Off to Vancouver!

I'm going to a conference about small churches and growth called "Start Up! Start Over!" in Vancouver today. We're flying to Seattle, then driving across the border. What a journey.

For some reason, I'm feeling punchy about potential airplane conversations... you know, if someone asks me what I do, I just might tell them. Young, blond woman -- "that's right, I'm a PRIEST. I have my oil stock* right here -- do you need to be anointed? Confession? Advice on your marriage? Theological interpretation?" On the other hand, it's 5:48am and I'm always punchy this early in the morning. In a few hours, I will probably come to my senses (and my body will realize it's exhausted) and just tell people I'm a dental hygienist.

I'm hoping to have internet there, so look for photos and updates this week...

*oil stock: Episcopal word for a little brass contained of chrism, or blessed oil.

Earth Hour

This is the opera house and a bridge in Sydney, Australia... in the lower photo, any unnecessary lights have been turned off. This was taken last night, from 8-9pm local time. Check out Earth Hour's website for more.

I think this is a cool idea. Not only because our world has so much light pollution that no one can see the stars anymore -- or has any faith in their ability to see in the dark (insert spiritual metaphor here) -- but because we use a lot of energy.

Usually, I don't get into this big "sweep across the world" movements, or on FaceBook, "1 million for xyz cause." I'm an activist sceptic. But seeing a whole city choose to turn its lights off, even just for an hour, makes a powerful statement.

Even Google is joining in.

And I'm a big fan of nighttime darkness -- so turn off your lights from 8-9pm tonight. Think about energy use. Maybe next year, some US cities will turn some big lights off too...

Spring sunshine ain't pretty

The forest preserves aren't especially attractive this time of year.
(That's a little viewing deck in the middle distance.)

Adam and I thought this sign was pretty funny... I mean, the place looks like a wasteland. But then, this is March is the upper Midwest. Not a pretty sight, anyway you look at it. But the power lines just add a special touch to the whole "restoration" idea. (These are the same power lines that run past my apartment -- the world IS connected, by power lines if nothing else.)

This one I took earlier in March. Yes, sunshine is nice;
but snow covers up some of the ugliness.

One of my parishioners, Peg, said something to me a week or two ago about the angst and danger inherent in spring (correct me, here, Peg, please): that it's about emerging from the grip of death.

Sunshine uncovers all the dead things hiding under the snow. This ain't pretty. Spring is a painful time, in these climes. Even fall, when everything is dying, has beauty; changing leaves, many shades of brown and beige, the late harvest of pumpkins, turnips, kale... But spring = raw and mud and all that's been rotting and fading under the snow and ice, all winter. Still, spring is necessary, obviously. The revealing of death, to make the transition again to new life! (Anyone recognize the resurrection here?)

Maybe this is also true in human life: sunshine (friendship? sharing our secrets? exercise? prayer?) uncovers some of the ugliness in us -- melts away the defenses we use to hide our wounds. It may get ugly for a while, but over time, sunshine is better. Dries out wounds and opens them to the air. Warms the soil of our hearts for new growth. Seek it out, people -- inside and out!

Report on Easter and Holy Week

I find it hard to blog about significant worship experiences. They're usually so profound that they're difficult to put effectively into words. But I will try.

Holy Week and Easter were great. They were not without stress for me, certainly: this is my first Holy Week as a priest, and believe me, all my perfectionist tendencies came out in full force! However, by Friday night, I had pretty much spent all my stress. I plumb ran out of anxiety, like an empty gumball machine.

Maundy Thursday was quiet and lovely. (Although at times, I thought it was a little slow. But I probably have A.D.D. -- others have told me it was great.)

Good Friday was contemplative and haunting. (Lots of amazing silence, and I did a sermon of images and scripture via a digital projector which I hope to get up here or on the St. Benedict's website sometime soon.)

Holy Saturday was pretty relaxed (since my anxiety was all spent). I worked. I did a quiet, spoken liturgy with the lovely folks who fill our sanctuary with flowers. I took a long walk. I wrote my Easter sermon.

