July 16 - The Workin' Girl

Then Joshua son of Nun sent two men secretly from Shittim as spies, saying, ‘Go, view the land, especially Jericho.’ So they went, and entered the house of a prostitute whose name was Rahab, and spent the night there. The king of Jericho was told, ‘Some Israelites have come here tonight to search out the land.’ Then the king of Jericho sent orders to Rahab, ‘Bring out the men who have come to you, who entered your house, for they have come only to search out the whole land.’ But the woman took the two men and hid them. Then she said, ‘True, the men came to me, but I did not know where they came from. And when it was time to close the gate at dark, the men went out. Where the men went I do not know. Pursue them quickly, for you can overtake them.’ She had, however, brought them up to the roof and hidden them with the stalks of flax that she had laid out on the roof. So the men pursued them on the way to the Jordan as far as the fords. As soon as the pursuers had gone out, the gate was shut.

Before they went to sleep, she came up to them on the roof and said
to the men: ‘I know that the Lord has given you the land, and that dread of you has fallen on us, and that all the inhabitants of the land melt in fear before you. For we have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red Sea before you when you came out of Egypt, and what you did to the two kings of the Amorites that were beyond the Jordan, to Sihon and Og, whom you utterly destroyed. As soon as we heard it, our hearts failed, and there was no courage left in any of us because of you. The Lord your God is indeed God in heaven above and on earth below. Now then, since I have dealt kindly with you, swear to me by the Lord that you in turn will deal kindly with my family. Give me a sign of good faith that you will spare my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, and all who belong to them, and deliver our lives from death.’ The men said to her, ‘Our life for yours! If you do not tell this business of ours, then we will deal kindly and faithfully with you when the Lord gives us the land.’

Then she let them down by a rope through the window, for her house was on the outer side of the city wall and she resided within the wall itself. She said to them, ‘Go towards the hill country, so that the pursuers may not come upon you. Hide yourselves there for three days, until the pursuers have returned; then afterwards you may go on your way.’ The men said to her, ‘We will be released from this oath that you have made us swear to you if we invade the land and you do not tie this crimson cord in the window through which you let us down, and you do not gather into your house your father and mother, your brothers, and all your family. If any of you go out of the doors of your house into the street, they shall be responsible for their own death, and we shall be innocent; but if a hand is laid upon any who are with you in the house, we shall bear the responsibility for their death. But if you tell this business of ours, then we shall be released from this oath that you made us swear to you.’ She said, ‘According to your words, so be it.’ She sent them away and they departed. Then she tied the crimson cord in the window. -- Joshua 2:1-21

Rahab was what is commonly known as a "workin' girl." The word "harlot" gets thrown around a lot in the Bible, usually about women who were somewhat outside the normal sphere of wife and mother, decently hidden away in the house just waiting for the man to come home from work. Rahab had a family to support, and apparently no husband to bring home the bacon so she could cook it. Harlot? Maybe. Woman with a lot of mouths to feed and a roof to keep over her head? Definitely.

The story picks up with the entrance of two spies who just happened to choose Rahab's house as a place to hide. I mean, do you walk into a strange city where your clothes, accent and even lack of local knowledge or language would point you out in a New York minute and ask for the nearest prostitute who happens to live in a house with access to the outer wall of the city? That seems a bit far-fetched but in the world and words of the Bible, far-fetched things seem to be almost routine.

Sometimes God picks the oddest people to do the toughest jobs. Most of the heroes of the Bible (you know, the biggies like Noah, Abraham, Moses, David, the major prophets, the 12 disciples, Paul...) weren't what you'd call star material for the gig God had planned for them, but they took the challenge and did their turn. But what of the women? Rahab is a prime example. Her quick wits sent the Keystone Cops of Jericho in the wrong direction, got the gates shut and everybody looking outside the walls for a potential danger that was already inside scoping out the territory and hiding in what was probably rather plain sight. Rahab's house was part of the city wall and so anybody looking over the parapet should have been able to see her rooftop fairly easily, one would think.

We know how the story ends: the spies are hidden on the rooftop, they promise safety for Rahab's family when the Israelite army gets there, and she lets them out of the city by means of a rope which would also undoubtedly have been visible to anybody patrolling the wall, hearing a strange sound or just happening to look over the parapet. That rope might have been made by Rahab herself from flax like that which hid the spies. Anyway, the spies shinny down the rope and scamper off to report to Joshua about Jericho and Rahab goes back to life as normal -- except with a certain piece of red rope hanging out the window of her house.

