I loved Bible study. I already knew a lot, sometimes more than most in my class, simply because I'd been exposed to so much scripture study in my early life. Still I found new things to learn, new interpretations, social-cultural studies, differences in languages making for differences in meaning, etc. I worked hard at studying, sometimes spending whole days searching the web for things related to what I was studying. We spent over a year studying Genesis chapter by chapter and I ended up with two 3-inch 3-ring binders of articles and the like from the web on Genesis and the stories in it. I took a class in the social-cultural world of the Bible and wished so much I'd found that years earlier. We had to write a paper for that class and present a 5-10 minute talk on it. My paper was 26 pages and I could have gone on longer. The rest of the class did 3-5 pages. But I was hooked on study.
Then the world caved in. I was told in a Bible study class something the priest had said several times in private. I did my homework and that encouraged others not to -- they would wait for me to give an answer and then they could discuss that rather than offering their own answers. I tried to continue. I took knitting to class to keep me present and focused but also with hands busy so I would have to stop and think about speaking before I said anything. I always waited for someone else to start the conversation but it wasn't enough. I was still too... whatever you want to call it. I was sort of un-invited, unofficially. I tried to keep other commitments to the church I'd made: as a lector, as a server at any service I was asked to do, as a vestry person, a liaison to the worship committee, doing the weekly bulletins, Altar Guild, but I was gradually shut out from those too. There really felt like there was no answer but to leave.
I found EfM. I'd heard of it and had asked our priest if we could hold a class at our parish since there was a certified mentor in our congregation. The answer was, "You can get a much better education from one of my Bible studies than from that class." Luckily, and to make a long story short, I found EfM. I could study as much as I liked and, with it being online, I could interact with people from all over who wanted to study too. I could offer what I'd learned and receive what others had gained in their own experience. I found new things about the Bible I hadn't known, even with all the study I'd done. I found church history, something i'd only really come across very peripherally in required history classes in school and college, and I found theology, a subject I'd been interested in for at least 8 years before I even found Bible study and then EfM.
One things still bothers me, though. Even though I've been Christian more or less all my life, and even though I pursue my studies with almost as much passion as I did several other times in my life, there's still something not there. The Book is there but the soul? Where is it? What is its passion? What does it believe or not believe? For what does it wish? For what does it need healing and for what does it need to offer healing to others?
After years of being Christian, I don't know it all. I could go back to confirmation class right now and probably learn a lot, maybe about the church, maybe about living the baptismal covenant, maybe just about myself. I could go back to Bible studies and probably learn a lot more both about it and about me.
I may have a lot of book knowledge but the soul, and the heart --- it's never enough.
So why am I writing this? Perhaps it's just time to put it on paper (or on electrons) and look at it for what it is, the story of a journey that has more than its share of failure in so many ways and areas but which isn't over yet. It's still a search for the answers -- and for the God I worship inside but don't really know or understand.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The Book vs The Soul, Part 2
One of the thrills of my teenage summers was visiting an adult friend and her family in Washington DC. I'd met her when I was in 3rd grade and she brought slides of her travels in Europe to school as an addition to our geography classes. We became friends despite the age difference (and trust me, I went through crushes on both her sons who were around my own age) and remanded so to the end of her life a few years ago. She was Episcopalian and I went to church with her during my visits. I'd visited a couple of other churches back home thanks to the Girl Scouts (Methodist, Roman Catholic and Baptist) but the first time I went through an Episcopal service I knew this was something different, something immensely important and to which I immediately felt connected. It was so much of what my own church wasn't --- I didn't hear what a rotten sinner I was (except in the General Confession), the final hymn wasn't stopped after every verse for another exhortation to "let Jesus into your heart", there was a lot more scripture read than just the verse the preacher chose for the sermon that week, and most of all, the hymns had a beauty and dignity rather than a simple, romantic (in the sense of appealing to the sentiment) poetry that emphasized God's goodness and our own human guilt and hand-wringing. In DC we visited other churches and even a mosque (a favorite place of ours: beautiful, quiet, and with a presence of God there as well) but my very favorite place was the National Cathedral. We revisited it every summer. It just wasn't a complete visit unless we did. How to become a part of all this, though?
The answer came in college. There was an Episcopal church near the campus and so I went and asked to be part of the confirmation class during my freshman year. I gave myself a birthday present that year when on the day before my birthday I was confirmed into the Episcopal Church. I did ask my adoptive father's permission before doing it, partly because I felt I needed his approval and partly because I would be in a sense repudiating the church he still believed in even though it had ultimately treated both him and Mama somewhat shabbily. Having his permission and without anyone from my family present, I felt the bishop's hand and that was that. A couple of years later our college choir went to the National Cathedral to sing for a 10am Sunday morning service. I can't remember many experiences that came close to that one. I wasn't just worshiping, I was a participant, an active one, and hearing our music bounce off those stone walls and pillars, hearing the organ booming from all around and seeing the sun shine through the stained glass windows of the yet-unfinished place I'd loved for a long time, it was intense. My only regret was that we were not permitted to take communion that Sunday because of our place in a gallery above the cathedral floor.
Typical Episcopalian. As the old joke says, "Confirm them and you'll never see them again." I went walkabout for some years. I graduated from college, taught school for a year, got married to an agnostic and had a son. I did have my son baptized in the base chapel in the Philippines. My husband didn't particularly approve but had no real objections. Again, nobody from my family was there any more than they were when i sang in church or was confirmed. Anyway, that was the end of the churchy-ness until after my divorce. I played the organ at the local Roman Catholic church in the town in Oregon where we split but stopped when the job I got transferred me to San Francisco.
Still no church involvement. It was easier to give up on it than to try to... Even though I was divorced, some of the lessons my then-husband taught me stuck like
"the worst thing your old man ever did was send you to college," and "lotta good your religion does you, you don't act like a Christian." To be fair, he and I stayed friendly through the divorce and afterward mainly because it wouldn't be fair to make our son a ping-pong ball in a battle of parents, but yet I still felt like I had to follow his wishes about the church. As a side note, he remarried as did I --- me to a Roman Catholic, him to a Jehovah's Witness. I still get a sort of laugh out of that.
I remarried a good guy with strong religious beliefs. For a while I tried to be a Roman Catholic but I just couldn't do it. There ware too many things my thoroughly Protestant soul couldn't go for -- the emphasis on Mary, the lousy contemporary music (in a church ht at had such a glorious musical history), the incessant rules and return to feelings of guilt for just about everything up to and including breathing sometime. A friend invited me to her church for Christmas Eve -- a church just down the street from the house we had lived in for 5 years or so and which happened to be Episcopal. I fell in love with it all over again.
I slowly put my toe in the ecclesiastical waters -- first choir, even though I hadn't sung a note in years because.. well, that isn't important, then as church secretary, then adding Altar Guild. I loved it. I had a great boss in the priest. He and his wife (and his cat, Emerson) and I became good friends which we are to this day, 20-some years later. When he left I worked hard during the interim, including trying to help keep things on an even keel even when one of our interims committed suicide. He had seemed fine in the office that day but that night ---. Anyway, may he rest in peace. The new rector fired me and so I left, not wanting to be where I wasn't apparently wanted. I went to the Cathedral for a while and loved almost every minute there. Eventually, though, we got another rector and I tried again.
Some years later we got yet another new rector but with a difference -- this one had long hair and had a clergy spouse who was male. It took a while for her to be completely accepted but we felt we'd really gotten a winner. She was graceful when celebrating, an excellent preacher, a terrific teacher. I did something I hadn't done in years: I returned to Bible study. I found a way of reading the Bible and studying it that I never dreamt existed. I found it was okay to question, to wrestle, to argue, to be passionate about something other than being "saved" or saving others. It was a tremendous gift.
The answer came in college. There was an Episcopal church near the campus and so I went and asked to be part of the confirmation class during my freshman year. I gave myself a birthday present that year when on the day before my birthday I was confirmed into the Episcopal Church. I did ask my adoptive father's permission before doing it, partly because I felt I needed his approval and partly because I would be in a sense repudiating the church he still believed in even though it had ultimately treated both him and Mama somewhat shabbily. Having his permission and without anyone from my family present, I felt the bishop's hand and that was that. A couple of years later our college choir went to the National Cathedral to sing for a 10am Sunday morning service. I can't remember many experiences that came close to that one. I wasn't just worshiping, I was a participant, an active one, and hearing our music bounce off those stone walls and pillars, hearing the organ booming from all around and seeing the sun shine through the stained glass windows of the yet-unfinished place I'd loved for a long time, it was intense. My only regret was that we were not permitted to take communion that Sunday because of our place in a gallery above the cathedral floor.