Easter was joyous. We had incense, sprinkling with holy water ("asperging" in Episcopalese), champagne at Eucharist, the heady small of all those flowers, fantabulous music, and it was the first year St. B's had an Easter Brunch -- and it was packed! The energy of PEOPLE is the most important ingredient of good worship... and it was full and strong on Sunday.

Hallelujah!

(Those photos were taken by one of my parishioners, Bob Ostravecky. Thanks, Bob!)

Shopping with Mom

Mom and I went shopping for her mother-of-the-bride/groom dress today. We started locally, at the Promenade in Bolingbrook. I've found lots of great stuff there, at J.Jill, Ann Taylor Loft, and H&M, mostly. But J.Jill was a little too casual, Mom's size is one larger than what Ann Taylor Loft carries (argh), and H&M is almost too young for me, much less my dear mother. We ended up driving all the way to Oak Brook, because we just weren't seeing anything. But still, we had a terrible time finding anything: Talbots, Coldwater Creek, Brooks Brothers (!), and at Macy's: Anne Klein, Charter Club... and all their clothes were just so bright, nautical, and preppy looking. We kept saying to each other, "These look like clothes you're supposed to wear on a yacht."

The ONLY thing we saw that we liked was a nice pants/fancy blouse combo at Eileen Fisher. We could've waited and kept shopping over these next five months, but I think we're both of the school, in shopping, "Why shop tomorrow for what you can buy today?" Anyway, Eileen Fisher it was! I didn't want Mom to wear black and white (colors she likes!), but we ended up with black and ecru. Oh well. It's a beautiful outfit, nonetheless. I didn't get a picture. You'll just have to wait for the wedding photos.

...Adam has been encouraging me to take more photos in places where there are people. I tend to photograph objects or places. So, I started on Mom today. She laughingly observed, "So, you're taking a picture of your mother spending money?" She was buying a few things at the Clinique counter. (Isn't she cute?)

Headlines

Living in the suburbs is growing on me. I take walks every other day or so, in the forest preserves around here (watch for posts to come!). I shop easily and at will (for better or worse). There's always a place to park. I like the wide-open space.

However, some things about the suburbs still feel like culture shock. Including these two headlines, seen next to each other outside a local restaurant this morning:


On the left is the Chicago Sun-Times: "GRANDMOTHER GUNNED DOWN."
On the right is the Naperville Sun: "SAFE AND HOUND: STOLEN PUPPY SAFELY RETURNED; SUSPECT AT LARGE."

Easter snow and fog

The second earliest possible Easter of the year, and of course, in Chicago, that means cold, snow, rain, fog, you name it. When I was little, my mom took me to Marshall Field's every year to buy an Easter dress and hat, usually with an elastic band that would go under my chin (ouch), probably until I was 7 or 8. Easter hats and dresses always seem a little out of place in Chicago. I've thought about buying some pastel skirt to wear with my collar shirt this year, but somehow, I just can't picture it.

But I suppose that's what Easter is all about. Wearing your pastels when the sleet is coming down. With boots and long underwear, of course. A little glimpse of the kingdom of God.

One more monologue sermon

This one is by my friend Ian Twiss, who I knew at Seabury. He's one of my inspirations for writing a monologue sermon (the other is my friend, More Cows, her sermon is here and was mentioned in this blog here.) This one is Lazarus' journal, after Jesus raises him from the dead. Ian is rector of Lutheran-Episcopal church in Michigan - Holy Faith Church.

Day 1
It was a muffled sound. A call or a cry. By the time I recognized it, I knew that I had been listening to it for some time. I also remember rock under my back, a stink of rot cutting through perfumed ointments, gauzy light as if from behind curtains. I got up and stumbled toward the call, and then fingers were pulling linen from my eyes and my limbs tingled with the new pulse of blood. I blinked. Immediately I saw the one whose voice had stirred me out of that place. His eyes were wet with tears, and I had the immediate and odd intuition that he would not live long.
I’m not sure what happened next. My memory is still fuzzy. We went back home a while later, I know. I passed into the hut in which I had lived my former life. In my room was a bed, two wool tunics, some pots and jars, and my loom, the tool of my trade. It all seemed both profoundly beautiful and totally unimportant. I almost felt as if I could smell my old life in that room and the smell was as distant and unfamiliar to me as if it belonged to another person. In the hearth room I could hear Martha beginning to stoke the fire for the meal, Mary humming one of her distracted tunes. I sat down on my bed. I didn’t know what to do with myself.