Rahab was resourceful, quick-witted, and trusting. She also had faith, faith in the word of spies (and men) whose very lives at that point depended on stealth and prevarication, and faith in a strange God who, as the local newscasts had it, did wonderful things. She took a risk, and harlot or not, it gave her a legitimacy that made her one of the ancestors of a certain child of another unlikely heroine of resource, quick wits, trust and a whole lot of faith. She may have been a workin' girl, but this time she was workin' for God in a totally different capacity.


There's a special spot in my heart for Rahab.

(Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café, Saturday, July 16, 2011.)

July 9 - Wearing Someone Else's Clothes

Saul clothed David with his armour; he put a bronze helmet on his head and clothed him with a coat of mail. David strapped Saul’s sword over the armour, and he tried in vain to walk, for he was not used to them. Then David said to Saul, ‘I cannot walk with these; for I am not used to them.’ So David removed them. Then he took his staff in his hand, and chose five smooth stones from the wadi, and put them in his shepherd’s bag, in the pouch; his sling was in his hand, and he drew near to the Philistine.

The Philistine came on and drew near to David, with his shield-bearer in front of him. When the Philistine looked and saw David, he disdained him, for he was only a youth, ruddy and handsome in appearance. The Philistine said to David, ‘Am I a dog, that you come to me with sticks?’ And the Philistine cursed David by his gods. The Philistine said to David, ‘Come to me, and I will give your flesh to the birds of the air and to the wild animals of the field.’ But David said to the Philistine, ‘You come to me with sword and spear and javelin; but I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. This very day the Lord will deliver you into my hand, and I will strike you down and cut off your head; and I will give the dead bodies of the Philistine army this very day to the birds of the air and to the wild animals of the earth, so that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that the Lord does not save by sword and spear; for the battle is the Lord’s and he will give you into our hand.’ - 1 Samuel 17:38-49 (NRSV)


“Little David was a shepherd boy/He killed old Goliath and shouted for joy..” (from an old Spiritual)

This is one of those Bible stories kids love. It has a character they can identify with (a young boy) who is sent out on a perilous quest (all good stories have an impossible quest in them) and who comes out the winner and hero (name one story other than Jesus that really turns out like that). The kids may have the equipment wrong; David’s slingshot didn’t have a rubber launcher between two uprights with a handle – but they get the general idea.

People who buck the system are also said to be “out to slay Goliath,” --big business, government corruption, global issues, neighborhood crime, even local HOA restrictions. Goliath is someone or something big, ugly, strong, powerful and almost unbeatable, a threat to security and liberty and a voracious beast set to devour us, our security and our financial stability. The Davids who go often seem like a lamb set in front of a hungry lion and with about as much chance to come out of it in one piece. Yet the David of the story isn’t that innocent a lamb. He’s had experience fighting down and dirty with predators who are out to steal his sheep and take him down with them, if necessary. He had a couple of keys to success in what would have been his back pocket, if’ he had had pockets!

One of David’s keys to success was going with what he knew. Helms? Breastplates? Double-handed swords? Shield? Greaves? They were chunks of metal designed to protect the wearer, if the weight alone didn’t drive him to his knees. David had a much simpler (and lighter) ace up his sleeve. Appear defenseless, lure the predator into range, and then let go with a plain ol’ river rock shot with speed, force and accuracy gained by lots and lots of practice. Goliath didn’t have a chance. He trusted his armor, size and ferocity but got bested by a guy who went with a simple solution to a big problem.

David’s second key was his trust that God was in charge of the whole show and would not allow David to be bested by an uncircumcised heathen who didn’t know God. David believed, and I think that gave him the confidence to think on his feet, choose his moment and strike, all in the name of God.

Whether a David fighting the Goliath of the Philistines or a lone figure standing up for the rights and well-being of those the world would just as soon shovel away somewhere and forget about, the key is knowing your strengths, choosing your moment and trusting God to have your back.

(originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Cafe, July 9, 2011)

Cat Voices

In the world I live in, just about everything has a voice. Granted, trees, rocks and the like don't have an audible "voice" -- most of the time -- but they speak to me in different ways. Other things do have an auditory quality that I can physically hear and to which I can respond. Voices of familiar people, friends, family, co-workers, even people I've never met but whose voices I can pick out without seeing their faces, like HM the Queen, JFK, our Presiding Bishop, or any of a number of personalities such as Oprah, Dan Rather, Walter Cronkite or Desmond Tutu. Dogs bark, birds chirp (or trill), cows moo, chickens cluck and cats meow --- well, most of them do, anyway.


My three boys all have different "voices". Yes, they do make sounds that sometimes sound like "meow" but usually there are more subtleties. My late Maggie always showed her British disdain with a single comment, "MEH!" Come to think of it, that was her only comment to just about everything but her little folded ears made up for any linguistic shortcomings. Of the current clutter, Domi, the smallest, has the highest pitch and usually only speaks in no more than two syllables or less. Most of his conversation takes place about 4am when he thinks I should get up and start fixing breakfast. He punctuates his statements by stomping across my midsection or leg just for emphasis but as a conversationalist, he's a man of few words.

Gandhi is a bathroom singer; he generally prefers the acoustics in there for his occasional bursts of vocalizations although he seems stuck in a rut with repeating the same phrase over and over, seldom changing a whisker of inflection. His only other conversation is a "mwrooowf" while jumping up on the desk, anticipating a distribution of cat-communion in the form of treats or the sound of a cat food can being ripped off.

Sama, however, is the true singer. I swear, this cat has a range of nearly an octave and often incorporates four or five notes on each utterance, no matter how simple. In the world of cat singers, he is the Pavarotti, the Caruso, the Bocelli and the Josh Groban all rolled into one. Ok, so there may only be a half-step between notes, but it's a far cry from a one-note, one-syllable call or response. Like his brother, he seems to feel that between 4-5am is a proper time to begin at one end of the house and comment with every step to the other end where my bedroom lies. The announcement that he is jumping up on the bed (often right on top of me) is a five-note, 4-inflection sentence that continues as he marches up to check out my nose before batting at his brother and then taking off at top speed across my leg (complete with my own two-note, 3-curse response to the pinpricks of claws on said leg) before starting the whole thing again a few minutes later. Sleep late on weekends? What's that? I'd be happy if I could teach him that the alarm clock WILL go off in plenty of time for him to get fed before he expires of advanced starvation since dinner last night and the emptying of the bowl of kibbles as snacks during the night. I could throw the alarm clock out and just use the cat; he's just as reliable about going off at a specified time -- his specified time.

It doesn't take much to start him singing. "I'm gonna get you, brother!" "What are you doing, Mom?" "Where are you?" (that one usually part of the 4am ritual and he knows darned good and well where I am! I'm SLEEPING -- or trying to). For all I know he could also be doing a running commentary on everything from the fact that the hummingbirds out on the feeder are getting rambunctious to the latest loss by the Cubs or his opinion of politics (I think he's more of a Republicat than a Democat). He can't just say one sentence; he has to make a whole speech about whatever it is. Most of the time I let him talk, but after about the fourth reiteration of whatever is on his mind I just start yelling, "I GET it already!!!!!!!!" It never works. He stops singing when he gets finished. Threats, occasional squirts from the water sprayer, nothing stops him until he's finished the speech, aria or candid comments. And all this done in a series of utterances, often quite different from the one before or the one after, and all on a series of notes that, transcribed, would be the equivalent of a Mozart aria. Ok, maybe a Josh Groban ballad.

All my boys have different voices, but none have the flair for conversation Sama does.

MRRrrr-oowh-eeEEeeEH?

Musing on the Reading - July 4

My child, do not cheat the poor of their living,
and do not keep needy eyes waiting.
Do not grieve the hungry,
or anger one in need.
Do not add to the troubles of the desperate,
or delay giving to the needy.
Do not reject a suppliant in distress,
or turn your face away from the poor.
Do not avert your eye from the needy,
and give no one reason to curse you;
for if in bitterness of soul some should curse you,
their Creator will hear their prayer.

Endear yourself to the congregation;
bow your head low to the great.
Give a hearing to the poor,
and return their greeting politely.
Rescue the oppressed from the oppressor;
and do not be hesitant in giving a verdict.
Be a father to orphans,
and be like a husband to their mother;
you will then be like a son of the Most High,
and he will love you more than does your mother.