Typical Episcopalian. As the old joke says, "Confirm them and you'll never see them again." I went walkabout for some years. I graduated from college, taught school for a year, got married to an agnostic and had a son. I did have my son baptized in the base chapel in the Philippines. My husband didn't particularly approve but had no real objections. Again, nobody from my family was there any more than they were when i sang in church or was confirmed. Anyway, that was the end of the churchy-ness until after my divorce. I played the organ at the local Roman Catholic church in the town in Oregon where we split but stopped when the job I got transferred me to San Francisco.
Still no church involvement. It was easier to give up on it than to try to... Even though I was divorced, some of the lessons my then-husband taught me stuck like
"the worst thing your old man ever did was send you to college," and "lotta good your religion does you, you don't act like a Christian." To be fair, he and I stayed friendly through the divorce and afterward mainly because it wouldn't be fair to make our son a ping-pong ball in a battle of parents, but yet I still felt like I had to follow his wishes about the church. As a side note, he remarried as did I --- me to a Roman Catholic, him to a Jehovah's Witness. I still get a sort of laugh out of that.
I remarried a good guy with strong religious beliefs. For a while I tried to be a Roman Catholic but I just couldn't do it. There ware too many things my thoroughly Protestant soul couldn't go for -- the emphasis on Mary, the lousy contemporary music (in a church ht at had such a glorious musical history), the incessant rules and return to feelings of guilt for just about everything up to and including breathing sometime. A friend invited me to her church for Christmas Eve -- a church just down the street from the house we had lived in for 5 years or so and which happened to be Episcopal. I fell in love with it all over again.
I slowly put my toe in the ecclesiastical waters -- first choir, even though I hadn't sung a note in years because.. well, that isn't important, then as church secretary, then adding Altar Guild. I loved it. I had a great boss in the priest. He and his wife (and his cat, Emerson) and I became good friends which we are to this day, 20-some years later. When he left I worked hard during the interim, including trying to help keep things on an even keel even when one of our interims committed suicide. He had seemed fine in the office that day but that night ---. Anyway, may he rest in peace. The new rector fired me and so I left, not wanting to be where I wasn't apparently wanted. I went to the Cathedral for a while and loved almost every minute there. Eventually, though, we got another rector and I tried again.
Some years later we got yet another new rector but with a difference -- this one had long hair and had a clergy spouse who was male. It took a while for her to be completely accepted but we felt we'd really gotten a winner. She was graceful when celebrating, an excellent preacher, a terrific teacher. I did something I hadn't done in years: I returned to Bible study. I found a way of reading the Bible and studying it that I never dreamt existed. I found it was okay to question, to wrestle, to argue, to be passionate about something other than being "saved" or saving others. It was a tremendous gift.
The Book vs The Soul, Part 1
Caveat: I've been "Christian" all my life. I put it in quotes because I've both been a practicing and non-practicing Christian, a church attender and a non-church attender. The views expressed here are my own view. YMMV.
OK, I'm Christian. Not sure I was totally born into it but if not I got there by being adopted into a house of Christian folk with room for a child only one birth parent wanted but couldn't keep and other birth parent didn't give a rip or whatever. I grew up going to Sunday School, Vacation Bible School and, yes, Church-with-a-capital-C once and sometimes twice a day. Most of the time there wasn't anything called "child care" during the service. When you were a kid you either sat in church with the big folks or somebody stayed home with you. You learned early to sit and behave -- or at least amuse yourself quietly while grown-ups listened to sermons and sang hymns.
Age 8 brought me to the door of Christianity via baptism. It was something I felt I needed to do as a result of the preaching of an elder cousin who was a minister preaching at a revival at our church. Mama questioned my commitment and wisely made me wait to officially walk down the side aisle and tell the preacher (our own preacher, a guy who lived in our garage apartment and who had his knees under our dining-room table as often as not) I wanted to accept Jesus as my Lord and personal Savior. After a few ritual questions while the congregation sang yet another verse of the interminable "Just As I Am", I was officially introduced to people who had known me all my life as someone who was becoming one of them in a different sense. I was baptized about a month later and began the harder work of being Christian.
As a kid, I figured I was supposed to bring other people to Jesus so I didn't hesitate to carry a Bible around, hoping someone would ask me about it. They didn't. Heck, most of them either went to my church or other churches around the area. Living in the Bible Belt in those days, just about everybody was either a church-goer or looked at askance and with subtle hints that Jesus was looking for them in church. Anyway, I read the Bible, went to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School just as I had before my baptism but this time when I went to Big Church (our word for sitting through the regular service)once a month I could have a little square of bread and tiny glass thimbleful of grape juice "in Memory of Me" as the front of the communion table carving said. Quite often Mama was one of the ones who carefully cut the crusts off the Wonder Bread or Betty Lewis Bread, as we usually had that kind (besides, Mama could use the wax wrappers to curl my hair on Saturday nights) and carefully pour the grape juice into the little tiny cups before putting them in the silver trays to be taken to the church the next day.
I did all the church-y stuff growing up --- Bible studies, prayer meeting, teen group, adult choir (starting when I was about 12 because musically I was ready for it rather than the kids' choir), taught adult Sunday School on what was our equivalent of Youth Sunday once a year, taught Vacation Bible School, helped Daddy (the treasurer) count the coins in the collection plate for the day (he counted the bills), the whole nine yards. I gave up carrying a Bible around and trying to tell people about Jesus but I could find my way around the scriptures quite quickly thanks to the "Sword Drills" we had. You started with your hands on top and bottom of your closed Bible with no fingers hanging over the edge to give you a little time-boost, when someone gave a book, chapter and verse. When told to "Charge!" you moved as fast as you could to get to it before anyone else. It was a sort of status thing --- you couldn't have any markers to help you, you had to know about where in the Bible a book was located and then how far to go to find the rest of the citation. Thanks, though, to the experience and the emphasis on studying the Bible, even if there were only one accepted interpretation and one accepted translation. It made it easier for me later on in life when I really wanted to study and from a number of different translations and interpretations. At least I knew OT from NT, what books were in which, what classification they were and about what they had to say.
OK, I'm Christian. Not sure I was totally born into it but if not I got there by being adopted into a house of Christian folk with room for a child only one birth parent wanted but couldn't keep and other birth parent didn't give a rip or whatever. I grew up going to Sunday School, Vacation Bible School and, yes, Church-with-a-capital-C once and sometimes twice a day. Most of the time there wasn't anything called "child care" during the service. When you were a kid you either sat in church with the big folks or somebody stayed home with you. You learned early to sit and behave -- or at least amuse yourself quietly while grown-ups listened to sermons and sang hymns.
Age 8 brought me to the door of Christianity via baptism. It was something I felt I needed to do as a result of the preaching of an elder cousin who was a minister preaching at a revival at our church. Mama questioned my commitment and wisely made me wait to officially walk down the side aisle and tell the preacher (our own preacher, a guy who lived in our garage apartment and who had his knees under our dining-room table as often as not) I wanted to accept Jesus as my Lord and personal Savior. After a few ritual questions while the congregation sang yet another verse of the interminable "Just As I Am", I was officially introduced to people who had known me all my life as someone who was becoming one of them in a different sense. I was baptized about a month later and began the harder work of being Christian.
As a kid, I figured I was supposed to bring other people to Jesus so I didn't hesitate to carry a Bible around, hoping someone would ask me about it. They didn't. Heck, most of them either went to my church or other churches around the area. Living in the Bible Belt in those days, just about everybody was either a church-goer or looked at askance and with subtle hints that Jesus was looking for them in church. Anyway, I read the Bible, went to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School just as I had before my baptism but this time when I went to Big Church (our word for sitting through the regular service)once a month I could have a little square of bread and tiny glass thimbleful of grape juice "in Memory of Me" as the front of the communion table carving said. Quite often Mama was one of the ones who carefully cut the crusts off the Wonder Bread or Betty Lewis Bread, as we usually had that kind (besides, Mama could use the wax wrappers to curl my hair on Saturday nights) and carefully pour the grape juice into the little tiny cups before putting them in the silver trays to be taken to the church the next day.
I did all the church-y stuff growing up --- Bible studies, prayer meeting, teen group, adult choir (starting when I was about 12 because musically I was ready for it rather than the kids' choir), taught adult Sunday School on what was our equivalent of Youth Sunday once a year, taught Vacation Bible School, helped Daddy (the treasurer) count the coins in the collection plate for the day (he counted the bills), the whole nine yards. I gave up carrying a Bible around and trying to tell people about Jesus but I could find my way around the scriptures quite quickly thanks to the "Sword Drills" we had. You started with your hands on top and bottom of your closed Bible with no fingers hanging over the edge to give you a little time-boost, when someone gave a book, chapter and verse. When told to "Charge!" you moved as fast as you could to get to it before anyone else. It was a sort of status thing --- you couldn't have any markers to help you, you had to know about where in the Bible a book was located and then how far to go to find the rest of the citation. Thanks, though, to the experience and the emphasis on studying the Bible, even if there were only one accepted interpretation and one accepted translation. It made it easier for me later on in life when I really wanted to study and from a number of different translations and interpretations. At least I knew OT from NT, what books were in which, what classification they were and about what they had to say.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Some Days All You Can Do Is Laugh....