Day 2
This morning I woke early when the light was still dusty and gentle. I slipped out of the house and followed the path up to the olive groves on the hill. I wandered for an hour or more, the fallen olives squishing beneath my feet.
On my way back I met a boy and I remembered who he was—one of the clearest memories I’ve had from my old life: the son of a Samaritan who lives up in the hills in a sort of cave. The boy was herding his sheep and didn’t meet my eyes. We don’t mix with Samaritans because they are not true Jews and the rabbis who study scripture say they make us unclean. But I remembered this boy because I once saw a grown man spit on him in the marketplace. The boy wanted to buy some dates the man was selling. He asked the man a question, and without a second’s pause to consider, the man spat. The boy could not have been more than eight. As the gob slid down his black hair towards his ear, the man turned away to serve someone else, a real Jew.
Anyway, when I got back from my walk in the olive groves, the sun was starting to hammer the cool out of the air. Martha was sweeping ashes from the oven.
“I got up to get you your breakfast,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”
“Walking,” I told her.
She raised an eyebrow. “Well that’s a new development.”

Day 5
At first I thought I might live out my days like a leper, rotting skin falling off of me, but my body seems to be quietly repairing itself. I can almost feel the fibers of my muscles growing firm. The smell of unction and dead flesh has faded some too, though every once in a while I still get a surprising whiff, often as I pass in through the doorway of my house.
The truth is that in my previous life, I spent a lot of time in there. Too much time, really. Long hours in my room. It wasn’t always so, but somewhere along the way I lost interest in going out much. For hours and hours I wove blankets and fabrics at the loom to support our household. None of us was married, so Martha and Mary were happy to have me around. I think I provided Martha with someone to focus on, truth be told, someone to mother and manage. Not that I’m complaining. She runs an orderly household and makes better bread than our own mother did.
But now, I don’t know, there’s just an urgency driving me away from all that. Each day I go out early into the new sunshine, as if I were looking for something. It’s not just that I was dead and am now alive. It’s that, even before that, I think I was asleep. So tragically asleep, while the beggars starved and the young spouses made love and figs ripened and the tenant farmers lost their land and the sweet rain fell or failed to fall. All the gifts and losses of the world! All the love to be shared, while I bent over that loom in my dogged unwillingness to wake up!

Day 8
I saw the Samaritan boy again today, over by the well in the heat when no one else was there. He was drawing up a bowl of water, and when he saw me he froze in place. I stood still and didn’t advance. The boy had bad skin, some kind of rash along his neck. He sucked on his upper teeth and watched me. Slowly I raised my hand in greeting. The boy dropped the bowl and backed away from the well, then turned and ran.

Day 9
Some details of the day of my miraculous return are still lost to me. There was a crowd there, that I know—some day laborers and children. I remember the Messiah’s cry, but not his words. What did he say to me? What was he calling out? All I can bring to mind is the quality of that voice, muted and urgent.
Before that, there is just a gap in my mind, a nothing.
Before that, the last moments of my previous life: how I had been turned on my side, how breathing felt like shoving rocks around in my lungs, how Martha passed in and out with wet rags and wine and liniments and candles, always hovering and fluttering, while Mary sat quietly at the foot of the bed. I grew dizzy toward the end. The room filled with a slow thudding sound. Martha was crying, wailing really, as she paced the floor, and I remember thinking “Too much, too much.”