-- Sirach 4:1-10


Scriptures read on certain days, like holidays, are often rather pointed. July 4th, Independence Day, commemorates the establishment of a new and free country, born of struggle and good resolutions. Growing up as I did in a small town where the war for that independence was all but finished and where a major leader and his troops surrendered to a group of colonials and their foreign allies, it's hard not to think of those events and their motivators, especially when facing the physical reminders of that conflict like the fortifications and grave markers. The war for American independence resolved some problems -- taxation without representation, second-class status and citizenship, and the like -- but left many others intact.

Americans pride themselves on their country's prosperity. yet in the midst of that prosperity there is still corruption, poverty, homelessness, hunger, oppression, abuse, and many more things that belie the words of our Declaration of Independence, that "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." Sirach challenges us to not forget that we have a duty not just to people just like us or who we like or with whom we identify - religiously, economically, politically, socially, emotionally, intellectually or any other -ly.

While we wave our flags, share food and companionship with friends and relatives, watch fireworks and celebrate who we are and the country in which we live, it would probably be a good idea to look to Sirach's admonishments and to remember those Americans who are fighting to make the world safer for people under oppression, whether on our soil or that of places far, far away. We should do more than remember those who have no back yard in which to barbecue burgers, hot dogs and ribs but whose back yard is concrete, broken glass bottles, blowing trash, a cardboard box for shelter and food scrounged from dumpsters. We should do more than just give a passing thought to what equality means -- and to whom it applies. We should do more than write a check to a charity and then pat ourselves on the back for our generosity. True, it is a generous act to share what we have been given, but for this nation to really consider itself the "Christian" nation that many claim, we also have to follow the words of scripture -- like that of Sirach and also of the One who gave his name to a movement and his life to save the universe, not just the Jews, not just the fledgling group who would come to be known as Christians, or even residents of a single country. Jesus told us to take care of the poor, the widows and the orphans, in essence, to grant them the same kind of life, liberty and pursuit of happiness that we desire and have as our own portion. With blessings come responsibilities, as Sirach reminds us. Charity is not just a Christian ideal, it is a concept shared by Jews and Muslims as well, commandments from God to care for those who can't do it on their own, who lack someone to protect them, keep them fed, clothed and housed, and who need a hand up, not a handout, and certainly not platitudes and scorn for lacking the basics of life.

A nation is only as great as its commitment to the well-being of its citizens. A faith is only as great as its commitment to the tenets and teachings it proclaims, among which is that of kindness to those in need. "‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’" That includes sisters too - and children, cousins, the angry old man down the street, the scrunched-over old lady with rag-tag clothes pushing a shopping cart with all her worldly goods inside, the Sikh gentleman in the third seat over on the bus, the Muslim woman in her headscarf, …



Happy Independence Day. May it be a day where we all declare the world free and all people receiving the benefits of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness in equality and harmony.

Rahab and the Questions She Poses

Rahab
Ancestor of Jesus
Woman of mystery
protector and provider
for family and foe.
Tell us your story.

Rahab
keeper of the Inn
in the walls
listens to the news
from travelers
watches the ways
of the world
knows what she
must do
acts to preserve
her family --

-- Ann Fontaine, Streams of Mercy

Rahab is a woman of great interest to me. The story in Joshua indicates that she was a prostitute, hid some Israelite spies, confessed her faith in God, helped them escape and, as reward, her request that she and her family be rescued when the army took Jericho was granted. It's an interesting story with just enough detail to make it a good tale and yet there's a lot that is left to the imagination -- or the translation.

Was she really the harlot the scripture labels her? She had a house, one built beside and partially incorporated into the city walls, but was it a house or was it a "house"? There's no husband in sight, so was she an "independent contractor"? Was she a widow? Her story indicates she had a father, so why was she not in his house, under his roof, being sheltered and taken care of by her parent or even one of her brothers? Why was she a prostitute, if she was really one and not just labeled that way because a "good" girl would have been under some man's roof and protection, if not a husband's then a father's or brother's? Was she a temple prostitute? Or was she just another victim of gender profiling?