There are some days it almost doesn't pay to get out of bed.
Was supposed to have jury duty today but got word last night that it was canceled. Great. That was a good thing.
It's Friday. I could have a 3-day weekend and nobody'd know the difference. Nahhhh. Decided to be a good doobee and a real team player and go in. Told the boss I'd be in long enough to get the usual work done and then take off early. Okay with him so that was a good thing.
Got to work early. Barely got the usual first-things-first done when a truck shows up. Trucker-baby has a narrow trailer --- and parked to one side of the dock. Then he got in a hurry and tried to lower the dock plate -- which got caught on one side of the trailer and stuck. Oh, crap. Try explaining a broken dock plate to the publisher when it's hard enough to get necessities like sharpies and index cards. Luckily got the plate back up while super-trucker pulled forward and finally got lined up with the dock so the plate would work. Whew.
Quiet morning on phones, thank God. Gave me time to do the rest of the usual morning stuff and even get done earlier than usual. Good thing. Visions of early homecoming danced like sugarplum through the brain. Sure signal that all **** is going to break loose. It didn't fail me this time either.
Boss comes in. How long am i staying? Long enough to get this and that done and then I"m gone, why? He wants to take a road trip to check a route if i could stay that long. Did I want to go to lunch first? Nah, I'd work until he got back and then take off early with an hour for lunch tacked on the end of the day. Good thing.
Oh, by the way, could I Tom-erize this list from another driver, meaning putting the list not in any logical order recognizable to man other than the driver who has it arranged in throwing order. Small matter of only about 48 entries to be re-ordered on the route sheet plus 13 that have to have a status change and then be put in 2 places other than the other 48. Eyes were watering bigtime by the time that got finished. Boss finally got back at 3 and I was outta there by 3:15. With the lunch hour I didn't get to take at the usual time, I only lost 45 minutes of paid time. Not a bad thing.
Got home. Starving. Breakfast at 6 am and a double hand full of Wheat Thins at 9:30 don't last all day. Fixed some fish and shrimp and even fed the cats early so I could enjoy a quiet dinner. HAH. The first plate full tasted so good I decided to try a second. Had just sat down to continue eating when a cat barfs on the floor. Why do they always have to do that at mealtime? Got up, grabbed paper towels and proceeded to clean up that spot only to hear a second spot being created around the corner. More paper towels. Sneak look at dinner plate -- good thing, no cat in sight. Mop, mop, return to garbage can to discard paper towels before turning back to dinner ------ and find another cat on the table just beginning to scarf fish and shrimp. This was too much to be borne! I yelled. Cat flipped around and dove off desk followed by plate of fish and shrimp --- and chili sauce. Food flies everywhere. Cat disappears. Swept and wiped up food. Settled for a bowl of cereal for the remainder of dinner.
I'd go to bed now but the way this day is going the dam thing will collapse on me or something.
Some days all you can do is laugh helplessly because if you cry, you're sunk.
I sure hope Saturday starts out better or I'm definitely NOT getting out of bed on Sunday!
Was supposed to have jury duty today but got word last night that it was canceled. Great. That was a good thing.
It's Friday. I could have a 3-day weekend and nobody'd know the difference. Nahhhh. Decided to be a good doobee and a real team player and go in. Told the boss I'd be in long enough to get the usual work done and then take off early. Okay with him so that was a good thing.
Got to work early. Barely got the usual first-things-first done when a truck shows up. Trucker-baby has a narrow trailer --- and parked to one side of the dock. Then he got in a hurry and tried to lower the dock plate -- which got caught on one side of the trailer and stuck. Oh, crap. Try explaining a broken dock plate to the publisher when it's hard enough to get necessities like sharpies and index cards. Luckily got the plate back up while super-trucker pulled forward and finally got lined up with the dock so the plate would work. Whew.
Quiet morning on phones, thank God. Gave me time to do the rest of the usual morning stuff and even get done earlier than usual. Good thing. Visions of early homecoming danced like sugarplum through the brain. Sure signal that all **** is going to break loose. It didn't fail me this time either.
Boss comes in. How long am i staying? Long enough to get this and that done and then I"m gone, why? He wants to take a road trip to check a route if i could stay that long. Did I want to go to lunch first? Nah, I'd work until he got back and then take off early with an hour for lunch tacked on the end of the day. Good thing.
Oh, by the way, could I Tom-erize this list from another driver, meaning putting the list not in any logical order recognizable to man other than the driver who has it arranged in throwing order. Small matter of only about 48 entries to be re-ordered on the route sheet plus 13 that have to have a status change and then be put in 2 places other than the other 48. Eyes were watering bigtime by the time that got finished. Boss finally got back at 3 and I was outta there by 3:15. With the lunch hour I didn't get to take at the usual time, I only lost 45 minutes of paid time. Not a bad thing.
Got home. Starving. Breakfast at 6 am and a double hand full of Wheat Thins at 9:30 don't last all day. Fixed some fish and shrimp and even fed the cats early so I could enjoy a quiet dinner. HAH. The first plate full tasted so good I decided to try a second. Had just sat down to continue eating when a cat barfs on the floor. Why do they always have to do that at mealtime? Got up, grabbed paper towels and proceeded to clean up that spot only to hear a second spot being created around the corner. More paper towels. Sneak look at dinner plate -- good thing, no cat in sight. Mop, mop, return to garbage can to discard paper towels before turning back to dinner ------ and find another cat on the table just beginning to scarf fish and shrimp. This was too much to be borne! I yelled. Cat flipped around and dove off desk followed by plate of fish and shrimp --- and chili sauce. Food flies everywhere. Cat disappears. Swept and wiped up food. Settled for a bowl of cereal for the remainder of dinner.
I'd go to bed now but the way this day is going the dam thing will collapse on me or something.
Some days all you can do is laugh helplessly because if you cry, you're sunk.
I sure hope Saturday starts out better or I'm definitely NOT getting out of bed on Sunday!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Lesson from a Book
I got a book in the mail today. That's nothing exceptional for me since I get most of my books from places on the internet. It may be prideful, but books I want to read aren't commonly found on the shelves of Barnes & Noble three miles down the road to the west or Borders three miles in the opposite direction. That would be great if I read thrillers and mysteries like I used to and in the quantity I used to, but aside from forays into the Harry Potter books as soon as they came out, I've felt little draw toward even the British cozies that used to be my favorite reading matter. Once in a while they still are like a cool lemon sherbet that refreshes and cleanses the palate while not taking up a lot of room in the tummy but for my normal meat-and-potatoes, I crave denser, sometimes drier fare.
I found it as advertised: looking new, dust cover still fully intact, binding tight, no underlining or highlighting, and, in short, looking like it had never been opened although there was a little wear on the back of the dust jacket. Right in the middle of the front jacket, though, was a price tag with a ridiculously low price the bookseller was asking. The bright yellow of the tag stuck on the clear red, blue and white of the dust jacket was almost an affront.
I'm prideful enough to want people to think I can afford to buy books without sale stickers. To walk around with a book that has a reduced price tag on it is almost like walking around with the price tag on a shirt or pair of jeans hanging out or having a piece of toilet paper trailing from the bottom of a shoe. People judge things based on how much they cost and how luxurious they appear to be. It's a pretty shallow way to look at things, in my opinion, but I do it myself so that makes me as guilty as the next Joe or Jane.
I couldn't wait to liberate my "new" book from the ignominious tag someone had glued on the front of it with a price that had been scratched out and a second and lower price added. The book did seem to look a bit brighter with the cheap tag removed, like it had a bit more self-respect. The colors brightened up considerably. The value of a book, for me, isn't in the price I pay for it but rather what I get from it. Maybe it’s anthropomorphic of me but I think the book senses that.
So now I have my book in my hands and I have begun reading the introduction. If it continues in the vein in which it has begun, the $1.25 price tag will have been ridiculously cheap.
People aren’t commodities like books or Hummers or Gucci bags and shoes but they are still subject to judgment of their worth based on appearance. While people don’t wear price tags visible on their foreheads, there are some who appear to me as if they’d been consigned to the “used” bin with sale prices cut to the barest minimum and some who seem to have stepped right out of the window of Tiffany. I’m guilty of making those judgments myself. I’m looking at their covers rather than at what’s inside. When I look in the mirror I see a huge price tag with a sum that could buy several pieces of penny bubble gum. Subconsciously I know God doesn’t see me that way but it’s what I see. Maybe God is just as anxious to rid me of the ugly bright-yellow sale tag on my forehead as I was to rid my book of its sticker.