Day 11
“You sure are spending a lot of time away from the house,” Martha said.
“Does it bother you?”
She shrugged. “I’m just saying. Up so early, gone so long.”
“Well, I guess mornings have a new meaning for me.”
Mary came into the room, doing some kind of little dance. We watched her twinkle across the hearth. Then Martha poured a measure of wheat grains in her bowl and began to grind them for flour, her pestle hammering its quick, practiced rhythm.
“What about the word ‘Samaritan,’” she said. “Does that have a new meaning for you too?”
“Ah,” I said. “The village rumor mill.”
“Lazarus, this is not a joke. Do you know how much trouble you’re going to cause us? The rabbi’s wife is giving me looks. What has happened to you anyway?”
“Well, I died. Remember? Then I was given a new life.”
Still jabbing at the wheat, Martha shook her head. “To think it’s what I was praying for.”
Then Mary stopped dancing and stood still. She just stood still.

Day 12
This morning there was a small warm breeze coming across the valley, and the smell of the olive groves thickened the air like oil. It was still dark out. I was awake even earlier than usual. All the things of my old life rose up like shadows around the room, and I couldn’t believe how many years I had shut myself up in there, just tending to my own business, just being the bachelor brother and the weaver and letting the rest of the world riot past my window. I rose quickly and went out, grabbing a pear on my way.
It was on my way back an hour later that I encountered the Samaritan boy, sitting under a scrub tree near the edge of town where the chief Pharisee lives. Several times I’ve passed the boy with his herd out on the hills during my morning walks, but we have still never spoken. Of course, we are both aware of the rules. I sat by the boy to remove a pebble from my sandal. He didn’t get up to leave. I could see that he was eyeing the pear, which I was still carrying and had put on the ground beside me. I rubbed it on my shirt and held it out to him. He hesitated. Then he took the fruit and ate, chewing and slurping hastily. We sat together there, in front of the Pharisee’s house of all places, watching the dawn creep over the world, daring someone to notice us.
And that was when I remembered the words that had called me into this new life. They came back to me, sudden and clear, reaching through all that linen, all that entombed air: Lazarus, come out!

Sermon: monologue by Lydia, the merchant of purple cloth

This is the sermon I preached this morning. It's based on the Passion narrative from Matthew (26:36 - 27:66) and Philippians 5:2-11. We used to sing the passage from Philippians as a canticle at Seabury -- in a beautiful chant setting based on a Greek Orthodox tone. I wanted to share the beauty of those words, which biblical scholars think was an early Christian hymn, and make real what the life and death of Jesus could mean to someone.

Though in the form of God, *

Christ Jesus did not cling to equality with God,

But emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, *

and was born in human likeness.

Being found in human form, he humbled himself *

and became obedient to death, even death on a cross.

Therefore, God has highly exalted him *

and given him the name above every name,

That at the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow, *

in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

And every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, *

to the glory of God the Father.

I did a word search for "Philippi" in the New Testament (Philippi was a city in Macedonia. Paul wrote a letter to the Christian community there that we now call "The Letter to the Philippians," or "Philippians," for short). And I stumbled back across the story of Lydia, in Acts 16, and discovered that she was converted at Philippi. That's how this monologue got started. It was fun -- I never thought I'd do something like this, but it was very powerful, and my parish was very moved by it. Although I think my singing suffered somewhat from the fact that my knees were shaking quite a bit.


(humming)
My name is Lydia. You may have heard of me.
I’m a merchant -- I sell purple cloth, most people in Macedonia have heard of me.
I’m a pretty important woman, but I didn’t know what life was about
until I met this bandy-legged man named Paul in Philippi.
He taught me, my children, and my slaves this hymn, when we were baptized in the river there:

(singing)
Though in the form of God, *
Christ Jesus did not cling to equality with God,

I was in Philippi on business –
I always sell a lot there, it’s a big town along the Roman Road, the Via Egnatia.
And he was talking to a bunch of women along the river. I thought, who is this ugly guy talking to all these women? Who does he think he is??? Some crazy teacher, I thought.
But then I saw his eyes, his face, and there was something about him.
He was a terrible dresser, and he had a unibrow, but I wanted to hear what he had to say.
And that’s when I first heard about the life and death of the man Jesus.