The house fascinates me. It was described as " ... her house was on the outer side of the city wall and she resided within the wall itself." Interesting. Somehow I picture a box stuck onto a wall with a window cut in it. There's one problem with that --- the window would have been fairly close to the ground and not really something conducive to the invulnerability of the wall. After all, if someone could get OUT of the window and reach the ground without much difficulty, it would be only a bit more difficult for someone to get IN the same way. Archaeology has discovered that Jericho's walls did, in fact, have houses that abutted the outer of two walls, and that part of the wall did not "tumble down" as the rest of the wall did. Could one of the shells of brick that remains be Rahab's own house?

Rahab had flax drying on her rooftop. Why? was it the custom for all households to purchase harvested flax and then do the manual work of stripping, cleaning, spinning and weaving (or twisting) it into whatever the family needed? There was rope made of flax, so was Rahab a rope-maker? Did she also spin and weave? Did she twist the rope that let down the spies? Did she twist and then dye the red thread that was the signal to spare her house?

Then there is that red cord. It seems so full of meaning over and above it's simple being as a piece of twisted something, probably flax, dyed red. Did it resemble a sort of umbilical cord between Rahab and her former life that was severed when she first acknowledged the God of Israel as a god of power over and above anything her own religion could match? Did it symbolize her rebirth as a "righteous" woman? Why red? Was it a red cord that acted like the scarlet letter in Puritan times used to mark an adulteress or notorious sinner? Red for shame? Red for the blood of martyrs, one of whom might have been Rahab had she been caught helping the Israelites? Red for an ordination of Rahab into the community of faith? Red for the birth-blood of her offspring who would eventually, many generations later, culminate in the birth of a seemingly innocent babe who would shake the foundations of the world as the earthquake shook Rahab's home and helped to tumble its walls?

Rahab, you have left me so many questions, questions I can't answer. Yet you have also left me with an image and a presence of you as a woman, courageous, smart, quick-thinking, resourceful and trusting in a God and a people you had only heard about.

Rahab, you stood behind the city walls and spoke your confession of faith to the spies -- and to the wind. You were heard and saved for greater things.

Rahab, if my blog has a patron saint, you're it.

Show me....

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, "Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill," and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, it is has no works, is dead.

But someone will say, "You have faith and I have works." Show me your faith without works, and I by my works will show you my faith. -- James 2:14-18

I read this passage and immediately got an ear-worm of Eliza Doolittle from "My Fair Lady" singing "Don't' talk of stars burning above/ If you're in love, show me!" Somehow I don't think that was precisely what Paul had in mind, but it certainly captures the passage for me.

I remember the exhortations in the church of my youth to "confess Jesus as your personal Savior!" It was my ticket to heaven when I died, even though I was often reminded of how sinful I really was and how little I deserved God's grace and mercy. I was also expected to pass on the formula to my "unsaved" friends - and even total strangers - so that they too could look forward to being with Jesus in heaven. I was expected to do good deeds too, though, things like contributing to the missionary society or the March of Dimes, visiting the old folks' home and helping the "less fortunate" with my castoff clothes and canned goods. If I'd lived in a city, probably helping an old lady cross the street would have worked too, but in our little town there wasn't much of an option for that.

It doesn't take a Christian to contribute to food and clothing drives, help in soup kitchens or collect money for causes that will help research cures for now-incurable diseases. It doesn't take a Christian to help build schools in majority-world countries or send mosquito nets to help prevent malaria. It doesn't take a Christian to sign petitions or campaign vocally against the death penalty, war, rape, injustice, poverty and atrocities. It doesn't take a Christian to do a lot of things, but if one is a Christian, it is not a choice; it is an obligation to work to make the kingdom of God in the here-and-now, not somewhere in the then-and-there. It's not enough to proclaim my faith if what I do gives a different message. I can't complain about my medical coverage if there are people who can't afford a health safety net or have access to even the most basic medical care without severely or totally impacting their financial position, no matter how precarious. I can't think I am owed my big house and new car because I'm so good and I am being rewarded for being righteous when there are good people who are homeless and hopeless, often through disease or what others call "bad luck." And I certainly can't think God likes me better than those who are not as well-off as I am because I make sure people hear me say "Praise God!" or "Thank you, Jesus!", pray silently but visibly before meals in restaurants, or punctuate my conversations with scripture verses and references.