Now if I could just remember to look at others at full value and without sale tags or store labels. I wish that were as easy as it is with books. Maybe that’s an unintended and unwritten lesson from the newest book in my library. We’ll see.
I found it as advertised: looking new, dust cover still fully intact, binding tight, no underlining or highlighting, and, in short, looking like it had never been opened although there was a little wear on the back of the dust jacket. Right in the middle of the front jacket, though, was a price tag with a ridiculously low price the bookseller was asking. The bright yellow of the tag stuck on the clear red, blue and white of the dust jacket was almost an affront.
I'm prideful enough to want people to think I can afford to buy books without sale stickers. To walk around with a book that has a reduced price tag on it is almost like walking around with the price tag on a shirt or pair of jeans hanging out or having a piece of toilet paper trailing from the bottom of a shoe. People judge things based on how much they cost and how luxurious they appear to be. It's a pretty shallow way to look at things, in my opinion, but I do it myself so that makes me as guilty as the next Joe or Jane.
I couldn't wait to liberate my "new" book from the ignominious tag someone had glued on the front of it with a price that had been scratched out and a second and lower price added. The book did seem to look a bit brighter with the cheap tag removed, like it had a bit more self-respect. The colors brightened up considerably. The value of a book, for me, isn't in the price I pay for it but rather what I get from it. Maybe it’s anthropomorphic of me but I think the book senses that.
So now I have my book in my hands and I have begun reading the introduction. If it continues in the vein in which it has begun, the $1.25 price tag will have been ridiculously cheap.
People aren’t commodities like books or Hummers or Gucci bags and shoes but they are still subject to judgment of their worth based on appearance. While people don’t wear price tags visible on their foreheads, there are some who appear to me as if they’d been consigned to the “used” bin with sale prices cut to the barest minimum and some who seem to have stepped right out of the window of Tiffany. I’m guilty of making those judgments myself. I’m looking at their covers rather than at what’s inside. When I look in the mirror I see a huge price tag with a sum that could buy several pieces of penny bubble gum. Subconsciously I know God doesn’t see me that way but it’s what I see. Maybe God is just as anxious to rid me of the ugly bright-yellow sale tag on my forehead as I was to rid my book of its sticker.
Now if I could just remember to look at others at full value and without sale tags or store labels. I wish that were as easy as it is with books. Maybe that’s an unintended and unwritten lesson from the newest book in my library. We’ll see.
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Woman With the Bent Back
Now he was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath. And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, ‘Woman, you are set free from your ailment.’ When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God. But the leader of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the sabbath, kept saying to the crowd, ‘There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.’ But the Lord answered him and said, ‘You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath day?’ When he said this, all his opponents were put to shame; and the entire crowd was rejoicing at all the wonderful things that he was doing. -- Luke 13:10-17, NRSV)
Have 10 people read this story and tell what the story is about, you'll probably hear "Oh, it's about the (fill in the adjective or expletive) Pharisees trying to trap Jesus for healing a woman on the Sabbath. Well, normally I'd agree with them but I read something a few days ago that turned my thinking around.
In Killen and De Beer's The Art of Theological Reflection, one of the exercises for a TR beginning with a tradition or tradition source was this passage. They offered a meditation not on Jesus and the Pharisees but on the woman, the bent-backed one who precipitated the confrontation between Jesus and the Pharisees and who slipped back into oblivion as suddenly as she emerged from it.
I don't know a lot about her, only that she was a woman, she had been afflicted with the severe curvature of the spine for 18 years, and she had come to the synagogue. That's not a lot of information to go on but perhaps it is enough to be of value.
I know people suffering with osteoporosis, some of them having suffered with it for years and to a great extent. If I walk around bent over at the waist for a few minutes and try to see something above the ground it hurts, and the longer it goes on the worse it gets. There isn't much to be seen other than the ground, the edge of the road and people's feet unless I strain my neck upward which adds another level of pain. Nothing is said of her pain but it's almost certain she had it. It didn't stop her from going about, though, at least, not to the synagogue and probably other places as well. She might have gotten jostled by people looking over where her head would be and not seeing her but that was their kind of blindness just as seeing too far ahead and too high up was hers. People would probably have ignored her, possibly being afraid that to take notice or be kind would open them up to the same kind of spirit coming into them as they were sure had come into her. It wasn't a "go see the local orthopedist and see if he can't help" kind of culture. Whatever was wrong with you probably came from an evil spirit as a result of something you (or your parents) had done and this was the punishment.
She was a woman. In those times she would most likely have been a wife or widow but for her affliction. If she were unmarried she would have been under her father's care or her oldest brother, and would probably been considered a burden since in her disfigured state she could not marry or bring a dowry to the family while still needing to be fed and taking food from someone else to supply her meager needs. Her coming to the synagogue alone was clue -- she probably did not have a husband, father, son or brother to watch out for her. It was unheard of for women to just go wandering about, even to do such a thing as going to synagogue alone.
I wonder what went through her mind when Jesus, a stranger and therefore someone who would not have come in direct contact with a single female to whom he was not related, called her to him. What did she think when he spoke to her and, horror of horrors, actually put his hands on her! He was compounding taboo on top of taboo and yet suddenly she could stand up straight for the first time in 18 years and look him in the eye. If she had come to the synagogue to praise God before, she now had a thousand times the reason to continue with what she had originally come to do.
Putting myself in her shoes, I wonder what my particular bent-edness is. Physical pain, yes, I have that. Anger, yes, fear, yes, envy, depression, uncertainty, all yes. What would life be like for me if I walked into church with the sole purpose of worshiping and were suddenly healed of the brokenness that had been a crippling part of my life for so long? The woman most likely had the philosophy that "what can't be cured must be endured," and she (and maybe her family) had possibly tried everything possible to cure her of her infirmity. I can understand that one. Still, pain or not, she plugged along as best she could.
There are times I wish I could run into a Jesus who would call me over and without a protracted examination of what was wrong with me, what results I hoped for, what treatment I'd had and what life changes I were willing to make in order to be healed, would just tell me to stand up straight and it would be an achievable action. So far I haven't reached that level of faith, if that is what is holding me back.
I do thank that nameless woman, though, for reminding me that there is bent-ness and broken-ness I can bring to the praise of God. I'm not dead so even if I hurt or feeling broken and brittle I can still praise God and maybe, just maybe, healing will result or at least begin unasked.
Have 10 people read this story and tell what the story is about, you'll probably hear "Oh, it's about the (fill in the adjective or expletive) Pharisees trying to trap Jesus for healing a woman on the Sabbath. Well, normally I'd agree with them but I read something a few days ago that turned my thinking around.
In Killen and De Beer's The Art of Theological Reflection, one of the exercises for a TR beginning with a tradition or tradition source was this passage. They offered a meditation not on Jesus and the Pharisees but on the woman, the bent-backed one who precipitated the confrontation between Jesus and the Pharisees and who slipped back into oblivion as suddenly as she emerged from it.
I don't know a lot about her, only that she was a woman, she had been afflicted with the severe curvature of the spine for 18 years, and she had come to the synagogue. That's not a lot of information to go on but perhaps it is enough to be of value.
I know people suffering with osteoporosis, some of them having suffered with it for years and to a great extent. If I walk around bent over at the waist for a few minutes and try to see something above the ground it hurts, and the longer it goes on the worse it gets. There isn't much to be seen other than the ground, the edge of the road and people's feet unless I strain my neck upward which adds another level of pain. Nothing is said of her pain but it's almost certain she had it. It didn't stop her from going about, though, at least, not to the synagogue and probably other places as well. She might have gotten jostled by people looking over where her head would be and not seeing her but that was their kind of blindness just as seeing too far ahead and too high up was hers. People would probably have ignored her, possibly being afraid that to take notice or be kind would open them up to the same kind of spirit coming into them as they were sure had come into her. It wasn't a "go see the local orthopedist and see if he can't help" kind of culture. Whatever was wrong with you probably came from an evil spirit as a result of something you (or your parents) had done and this was the punishment.
She was a woman. In those times she would most likely have been a wife or widow but for her affliction. If she were unmarried she would have been under her father's care or her oldest brother, and would probably been considered a burden since in her disfigured state she could not marry or bring a dowry to the family while still needing to be fed and taking food from someone else to supply her meager needs. Her coming to the synagogue alone was clue -- she probably did not have a husband, father, son or brother to watch out for her. It was unheard of for women to just go wandering about, even to do such a thing as going to synagogue alone.
I wonder what went through her mind when Jesus, a stranger and therefore someone who would not have come in direct contact with a single female to whom he was not related, called her to him. What did she think when he spoke to her and, horror of horrors, actually put his hands on her! He was compounding taboo on top of taboo and yet suddenly she could stand up straight for the first time in 18 years and look him in the eye. If she had come to the synagogue to praise God before, she now had a thousand times the reason to continue with what she had originally come to do.