Now, I travel a lot, I’ve seen my share of messiahs (there are a lot of them around these days): teachers, magicians, and miracle workers, and if you’ve heard one you’ve heard them all.
But there was something different about Paul, something different about Jesus.
There was no flashiness, I didn’t feel like he was trying to sell me something.
He was just describing a way of life, not a bunch of magical mumbo jumbo,
...of living by faith and grace of loving my neighbors,
of seeing all people as my equals,
of sitting down around God’s table together, sharing the Eucharist of Jesus –
Jesus’ thanksgiving, as we would say in Greek, sitting together:
as men and women, Jews and Greeks, rich and poor, free people and slaves.

(singing)
But emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, *
and was born in human likeness.

In this man, everything about myself was transformed: all my ambitions for my work, my status as a woman, as a free Greek, but still as a woman, it was all transformed.
Those things weren’t taken away, they weren’t erased!
I mean, the men at the other market stalls didn’t stop making comments about me.
But I felt different. I saw God and human beings differently.
God came down to live like one of us.
And God died like one of us.

But he didn’t die a glorious death, like my brother, who died as a soldier in the northern territories.
And he didn’t die a quiet death at home, like my mother, sick and in bed.
There was something different about him.
He was taken by the police like prisoner, like a terrorist, like a barbarian!
(I guess they thought what he had to say was that dangerous.)

(singing)
Being found in human form, he humbled himself *
and became obedient to death, even death on a cross.
Therefore, God has highly exalted him *
and given him the name above every name,

Now what would a wealthy woman like me be doing singing about a poor Jewish rabbi off in the western territories?
All I know is that he spoke to me,
All I know is that the stories Paul told us about him,
how he fed people, how he taught anyone who came to him,
how he made sure people knew that God loved them, no matter who they were –
I mean, lepers, prostitutes, children, women, Roman soldiers, and my least favorite, to be honest with you – even the tax collectors!
He changed my life.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a cloth merchant. I’m still rich!
Everyone still knows who I am.
But they know something else about me, too.
I break bread with tax collectors and Jews.
I give away my money to buy food for the hungry.
I try to pray and I try to live honestly.
People in Macedonia know that I, Lydia, am a Christian.

My life isn’t just about purple cloth anymore.

(singing)
That at the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow, *
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

I live my life after a man who lived and died to show that all people are worth something.
Even though the life of the man Jesus appeared to be worth nothing – he was betrayed by his friends. he was sentenced to death in a court of law. he died among criminals.
he was buried in a tomb someone like me had to donate, because he had nothing.
He chose to go to the very darkest places humans can go.

And he is the most powerful teacher I know.
I believe, truly, this man was the Son of God.

(singing)
And every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, *
to the glory of God the Father.

Lenten discipline

I've given up meat for Lent, and Adam and I joined some of his friends for brunch at a diner in Hyde Park this morning, Salonica's. I was painfully aware that I could not have: eggs with sausage, an omelette with ham in it, a gyros sandwich, Greek-roasted chicken... sigh. It's a powerful thing to "go without."

We don't do it much in our society. It's not cool to deny yourself much of anything. "Splurge!" we say, "Indulge yourself!" We don't get much practice or affirmation for practicing self-control. And yes, I have fallen off the saddle with my meat discipline. Both instances had to do with things Adam ordered in restaurants that just looked too good not to ask for a taste of! (Prime rib and a chicken parmesan sandwich, if you must know!) Still, my whole body can tell we've given up something -- thinking about sausage and ham this morning was PAINFUL!

So, why do it? Why do anything that's so uncomfortable? I could go a lot of directions with that -- (1) desire and self-denial teaches me how dependent and needy I am (why is it so hard not to eat meat, after all? it's sort of wimpy); (2) every time I eat, I demonstrate that I've made a commitment to God by choosing what I eat; (3) there are a lot of hungry people in the world, and giving up meat makes me think about food more conscientiously, and feel grateful for the access to food that I have, and (4) God may not care whether I keep my Lenten discipline or not, but every time I say no to eating meat during Lent, I feel like I'm choosing to be aware of God's presenc and my power to choose to lead a life as a Christian.

Still, I'm excited for Easter. I do miss sausage. If I didn't, what would be the point of giving it up, right?