I have faith but I have to show it. It's how I show the world I am in love -- in love with it because it is God's creation and with all the people of the world, no matter how much I may disagree with them or even be turned off by their beliefs, because they are also God's children. Verna Dozier said, "Don't tell me what you believe. Tell me what difference it makes that you believe!" Faith requires that I believe but also that I show that faith through my works -- words, deeds, attitudes and practices. I have to do what St. Francis suggested, "Preach always, and sometimes use words." And then there's Learner and Lowe's statement, "If you're in love, show me!"

Naming

As I have mentioned before, I'm a TV addict. I'm selective about what I watch, but I still watch some things that seem almost like train wrecks -- it's horrible but one can't help watching. Lots of reality shows are like that. Most reality shows I wouldn't give you a plugged nickel for; I'm not interested in bad girls being stupid, manly men mowing down forests or people fishing for swordfish (I lost my interest in the Alaska crab fishing when Captain Phil died). Once in a while I'll watch truck drivers take on the frozen arctic (I do like Alex and Lisa), but I wonder how much of that is just to see ice and snow when outside my windows it's 105° and above.

Last night I watched the second installment of Sarah Ferguson's journey on the Oprah Winfrey Network. As an avid royals-watcher for years, when she crashed and burned as a princess I was half-disdainful and half-sympathetic. Having been divorced once myself I could empathize with her situation -- to a point. The reality show features an older Sarah but one who exposes an almost childlike side that is rather painful to watch. She is, I believe, very much a lost child inside, and until that child finds a way to grow, Sarah will be trapped forever in a naivete that gets her into deep caca at almost every turn.

One thing I noticed about Sarah last night, though. In discussion with Dr. Phil, he gave her a name and it seemed to turn on a light bulb. It isn't a really great name, and many of us are ashamed to say we have the same name even if our situations are totally different. "Sarah, you act just like an addict. You are an addict -- for approval and acceptance." That was it. Sarah now had a name for her problem. Now she can start to look for a way to change simply because she can put a name to that problem. I've seen it happen again and again --- things are all screwy and out of control until, suddenly, what was an amorphous mass of confusing, defeating, fog-like symptoms and actions becomes something more concrete, more clear and more manageable. It's amazing to me what the power of naming something can be. I've seen it in my own life and I've seen it in the lives of others who aren't on TV and who don't play the role on TV.

The name "addict" isn't particularly attractive. It means an uncontrolled need for something or someone. It's almost always destructive, even if it is something touted as so healthy as exercise. Nobody likes the term "addict," particularly when applied to them, but as almost any 12-stepper will tell you in so many words, you can't start curing the sickness until you know what the sickness is. Put a name to it and suddenly there are options.

Watching Sarah's light bulb moment made me remember some of mine. There are situations, too, which seem so unclear and so confusing that I was/am never sure which way to go to either get out of it or get through it. Finding a name for whatever is preventing me from movement -- fear, anxiety, past experience, addictive behaviors, stubbornness, ineptitude, hopelessness, ignorance -- helps me identify what I need to do to get off dead center.

To the world I have a name, an identifier by which they identify me. A lot of them have other names for me, most probably not very flattering, based on how they perceive me or have found in interaction with me. To myself I have more than one name, depending on what I'm thinking or involved in at the moment. A lot of those aren't very flattering either. I've been taught (or, as is probably more accurate, taught myself) to think negatively about myself; to think well of myself would be pride, to constantly remind myself what a lousy, worthless sinner I am is to be properly humble.

But I am moved to remind myself (and Sarah too) that no matter how badly we've done things, no matter how messy things have gotten and how poorly we've behaved, we still have one name that is ours for all eternity. It's one that can help move us beyond the swamp and onto solid ground. It's one that sticks, even when we seem to feel we shouldn't have it at all. It is the name God has for each of us.

"MINE!!!"

Commercials

I confess. I'm a TV addict. There. I've said it.

I love music and listen to it at work most days. I have a classical music station permanently tuned in on the radio in my truck. Even during times when I find myself iPod-less or radio-less, there's music playing in my head. It's been that way long before the advent of my truck radio --- and way, way longer than my iPod infatuation. But when I'm sitting at home, working on the computer, doing housework, even going to sleep, the TV is on. True crime stories, forensics, mummy autopsies, pyramid investigation, women shopping for wedding gowns, documentaries, even Harry Potter marathons, I watch'em all --- or at least, keep track of them while I'm doing other stuff. I think it helps me keep what brain I have left active and working.