Putting myself in her shoes, I wonder what my particular bent-edness is. Physical pain, yes, I have that. Anger, yes, fear, yes, envy, depression, uncertainty, all yes. What would life be like for me if I walked into church with the sole purpose of worshiping and were suddenly healed of the brokenness that had been a crippling part of my life for so long? The woman most likely had the philosophy that "what can't be cured must be endured," and she (and maybe her family) had possibly tried everything possible to cure her of her infirmity. I can understand that one. Still, pain or not, she plugged along as best she could.
There are times I wish I could run into a Jesus who would call me over and without a protracted examination of what was wrong with me, what results I hoped for, what treatment I'd had and what life changes I were willing to make in order to be healed, would just tell me to stand up straight and it would be an achievable action. So far I haven't reached that level of faith, if that is what is holding me back.
I do thank that nameless woman, though, for reminding me that there is bent-ness and broken-ness I can bring to the praise of God. I'm not dead so even if I hurt or feeling broken and brittle I can still praise God and maybe, just maybe, healing will result or at least begin unasked.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Lent and Loan
Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. -- BCP
"Oh, good Lord, what do I give up THIS year?"
That seems to be a big question on the minds of some Christians when Ash Wednesday approaches. The usual answers are chocolate (or candy or sweets of any kind), sometimes coffee, eating junk food, or something that someone especially enjoys. Growing up a Southern Baptist I missed all the childhood angst of Lent since the SBs didn't acknowledge such a papist practice and besides, we were supposed to be penitent (but joyful in our certainty of heaven) all year so we didn't need a special season for it. The dichotomy was subtle, not at all like the bipolar shift from the raucous celebrations of Shrove Tuesday that suddenly and completely stop at the stroke of midnight and become the solemnity and quiet of Ash Wednesday. For SBs, "lent" was a word indicating that you had temporarily given something you owned to someone else with the expectation of getting it back at some point in time (although lots of neighborhood feuds have started over loaned items that never seemed to make their way home again).
Come to think of it, even though the word "lent" comes from the Old English word for "spring," "lent" in the sense of "temporarily relinquishing possession of " seems to work for me when it comes to the period of time between Ash Wednesday and Easter Eve. The giving up of something (or several somethings) for that period is taking something I own, or something I enjoy, or even something that is very important to me and loaning it to God for the 40 days with the expectation of taking it back Easter Sunday morning as soon as possible. It's the spring equivalent of New Year's when people make resolutions to give up bad habits and take on a new way of being, doing or thinking. Quite often the resolutions don't work and then there's the guilt to be dealt with. Lent gives me another shot -- a second chance. What I do with it is up to me. This time, though, it isn't just a promise I make to myself but a promise I make to God when I hand over, lend, my coffee, candy, cigarettes or whatever.
With the idea of lent as period of loaning something to God, the flip side is the church's newer suggestion of taking things on for Lent instead of merely giving something up. It's sort of like trading one thing for another but hey, if it works, do it. Going to church more often, developing a more structured prayer or Bible study practice, evevn doing more charitable work or more giving to others is also, in essence, loaning to God extra time and effort, with the expectation that at some point time and personal indulgences will be reclaimed. Duty to be penitent for a season will have been done and then normal patterns of life can be resumed, the coffee gratefully sipped once again, the exercises attempted (with more or less successful results) can be set aside and the time reclaimed for watching sports or the checking out the insides of the eyelids instead of watcing a round piece of unleavened flour and a cup of port being elevated.
The purpose of Lent is not just penitence, it's change. Unlike some denominations, Episcopalians aren't expected to wallow in contemplation of their sinfulness and their worthlessness without Jesus as a personal saviour and best pal. That isn't the Episcopal way. It is, however, an Episcopalian thing to be penitent in a quietly genteel way, remembering on Ash Wednesday and the 40 days of Lent following it that indeed we are and will always be dust. Not the center of the universe, not the ruler of all we survey, not even so good we can forget about acknowleging the little rottennesses we try to keep hidden in the darkest corners of our souls and psyches. We quietly struggle with the question of do we leave the ashes on our foreheads when we leave the church as a mark of our Christianity and our reminder to be repentant or do we rub them off because we don't want to brag about our piety by the quiet sign of the smudges and in obedience to the Biblical command not to show off our righteousness in overt, purely ritualistic ways. And over it all is the call to repentance and change, to remember that it isn't all about me and is all about God and God's kingdom.
At Easter we rise from the ashes of Lent. We gratefully grab that cup of cofffee, swipe a chocolate bunny or candy bar from the kids' Easter baskets, put the Bible and/or Prayer Book away for the next year and gratefully turn the alarm off and sleep in that extra hour on Sunday mornings. We take back the time, effort and energy we have loaned to God in the guise of giving up or taking on things for 40 short days, leaving 325 to indulge ourselves once again.
The ashes on our foreheads today are supposed to be a mark of commitment, personal commitment, to remember, to repent, to be deliberate in our choices, even to lend to God on a permanent basis. It's for our own good.
I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the
observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance;
by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and
editating on God's holy Word. And, to make a right beginning
of repentance, and as a mark of our mortal nature, let us now
kneel before the Lord, our maker and redeemer. - BCP, emphasis mine
Maybe it's taking it out of context but "make a right beginning" stands out. It's an almost irresistable invitation to me from God and the church. Do I have the courage to make something a permanent loan this Lent?
Therefore we beseech him to grant us true repentance and his
Holy Spirit, that those things may please him which we do on
this day, and that the rest of our life hereafter may be pure
and holy, so that at the last we may come to his eternal joy;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen -- BCP
"Oh, good Lord, what do I give up THIS year?"
That seems to be a big question on the minds of some Christians when Ash Wednesday approaches. The usual answers are chocolate (or candy or sweets of any kind), sometimes coffee, eating junk food, or something that someone especially enjoys. Growing up a Southern Baptist I missed all the childhood angst of Lent since the SBs didn't acknowledge such a papist practice and besides, we were supposed to be penitent (but joyful in our certainty of heaven) all year so we didn't need a special season for it. The dichotomy was subtle, not at all like the bipolar shift from the raucous celebrations of Shrove Tuesday that suddenly and completely stop at the stroke of midnight and become the solemnity and quiet of Ash Wednesday. For SBs, "lent" was a word indicating that you had temporarily given something you owned to someone else with the expectation of getting it back at some point in time (although lots of neighborhood feuds have started over loaned items that never seemed to make their way home again).
Come to think of it, even though the word "lent" comes from the Old English word for "spring," "lent" in the sense of "temporarily relinquishing possession of " seems to work for me when it comes to the period of time between Ash Wednesday and Easter Eve. The giving up of something (or several somethings) for that period is taking something I own, or something I enjoy, or even something that is very important to me and loaning it to God for the 40 days with the expectation of taking it back Easter Sunday morning as soon as possible. It's the spring equivalent of New Year's when people make resolutions to give up bad habits and take on a new way of being, doing or thinking. Quite often the resolutions don't work and then there's the guilt to be dealt with. Lent gives me another shot -- a second chance. What I do with it is up to me. This time, though, it isn't just a promise I make to myself but a promise I make to God when I hand over, lend, my coffee, candy, cigarettes or whatever.
With the idea of lent as period of loaning something to God, the flip side is the church's newer suggestion of taking things on for Lent instead of merely giving something up. It's sort of like trading one thing for another but hey, if it works, do it. Going to church more often, developing a more structured prayer or Bible study practice, evevn doing more charitable work or more giving to others is also, in essence, loaning to God extra time and effort, with the expectation that at some point time and personal indulgences will be reclaimed. Duty to be penitent for a season will have been done and then normal patterns of life can be resumed, the coffee gratefully sipped once again, the exercises attempted (with more or less successful results) can be set aside and the time reclaimed for watching sports or the checking out the insides of the eyelids instead of watcing a round piece of unleavened flour and a cup of port being elevated.
The purpose of Lent is not just penitence, it's change. Unlike some denominations, Episcopalians aren't expected to wallow in contemplation of their sinfulness and their worthlessness without Jesus as a personal saviour and best pal. That isn't the Episcopal way. It is, however, an Episcopalian thing to be penitent in a quietly genteel way, remembering on Ash Wednesday and the 40 days of Lent following it that indeed we are and will always be dust. Not the center of the universe, not the ruler of all we survey, not even so good we can forget about acknowleging the little rottennesses we try to keep hidden in the darkest corners of our souls and psyches. We quietly struggle with the question of do we leave the ashes on our foreheads when we leave the church as a mark of our Christianity and our reminder to be repentant or do we rub them off because we don't want to brag about our piety by the quiet sign of the smudges and in obedience to the Biblical command not to show off our righteousness in overt, purely ritualistic ways. And over it all is the call to repentance and change, to remember that it isn't all about me and is all about God and God's kingdom.