Working Preacher

I've found a great preaching website - workingpreacher.org. It's a Lutheran-sponsored site, but there are a couple Episcopal (Seabury!) professors on it, too.

These kinds of sites are helpful for preachers, but they can also be rich resources for non-preachers who want to think or pray over the readings, before or after Sunday worship. Workingpreacher combines historical and spiritual reflections on scripture quite artfully, too.

Middle names

My mother doesn't have a middle name. When I was little, I thought this was sad -- your middle name is sort of a secret mysterious thing -- special! But she was born in the early 1940s in Norway, during the German occupation, and middle names weren't traditional and probably would've seemed a bit frivolous. Why have three names, anyway? People rarely use their middle names. Many women I know dropped theirs when they took their husband's name. They aren't baptismal names.

Perhaps now it helps us distinguish ourselves from each other. With so many John Smiths in the world (actually This American Life is planning to do a show on John Smiths sometime soon), it helps to have a middle name to identify you. Although there are probably a lot of John David Smiths, for instance. And so we have social security numbers, zipcodes, and our mother's maiden name to help the world find us. Which has its own problems.

I was named "Heidi Ruth" after my paternal grandmother, who died of cancer before I was born, in her late fifties, just a few months after she was diagnosed. My youngest cousin has the same middle name. It's an old fashioned name, from the Hebrew Bible. And a friend has "tagged" me in a meme about middle names, so here we go:

The rules:
1. You have to post the rules before you give your answers.

2. You must list one fact about yourself beginning with each letter of your middle name. (If you don't have a middle name, use your maiden name or your mother's maiden name).

3. At the end of your blog post, you need to tag one person for each letter of your middle name. (Be sure to leave them a comment telling them they've been tagged.)

Hmm. I don't get all these rules; they seem a bit pushy. And I feel like I've revealed a lot already. So maybe I'll just let the meme stand. I'd rather think about my grandmother than little facts this morning (nothing personal, More Cows).

Maybe that's what middle names are for? Another reminder of where we came from, or what our parents wanted for us. The secret special thing.

If you would like to be tagged, consider it done!

Food prices

The price of corn is going up, according to NPR this morning. There are grain shortages and higher demand across the world. There's a significant drought in China. There are fewer poor people in China, India, and South America -- they're not just eating rice anymore; many of them can afford food just like we can now.

My dad always likes to pay the lowest price possible for food. But is what we pay for food really an accurate value = for what it takes to grow it, to transport it around the world, and how MUCH of it we have available to us here, in the US? And as there are more non-starving mouths to feed -- people who want more than beans and rice, who want choices and plenty of meat and grains -- AND higher gas prices...

What will that mean for trips to the grocery store as we know it?

The BBC says that wheat production is being pushed out by grains like corn, rapeseed, and sugarcane, which can be made into biofuel. See Why Are Wheat Prices Rising? and Rising World Food Prices. Ethanol is gaining popularity in the US, and so more corn is being used for fuel than for food, which hikes the price not only for producers of corn syrup and tortillas, but for farmers who raise beef and pork.

The BBC also remarka, "To put it bluntly, rich people eat more than poor people..."

Will food prices rise enough to make a difference in our eating patterns? It would be interesting if we couldn't afford to eat as complex a diet as we do now. My refrigerator is so full that I can't even see everything that's in there.

And I wonder what this might mean about Eucharist? A little bread, a little wine... this is what Jesus feeds us with. "And Father, we now present to you these gifts, from your creation." A little wheat and some pressed grapes aren't too big a deal in the world we live in now. And perhaps wheat prices will never rise enough to make a few dozen wafers or a couple rounds of pita bread very dear.

But these things come from fields and farms, too. What would it mean for us, ecologically and spiritually, if food was no longer cheap?

Monologue for John 9

My amazing pastor-friend, More Cows than People (her anonymous blog name) wrote this terrific monologue from the perspective of the Man Born Blind in John 9. I wanted to share it with you. It's after a few words she shared on some stuff happening in her life, in purple font.

The Man Born Blind

It makes me think about trying a monologue sermon myself sometime!