There's a downside to TV too, though. Commercials. Advertisements. Teasers. Each station on my dish seems to have a group of favored commercials and they play them -- over and over and over. I can see the same commercial at least once every half hour for the length of time I have that particular station tuned in. Change the channel and a new set of repeaters shows up. Some of them I kinda like, like the one for a medical show that shows an iguana loose in an ER and racing through a doorway at top speed -- but the accompanying vocal soundtrack gets a bit wearing. I can watch the iguana but the song drives me nuts. I can only watch so many reiterations of Shania Twain's "I was losing my voice and losing my confidence" spiel for her reality show or the like. I will often switch channels just long enough to watch another commercial, any other commercial, rather than the one that's on the channel whose program I am interested in watching. Luckily most of them take commercial breaks at about the same time. Wonder bras, Sham-Wows, endless bathtubs of couples touting Cialis or slick super Bob and his eternal smirk indicating the efficacy of Enzyte or whatever, I can do without entirely.

I wonder what the reaction would have been in Jesus' day. "Back to our healings in a moment, but first a word from our Sponsor." Would people have gotten up and gone for a pit stop or to get something from the fridge? "Dang, we've heard this same message 15 times now. Can't they come up with something new?"

I remember at least one church commercial that appeared on TV that actually caught and held my attention every time I saw it. I believe it was the UCC and hook was that their church didn't keep out all but the select; they accepted the very people society said were unclean, unrepentant and unregenerate sinners and outcasts. "Wow!" I thought. And I wished so much the Episcopal church could come up with something even half as telling and half as inviting as that was. But then, we're Episcopalians. The old joke is that "We don't need evangelism. Everybody who is supposed to be Episcopalian already is!"

I wonder what kind of commercial we could do? "We take the Bible seriously -- but not literally." "Our sign says 'The Episcopal Church Welcomes You' without any 'unless....' following it." "An old church with a message for today." "God and human beings served here." "Asking questions is fine, even hard ones. That's how we learn and that's what we practice." "A church established in 1534, based on a faith founded in 33 AD." "We believe Jesus died for all the sins of the world, not just a few."

Ok, you see now why I'm not some advertising wizard or copy writing powerhouse. But the point I'm trying to make is that we need to put our church out in the marketplace, not to sell it but rather to extend an invitation to visit it. we get lots of publicity over "gay bishops" or lawsuits and the like, and the Lord knows those topics sell a lot of papers and even air time on the national newscasts. Some of that publicity has proven to be in our favor; people who had been wounded by churches who rejected them because of who and what they were, people who had been preached at and bashed over the head with Bibles (figuratively if not literally!), even people who had been turned off by the perception of hypocrisy (like preaching about sin and then getting caught coming out of a cheap motel or arrested for propositioning undercover cops). Those folks have been a blessing to us. They keep us honest and they keep us working to try to show more people what we have to offer.

How do we really get across the message that appears on signs outside Episcopal churches all over, "The Episcopal Church Welcomes You"? What kind of commercial, infomercial or ad campaign would really get that point across? "If you're seeking a honest place to practice your faith, apply within"? "Come let us show you faith in action"? "Feeling lost? We can help you find directions"?

I know what I found in the Episcopal church. It didn't take a commercial, merely a "Coming to church with me today?"

Sure sounds a lot better than even a cute iguana hot-footing it out a door to the accompaniment of some tune that states, "We're gonna make you feel all right."

The Spirit Moving.....

It's been a quiet weekend, like most of them. I don't mind at all; I rather like walking in my front door on Friday night and, except for feeding the outside cats or taking the garbage to the dumpster, not going anywhere or even needing to talk to anyone if I choose not to. Of course, talking to people is something I do choose to do, and I'm grateful to have several friends I can call whenever I need to. Much as I love the boys (and Phoebe), they're not always the world's greatest conversationalists —except maybe at 3:30 a.m. Often what we say is far less important than the fact that we are communicating, building stronger bonds between us, each providing thoughts and jokes and an underlying feeling of support, sharing and love. Sometimes to outsiders it might seem like we're talking normally but there are little catch phrases and words that mean something to us other than what they would normally be expected to mean.