At Easter we rise from the ashes of Lent. We gratefully grab that cup of cofffee, swipe a chocolate bunny or candy bar from the kids' Easter baskets, put the Bible and/or Prayer Book away for the next year and gratefully turn the alarm off and sleep in that extra hour on Sunday mornings. We take back the time, effort and energy we have loaned to God in the guise of giving up or taking on things for 40 short days, leaving 325 to indulge ourselves once again.
The ashes on our foreheads today are supposed to be a mark of commitment, personal commitment, to remember, to repent, to be deliberate in our choices, even to lend to God on a permanent basis. It's for our own good.
I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the
observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance;
by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and
editating on God's holy Word. And, to make a right beginning
of repentance, and as a mark of our mortal nature, let us now
kneel before the Lord, our maker and redeemer. - BCP, emphasis mine
Maybe it's taking it out of context but "make a right beginning" stands out. It's an almost irresistable invitation to me from God and the church. Do I have the courage to make something a permanent loan this Lent?
Therefore we beseech him to grant us true repentance and his
Holy Spirit, that those things may please him which we do on
this day, and that the rest of our life hereafter may be pure
and holy, so that at the last we may come to his eternal joy;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen -- BCP
Monday, February 8, 2010
What I Learned from Honi the Circle-Drawer
Honi the Circle-drawer
It happened that they said to Honi the Circle-drawer:
--"Pray for the rains to come!"
He prayed, but the rains did not come. What did he do?
He drew a circle, stood in it and said before (God):
-- "Lord of the world, your sons have turned their faces to me,
for I am like a son of the house before you.
I swear by your great NAME: I will not move from here,
until you have compassion on your sons!"
It began to drizzle.
He said:
-"I didn't ask for rain like this, but for rain to fill cisterns, wells and caverns!"
A downpour threatened.
He said:
- "I didn't ask for rain like this, but for rain of good-will, blessing and grace."
It rained as it was supposed to, until, on account of the rain,
Israel had to go from Jerusalem to the temple mount...
Simeon ben Shetach [the leader of the Pharisees] sent to him and said:
--"If you were not Honi, I would have you excommunicated.
But what can I do to you?
You are presumptuous before the Creator and yet he does as you wish,
like a son presumes on his father and he does whatever he wishes."
--- Mishna, Ta'anith 3.8 (source was found here)
I have liked the story of Honi since I first read it a few years ago. It was a neat story, it was catchy and it was interesting. Over the years I've thought of Honi several times, most recently during a search for a TR topic for our EfM class and I remembered having read about him when a student. I decided to pull him out, dust him off and look at him again.
Honi was a person of respect and trust. People went to him when their very lives were threatened by lack of rain. Probably they'd tried praying for rain themselves but apparently God wasn't listening. So, like brothers and sisters in a family who knew who had more clout with Mother or Dad, they went to Honi to ask him to ask on their behalf. "If you ask Mom she won't say know. She likes you best anyway." Ok, ask Dad, since this was a period where Mom had little control of much of anything other than to incubate, raise the kids and take care of the house. Dad did all the decisions -- including whether somebody would get what they asked for, who would inherit the whole show and how much dowry to pay to get the girls married off.
Honi asked Dad but no rain. Finally, in what seems like almost a fit of petulance ("I'm gonna hold my breath until you say yes!"), Honi drew a circle and stood inside it, daring God to refuse him again. Well, the rest of the story is in the Misha. It rained. The people had their needed water, Honi was more revered than before and even the local head of the Pharisees admitted Honi had more connections than a mob boss.
I like Honi. He had guts. I learned a lot from this story because it is a teaching story as much as a story to record an event long ago. Lesson #1 is that it always helps to know somebody with more connections than I have in case I can't get a problem resolved on my own. But I have to try to resolve it myself first.
Lesson #2 , persistence pays off. Ask once and it may not work. Ask twice and the chances of an answer get upped a bit. Nag and it might try the parent's patience but like water dripping on a rock, but eventually I will get an answer.
Lesson #3, be specific. Honi needed water to fill the underground cisterns and reservoirs. A drizzle wouldn't soak in because the ground was too hard-packed and dry. A torrent wouldn't soak in for the same reason, the difference being that the torrential rain would run off quickly, seeking out crevices, cracks, dry stream beds and the like, causing flooding and possibly a lot of damage to mud-brick houses and the people in them. It would also contaminate the cisterns by washing dirt and rocks into the water supply. Honi stuck to his guns; he knew what kind of rain he needed and so did God.
Lesson #4, the text chapter for this week contained references to the ancient belief (which is also a modern one) that God wills it, Deus vult. The name for this is voluntarism and it's common in the three major religions: Christianity, Judaism and Islam. God wills a drought so no rain falls. God wills an earthquake and the ground shakes. You get the picture. Honi decided to challenge the voluntarism and ask directly for what was needed. It was a massive poker hand and Honi raised the stakes. We know how that hand turned out.
Lesson #5, be specific. If I need something, ask for it but ask in detail. Heck, it worked for Honi.
Lesson #6, don't be afraid to argue if necessary. Abraham did and Moses had a few words to say to God about something he disagreed with. God didn't whack'em for that; God even changed his mind on one and found an alternative way with the other. There's more than one way to ... (no, I will NOT say "skin a ....")
Lesson #7, and probably the most important one, I won't always get what I ask for. I may not be God's favorite daughter (because God has daughters and pro ably like a lot of fathers, has a special bond with them) but I'm still one of God's daughters so I have a right to ask without fear. I am still a daughter of God, loved and watched over, even if I stamp my foot and pout. I am a daughter of God. If that is all I bring away from the encounter with the circle-drawer, that will be enough.
Thanks for the lessons, Honi.
It happened that they said to Honi the Circle-drawer:
--"Pray for the rains to come!"
He prayed, but the rains did not come. What did he do?
He drew a circle, stood in it and said before (God):
-- "Lord of the world, your sons have turned their faces to me,
for I am like a son of the house before you.
I swear by your great NAME: I will not move from here,
until you have compassion on your sons!"
It began to drizzle.
He said:
-"I didn't ask for rain like this, but for rain to fill cisterns, wells and caverns!"
A downpour threatened.
He said:
- "I didn't ask for rain like this, but for rain of good-will, blessing and grace."
It rained as it was supposed to, until, on account of the rain,
Israel had to go from Jerusalem to the temple mount...
Simeon ben Shetach [the leader of the Pharisees] sent to him and said:
--"If you were not Honi, I would have you excommunicated.
But what can I do to you?
You are presumptuous before the Creator and yet he does as you wish,
like a son presumes on his father and he does whatever he wishes."
--- Mishna, Ta'anith 3.8 (source was found here)
I have liked the story of Honi since I first read it a few years ago. It was a neat story, it was catchy and it was interesting. Over the years I've thought of Honi several times, most recently during a search for a TR topic for our EfM class and I remembered having read about him when a student. I decided to pull him out, dust him off and look at him again.
Honi was a person of respect and trust. People went to him when their very lives were threatened by lack of rain. Probably they'd tried praying for rain themselves but apparently God wasn't listening. So, like brothers and sisters in a family who knew who had more clout with Mother or Dad, they went to Honi to ask him to ask on their behalf. "If you ask Mom she won't say know. She likes you best anyway." Ok, ask Dad, since this was a period where Mom had little control of much of anything other than to incubate, raise the kids and take care of the house. Dad did all the decisions -- including whether somebody would get what they asked for, who would inherit the whole show and how much dowry to pay to get the girls married off.
Honi asked Dad but no rain. Finally, in what seems like almost a fit of petulance ("I'm gonna hold my breath until you say yes!"), Honi drew a circle and stood inside it, daring God to refuse him again. Well, the rest of the story is in the Misha. It rained. The people had their needed water, Honi was more revered than before and even the local head of the Pharisees admitted Honi had more connections than a mob boss.
I like Honi. He had guts. I learned a lot from this story because it is a teaching story as much as a story to record an event long ago. Lesson #1 is that it always helps to know somebody with more connections than I have in case I can't get a problem resolved on my own. But I have to try to resolve it myself first.
Lesson #2 , persistence pays off. Ask once and it may not work. Ask twice and the chances of an answer get upped a bit. Nag and it might try the parent's patience but like water dripping on a rock, but eventually I will get an answer.
