of swimming and sinking, drowning in the utter abandonment of one’s self for the good of your child, is truly a leap of faith. Mother God knows that feeling. Adam and Eve, the first children in our story of life, were given all they needed and more. The joy of watching them discover the world, seeing them grow and change, the conversations, the delight in their delight, was tempered by their falls. Our mamas have to watch as we learn the hard way, give us room to stumble and skin our faces, help pick us up, kiss our boo boos and let us go again, taking pride in our hard won victories and silently bearing our sorrows.
Today I need my Mama God to watch over my mama and me, to help us get ready for another separation. I pray that Jeannie and Judy and Lisa and Michael and Mona will feel the loving arms of their mamas in the gentle arms of Mama God as she holds them in her lap. I pray for all those children, small and large, who have never known a mother’s love, that they may find their way to the Mother’s Loving Heart. who is quietly watching over them, waiting for them to come home. My mama, who will go before me in death, will be waiting for me with our Mother. Thanks be to God for my mama and for every day being Mother’s Day in the calendar of my life.

Please, God, can I have a Pentecost for Christmas?

I went to a professional meeting this weekend with Michael. Every session began and ended with prayer. I went to a church meeting last night that did not. I was struck dumb (not really) when I realized we did not pray. My friend Janet questioned me about why that mattered to me. For me, it is a way to set our intention. We are Christian believers. When we meet, whenever two or three or fifty or three thousand of us are gathered together for God’s sake, shouldn’t we ask for, plead for, expect the presence of the Holy One to be among us? And when we pray for God to be present, I am able to see God’s face in the faces of those who are around me... those who love me or not... those who are angry with me... those who agree with me and those who don’t... those whom I have hurt and those who have hurt me. It all melts away when I/we call God down on our heads. Incarnation becomes more than a sterile theological concept when I see the face of God in the faces that surround me.
My sneaky suspicion is that most of us do not really believe in the power of prayer. It is easier to believe in the power of the atom. This weekend I sat in a small group with a woman whose four year old child was healed she believes through prayer. Another woman, a teacher, assaulted three times by students, lost her memory and ability to walk, and believes she was healed because prayer helped her to forgive. Our worship committee chairs begin every meeting with a prayer-full time. It is carefully considered and planned. We are invited into holy space before we begin the work of worship. It sets the intention. What we are about is searching for ways to reveal the Holy every Sunday morning to somebody, not everybody, just somebody. To do that without inviting the presence of the Presence would be profane. Every worship will not be an earth shaking event for everybody but it would never be a spirit filled worship at all if we did not invite God to come to us in many different ways. If we want God to come be a part of our lives together and individually, we must pray. For me, prayer is not an optional activity.
I am reminded of the story of Pentecost. There they were, a rag tag group of students whose teacher had been executed by the state at the request of their home church. The city was full of tourists from all over the world speaking many different languages. They were gathered in a room having a business meeting, trying to decide which person would take the place of Judas as a disciple. They were down to two and couldn’t decide so they cast lots. Now as I understand it, casting lots is like my Bible game of opening the Book and pointing to a verse and seeing what words God sent to me. You participate in an act that seems to make no sense and trust the Divine to show up. God showed up and the Spirit, shaped like flames, rested on each of them. They were able to speak in languages they did not know and were understood by all of the different groups in town that day. I don’t know what really happened that day but I believe something special did happen. Believers in Jesus as the Son of God were able to transcend their limits of culture and language. Old memories and prejudices melted away in the fiery heat of the Presence. They were transformed into a new creation. An incarnation of their Beloved Teacher came to life that day long ago and the echoes of Pentecost still rock my soul.
I am praying for Pentecost for my beloved church community... that we might be able to speak and hear other languages so we might tell our stories and be understood... that we could hold each other in such high esteem that the anguish of one of us becomes painful for us all... that the differences become superficial as we see the face of God shining through the faces around us. Come Lord Jesus, come. I am weeping and my heart is broken. Let me be blown away by your Presence, blown into a new way of being, blown away from all that divides us and blown to your loving arms. Come now, Lord Jesus, come. Please?

Holy Hugs... and holy huggers

He always stood at the right front of the church after worship. I watched him handing out hugs like Halloween candy. All you had to do was just stand within grabbing distance of his long arms and you would be gathered in and gently held or gustily hugged, whatever you needed he seemed to instinctively know.
I was newly widowed, moved to a big city where I knew two people, and enrolled in the seminary. This church, Crescent Hill Baptist Church, was the largest one I had ever attended. Every Sunday I sat in the center, three rows back and cried discretely all the way through worship. As I gathered myself together after the benediction, I could never get by Grady without a hug. As a non-hugger, this was a frightening exercise at first even though he was careful to only give me gentle, one arm sideways hugs. Slowly I began to relax and look forward to the welcome blessing of touch that he offered. I was seen, welcomed, important enough to be hugged and the warmth of that hug often sustained me through the lonely week to come. As I wandered in the wilderness of widowhood, Grady’s hugs once a week after worship became a part of my new growth towards connection and wholeness.
Grady was an "humorist", an observer of the human condition, much like Will Rogers. He entertained at churches, conventions, companies and was a regular on the t.v. show Hee Haw. His humor was rooted in the church and his religious upbringing. By laughing at himself, he taught us how to laugh at ourselves. He was a big man, tall in stature and extra large in presence. There was no way to ignore Grady, even when you wanted to. This time of the year I always remember Grady. He was killed in a plane crash in Alabama not far from where we were visiting family during the Thanksgiving holiday . His funeral in our church was full to overflowing... little children, starchy old ladies, friends from his youth, country music stars, grizzled old men, young adults who had been in the Sunday School class he and Eleanor taught, friends from far and near gathered to mourn and laugh together, remembering Grady. We sang the Crescent Hill hymn, our theme song as a community of faith, that he had co-authored for our church. One little girl, at the end of the service, turned to the pastor and asked, "Who will hug us now?"
Our Minister of Music has set up an Afrinda (an altar for mementos, pictures and other items) to help us prepare for All Saints Sunday. I will carry a picture of Grady to set up there, tell his story and give thanks for this exuberant man who taught me how to give and receive hugs. Because of him, I now can offer hugs that connect body and soul, heart and mind, with gusto and gentleness, holy hugs. I now watch at our church to see who the holy huggers are. Ed Torrance always has a hearty holy hug. Ninety some odd years of living has not dimmed his hugability. The McMahon kids, Caleb and Katy, are wonderful huggers. Ben Herman, Stan Harris, Leslie Boyd, and Dianne Harper are huggers. After Celebrations and Concerns are shared in worship I see many of us reach out and hug those who are hurting, those of us who are flying high. I see Grady’s face and feel his arms reaching out to me once again, becoming the loving arms of God, holding me close in an embrace that welcomes and heals. Thanks be to God for loving arms that hug us and draw us closer to the Loved One that is waiting to be hugged back.