Lesson #3, be specific. Honi needed water to fill the underground cisterns and reservoirs. A drizzle wouldn't soak in because the ground was too hard-packed and dry. A torrent wouldn't soak in for the same reason, the difference being that the torrential rain would run off quickly, seeking out crevices, cracks, dry stream beds and the like, causing flooding and possibly a lot of damage to mud-brick houses and the people in them. It would also contaminate the cisterns by washing dirt and rocks into the water supply. Honi stuck to his guns; he knew what kind of rain he needed and so did God.
Lesson #4, the text chapter for this week contained references to the ancient belief (which is also a modern one) that God wills it, Deus vult. The name for this is voluntarism and it's common in the three major religions: Christianity, Judaism and Islam. God wills a drought so no rain falls. God wills an earthquake and the ground shakes. You get the picture. Honi decided to challenge the voluntarism and ask directly for what was needed. It was a massive poker hand and Honi raised the stakes. We know how that hand turned out.
Lesson #5, be specific. If I need something, ask for it but ask in detail. Heck, it worked for Honi.
Lesson #6, don't be afraid to argue if necessary. Abraham did and Moses had a few words to say to God about something he disagreed with. God didn't whack'em for that; God even changed his mind on one and found an alternative way with the other. There's more than one way to ... (no, I will NOT say "skin a ....")
Lesson #7, and probably the most important one, I won't always get what I ask for. I may not be God's favorite daughter (because God has daughters and pro ably like a lot of fathers, has a special bond with them) but I'm still one of God's daughters so I have a right to ask without fear. I am still a daughter of God, loved and watched over, even if I stamp my foot and pout. I am a daughter of God. If that is all I bring away from the encounter with the circle-drawer, that will be enough.
Thanks for the lessons, Honi.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Callings, Transformations and Reality TV
I don't often watch reality shows (things like "Survivor", "American Idol", and the like leave me cold) although I will admit a secret liking for "Ice Road Truckers" and "Deadliest Catch" as well as "The First 48", "Dr. G" and stuff like that. It was, therefore, somewhat a surprise when last night I was flipping through the channels looking for something to lull me to sleep when I ran across a show I never watch, "What Not To Wear," and stopped. I had seen promos for this particular shows which piqued my interest -- making over an Episcopal priest. I didn't get to sleep until the last 5 minutes when they introduced the priest to her congregation and family in her new "incarnation" but I saw the whole rest of the program.
She had a lot going for her -- she was pretty, young, and had a collar. She also doubted her own ability to dress in a way that wouldn't cheapen her image as a priest or go together as a complete ensemble. I did have to admire her willingness to try and was very happy with the transformation. The hosts kept reminding us that she was a priest just as she kept reminding them that what she wore needed to be able to accommodate and be accommodating of her collar. Yes, Stacy, black clergy shirts are standard but why didn't anybody check into the colored clergy shirts before putting her into some glitzy t-shirt with a collar and dickey to go under the t-shirt? Still, they did work wonders and the subject looked great.
While watching, though, it occurred to me that this young woman had received a calling by God and had that calling tested and verified by so many people -- her COM, her bishop, her professors, her associates -- and the end result was that she was ordained a priest forever, according to the order of Melchizedek even if some don't think that any of it was legitimate simply because of her plumbing, her genes and her profile.
I thought about this for a while. So many times over the past decade or two I've wished I could get a call from God that could be tested, verified and approved. No matter how I wished it, prayed for it, or looked for it, it didn't come. This woman (and her many sisters in the clergy) had -- and for them I am grateful and happy. They have received something that isn't guaranteed to anyone, male or female, and in some places only to some males, at least the approval part (I'm sure God doesn't restrict calling only to women in certain parts of the world). There are parts of the world where a woman in such a profession (as well as such a calling) could not exist. Even in first-world countries where equality is a somewhat given, there are still stained-glass ceilings set at basement level: you are a woman, so be satisfied to serve by arranging flowers, doing the linens, teaching the children, fixing casseroles for collations and setting the table where you will never be permitted to preside or even in some cases to serve visibly. Remain invisible, remain in your place because God doesn't want women in jobs where they may have authority over men. Luckily for this woman and her sisters, she didn't have to deal with that. She probably dealt with plenty but at least she had the opportunity to answer her call, even if she couldn't put a smashing social-occasion ensemble together, accessorize a perfectly-tailored suit or even find a comfortable pair of jeans that were flattering as well.
In watching her transformation another thought struck me. Transformation is the operative word. More than just a new hair color and cut, new lipstick or blusher, more than new duds in place of pieces that may be comfortable but not quite runway-quality fashion, transformation is an inside job. Looking at her reaction each time she saw a change in the mirror, it was easy to see the transformation taking place. I'm sure at her ordination she underwent a transformation as well, maybe not as visible but very probably an inward glow that moved outward like Moses' face when he returned from the tent of meeting. Maybe her face reflects this glow not only when she looks in the mirror but when she elevates the host or shares the bread with those at the rail. I like to think of her --- and all her sisters -- with that glow. Even all her brothers, come to think of it.
I"ll never be on "What Not To Wear" and that's fine since I hate spotlights. I wouldn't mind a transformation or two, though -- maybe a call to do something that I can recognize as a call. I thought I had one once but it turns out I didn't. I found that out for myself and I'm glad. I'd have been a total flop at it. There's no reality show on earth that can make that kind of transformation.
So meanwhile, in between watching guys cussing and catching deep-sea bugs that I won't eat on a bet, accused criminals getting caught by folks with fingerprint powder and extensive knowledge of chemistry of all kinds of things, and dedicated forensic pathologists digging through bloody and complex bits to find the one clue to why somebody is no longer walking the face of the earth, I'll look around and see if there isn't something that is nagging at me, something pushing me toward something I'm either doing or not doing that might fulfill my wish, hope and prayer for a calling.
That okay with you, God?
She had a lot going for her -- she was pretty, young, and had a collar. She also doubted her own ability to dress in a way that wouldn't cheapen her image as a priest or go together as a complete ensemble. I did have to admire her willingness to try and was very happy with the transformation. The hosts kept reminding us that she was a priest just as she kept reminding them that what she wore needed to be able to accommodate and be accommodating of her collar. Yes, Stacy, black clergy shirts are standard but why didn't anybody check into the colored clergy shirts before putting her into some glitzy t-shirt with a collar and dickey to go under the t-shirt? Still, they did work wonders and the subject looked great.
While watching, though, it occurred to me that this young woman had received a calling by God and had that calling tested and verified by so many people -- her COM, her bishop, her professors, her associates -- and the end result was that she was ordained a priest forever, according to the order of Melchizedek even if some don't think that any of it was legitimate simply because of her plumbing, her genes and her profile.
I thought about this for a while. So many times over the past decade or two I've wished I could get a call from God that could be tested, verified and approved. No matter how I wished it, prayed for it, or looked for it, it didn't come. This woman (and her many sisters in the clergy) had -- and for them I am grateful and happy. They have received something that isn't guaranteed to anyone, male or female, and in some places only to some males, at least the approval part (I'm sure God doesn't restrict calling only to women in certain parts of the world). There are parts of the world where a woman in such a profession (as well as such a calling) could not exist. Even in first-world countries where equality is a somewhat given, there are still stained-glass ceilings set at basement level: you are a woman, so be satisfied to serve by arranging flowers, doing the linens, teaching the children, fixing casseroles for collations and setting the table where you will never be permitted to preside or even in some cases to serve visibly. Remain invisible, remain in your place because God doesn't want women in jobs where they may have authority over men. Luckily for this woman and her sisters, she didn't have to deal with that. She probably dealt with plenty but at least she had the opportunity to answer her call, even if she couldn't put a smashing social-occasion ensemble together, accessorize a perfectly-tailored suit or even find a comfortable pair of jeans that were flattering as well.
In watching her transformation another thought struck me. Transformation is the operative word. More than just a new hair color and cut, new lipstick or blusher, more than new duds in place of pieces that may be comfortable but not quite runway-quality fashion, transformation is an inside job. Looking at her reaction each time she saw a change in the mirror, it was easy to see the transformation taking place. I'm sure at her ordination she underwent a transformation as well, maybe not as visible but very probably an inward glow that moved outward like Moses' face when he returned from the tent of meeting. Maybe her face reflects this glow not only when she looks in the mirror but when she elevates the host or shares the bread with those at the rail. I like to think of her --- and all her sisters -- with that glow. Even all her brothers, come to think of it.
I"ll never be on "What Not To Wear" and that's fine since I hate spotlights. I wouldn't mind a transformation or two, though -- maybe a call to do something that I can recognize as a call. I thought I had one once but it turns out I didn't. I found that out for myself and I'm glad. I'd have been a total flop at it. There's no reality show on earth that can make that kind of transformation.
So meanwhile, in between watching guys cussing and catching deep-sea bugs that I won't eat on a bet, accused criminals getting caught by folks with fingerprint powder and extensive knowledge of chemistry of all kinds of things, and dedicated forensic pathologists digging through bloody and complex bits to find the one clue to why somebody is no longer walking the face of the earth, I'll look around and see if there isn't something that is nagging at me, something pushing me toward something I'm either doing or not doing that might fulfill my wish, hope and prayer for a calling.
That okay with you, God?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Reflection on an anniversary of sorts
Two years ago, sometime during the night, my world changed dramatically. It's not that it was a totally unexpected change; it had been foreseen long before yet that morning I had awakened to the usual thought of "Is today the day?" Normally at night the answer would have come, "No, not today," but two years ago I went to bed with the same answer only to receive a different one when I awakened the next morning. I got the answer, "Yes, today is the day."
No matter how expected, it was still a difficult time. While I didn't feel as fogged as I had anticipated, I still found it overwhelming. There was so much to take care of, so many things that needed to be done, so many things to go through and so many decisions to make. Even my old standby of "take one small step to the next thing that needs doing" didn't help as well as I'd experienced before. My two best friends kept reminding me, "Just remember to breathe" and sometimes even that seemed overwhelming. The tiny things got easier but the bigger things still loomed, daunting in their complexity and frightening in their uncertainty. Again, people helped to get me moving in the right direction, some opportunities came that I hadn't anticipated and so here I am, two years later, looking back at a time I would never want to relive again.
Despite my uncertainty and, at times, timidity, I found that I had learned some things, done some growing, and had some experiences that I had never had before and some I hadn't had for years. From the smaller things, like learning to shop and cook for one instead of two and how to cope with locking the keys in the truck without being able to call for someone to bring the extra set to the biggies like buying and moving into a new residence or deciding where and when to get major truck repairs done, it took some doing but I did it. Sure, there were lots of friends again to help, a wider pool than I had imagined, and with their help, I did it.
A book I'm reading, George A. Bonanno's The Other Side of Sadness, has been giving me things to think about that I'd never really considered. One is that what may be perceived as a normal method of grieving, even a well-known and accepted one such as Kubler-Ross's five stages, is not necessarily prescriptive or normative. In TV police dramas, law officers called to the scene of a dead body, even one lying in bed, often express feeling if not direct words about having to take a closer look at the widow because she just doesn't act like someone who'd just lost their husband or who had just found her husband dead on the floor. By the same token, there's always suspicion if there is too much emotion flowing around, like it's a put-on job designed to hide something nefarious. What's normal for one is quite abnormal for someone else. Thank heaven the police who came to my house were kind and courteous as were the paramedics and the coroner's investigator.
Another thing I learned from the book is that it's not just okay to laugh or find things amusing so soon after a death or traumatic event, it's quite common -- and very healthy. Life goes on, no matter how great the loss. People in New York after 9/11 got on with their lives, some sooner than others and some a little more successfully than others but people did get on with life. Katrina was another horrific event that changed lives forever yet for most, even if it meant transplantation or struggle to maintain even a modicum of normalcy, yet people used music, community, faith and laughter to get through an unimaginable situation. If they can do it and get through the tough times, then surely it must be okay. I could smile the first day but it was a little forced. It got easier over the coming days, for the most part, and I could enjoy joking around or enjoying a laugh with friends and family fairly quickly.
The major lesson I've learned from the book really isn't something I learned from the book, it just gave me the word I needed to describe how I feel about myself, my life, and the whole shootin' match -- resilient, the ability to bounce back. While I don't see myself hopping around on a trampoline, there have been many times I've felt I couldn't get much lower-- mentally, physically, emotionally or financially -- and survive. It hasn't been pretty, most of the time, and quite often I've felt that I've been lurching from lamp post to lamp post, getting bruised and battered by situations that had to be dealt with, but there have been periods when I felt my head was above water and life could be dealt with if not enjoyed. Being able to put a name to that process helps put it in perspective. Life's not going to be a bed of roses but even when I run into a thorn patch, it can be gotten through.
So here I am, two years on. I still talk to him as if he were in the other seat in the truck or seeing what I'm seeing but that's okay. I still miss coming home and not having to do things he would have done while I was out (like take out the trash). Even though our financial situation was far from totally stable, I still struggle with things like balancing the checkbook or keeping track of what needs to be paid other than regular bills -- like taxes and truck insurance. Those things may never change but I know I can survive if not thrive. I am a widow -- but I am not helpless or hopeless. I grieve - but I am not incapacitated by it.
Since tomorrow I have to go to work and perform as if it were any normal day, I have decided that today will be my day of reflection, of allowing myself to think, feel and review where these past two years have brought me. I will remember but not drown in those memories. I will be good to myself, remember to breathe, take the next small step and give thanks that I am able to do this.
Rest in peace, Ray. In many ways, you'll always be here and I'm glad of that. It's my turn to say "thank you." I know you'll understand that.
No matter how expected, it was still a difficult time. While I didn't feel as fogged as I had anticipated, I still found it overwhelming. There was so much to take care of, so many things that needed to be done, so many things to go through and so many decisions to make. Even my old standby of "take one small step to the next thing that needs doing" didn't help as well as I'd experienced before. My two best friends kept reminding me, "Just remember to breathe" and sometimes even that seemed overwhelming. The tiny things got easier but the bigger things still loomed, daunting in their complexity and frightening in their uncertainty. Again, people helped to get me moving in the right direction, some opportunities came that I hadn't anticipated and so here I am, two years later, looking back at a time I would never want to relive again.
Despite my uncertainty and, at times, timidity, I found that I had learned some things, done some growing, and had some experiences that I had never had before and some I hadn't had for years. From the smaller things, like learning to shop and cook for one instead of two and how to cope with locking the keys in the truck without being able to call for someone to bring the extra set to the biggies like buying and moving into a new residence or deciding where and when to get major truck repairs done, it took some doing but I did it. Sure, there were lots of friends again to help, a wider pool than I had imagined, and with their help, I did it.
A book I'm reading, George A. Bonanno's The Other Side of Sadness, has been giving me things to think about that I'd never really considered. One is that what may be perceived as a normal method of grieving, even a well-known and accepted one such as Kubler-Ross's five stages, is not necessarily prescriptive or normative. In TV police dramas, law officers called to the scene of a dead body, even one lying in bed, often express feeling if not direct words about having to take a closer look at the widow because she just doesn't act like someone who'd just lost their husband or who had just found her husband dead on the floor. By the same token, there's always suspicion if there is too much emotion flowing around, like it's a put-on job designed to hide something nefarious. What's normal for one is quite abnormal for someone else. Thank heaven the police who came to my house were kind and courteous as were the paramedics and the coroner's investigator.
Another thing I learned from the book is that it's not just okay to laugh or find things amusing so soon after a death or traumatic event, it's quite common -- and very healthy. Life goes on, no matter how great the loss. People in New York after 9/11 got on with their lives, some sooner than others and some a little more successfully than others but people did get on with life. Katrina was another horrific event that changed lives forever yet for most, even if it meant transplantation or struggle to maintain even a modicum of normalcy, yet people used music, community, faith and laughter to get through an unimaginable situation. If they can do it and get through the tough times, then surely it must be okay. I could smile the first day but it was a little forced. It got easier over the coming days, for the most part, and I could enjoy joking around or enjoying a laugh with friends and family fairly quickly.
The major lesson I've learned from the book really isn't something I learned from the book, it just gave me the word I needed to describe how I feel about myself, my life, and the whole shootin' match -- resilient, the ability to bounce back. While I don't see myself hopping around on a trampoline, there have been many times I've felt I couldn't get much lower-- mentally, physically, emotionally or financially -- and survive. It hasn't been pretty, most of the time, and quite often I've felt that I've been lurching from lamp post to lamp post, getting bruised and battered by situations that had to be dealt with, but there have been periods when I felt my head was above water and life could be dealt with if not enjoyed. Being able to put a name to that process helps put it in perspective. Life's not going to be a bed of roses but even when I run into a thorn patch, it can be gotten through.
So here I am, two years on. I still talk to him as if he were in the other seat in the truck or seeing what I'm seeing but that's okay. I still miss coming home and not having to do things he would have done while I was out (like take out the trash). Even though our financial situation was far from totally stable, I still struggle with things like balancing the checkbook or keeping track of what needs to be paid other than regular bills -- like taxes and truck insurance. Those things may never change but I know I can survive if not thrive. I am a widow -- but I am not helpless or hopeless. I grieve - but I am not incapacitated by it.
Since tomorrow I have to go to work and perform as if it were any normal day, I have decided that today will be my day of reflection, of allowing myself to think, feel and review where these past two years have brought me. I will remember but not drown in those memories. I will be good to myself, remember to breathe, take the next small step and give thanks that I am able to do this.
Rest in peace, Ray. In many ways, you'll always be here and I'm glad of that. It's my turn to say "thank you." I know you'll understand that.
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