Today was Pentecost, one of the "biggies" in the church when the Spirit finally gets a day of celebration. I read of churches where the account of the first Pentecost is read not only in a single language but in a number of them -- simultaneously. It's sort of a reenactment of what happened when the disciples and followers of Jesus met together 50 days after the resurrection. The Spirit popped down, did something and all of a sudden everybody was talking in languages they'd never spoken before. No Rosetta Stone for them; it was just "poof!" or whatever and they were speaking in foreign tongues, tongues that weren't just "spiritual" or "a private prayer language" but actual languages of people to whom they were to bring the message of Jesus.

I know people who speak in tongues, the ecstatic, unintelligible-to-others speech. It isn't a litmus test of who's a real Christian and who isn't, but rather a way of communicating with God personally and intimately, with no one else understanding what is being said. It's not something I've ever experienced myself; the closest I've ever been to it was during a Catholic mass in Portland years ago at an outdoor shrine. Frankly, the tongues I heard sounded like baby-babble to me, repeated syllables in a sort of monotone that made no sense although the speakers seemed to be totally engaged, swaying gently, eyes closed and totally oblivious to anyone or anything around them.

All my life I've heard the expression, "I'll get to it when the Spirit moves me." Somehow I don't think they're waiting for the Holy Spirit to come down and put a finger on their head, cause an eruption of flame and a sudden burning passion for speaking another language or going out to missionize. Sometimes they're just waiting for the Spirit to move them to do the dishes or go to work or take the kids to Sunday school or the movies. Most of the time the Spirit doesn't do that stuff; it's a way of putting the onus on an outside force in order to compel an inner stimulus that in turn instigates an outward action. Of course, then there are the ones who claim the Spirit tells them to do all kinds of things. I can't refute that; I'm not party to their conversations with God in any of God's persons so I have no way of knowing the veracity of their claim. Still, I look and see what action is produced. Sometimes I can see that yes, this does seem to produce something that helps -- an individual, an institution, a world. Other times, I'm not so sure who it helps other than the person themselves.

Thinking about the Spirit on a day where the church celebrates not just the Spirit but the actions of the Spirit, I'm wondering where the Spirit is in my life? I know how easy it is to say that when something serendipitous happens that "It's the Spirit working!" But then I wonder, "Is it really?" Or when I do something that has a positive impact, "Oh, the Spirit led me to this!" Was it really? Or is it just wishful thinking.

I probably know about a dozen phrases in about 8-10 languages, everything from "Thank you" to "Where is the loo?" I'd love to speak another language fluently, but I'm just not disciplined enough to work at it long enough and hard ehough to make it happen. I've never really wanted a "spiritual" or "private prayer language" to communicate with God. But I would like to know for a certainty that when I say I'm waiting for the "Spirit to move me," it's really the Spirit that does the moving.

Perhaps I'm just too cynical -- or maybe skeptical. I do know that just once I'd like to be in a crowd where suddenly the languages of the world wash around me and I can know that it's all for a good purpose, all about healing and helping the world.

I wonder, though, how long I can wait for the "Spirit to move me," and how I will know it really is the Spirit. If I'd been in that room with the early Christians I wonder -- would the Spirit have moved me?

Just some ramblings on the night of Pentecost.

Learning and Doing

I've worked hard this week, at work, on the book, planning for next year's EfM groups. Even though this week was a "short" week job-wise (Memorial Day holiday), the office still had to be visited, even on the holiday, and then regular hours once again. Hours free from the office have been filled with typing on the book and fighting with formatting (always the worst part of the job) , and then the normal things of life -- feeding and taking care of cats, feeding and taking care of me (including naps now and again), and, in whatever time is left, cleaning the house and doing the laundry. Holiday last Monday or no, it's been a pretty normal week.

Yesterday I finished typing the draft of the Jean's book. Now for the rounds of polishing, correcting, adding to, deleting from and rearranging. I've been doing a lot of typing this week, both on the book and at work, so my right hand is giving signs of stress and strain, so I decided I needed to take today off and do some goofing off -- that is, once I clean the cat boxes, mow the floor, finish washing the dishes and the laundry and a few other little chores like wading through the basket next to my desk that is the receptacle for papers, brochures, ads, pay stubs, and God knows what-all else.

It isn't the chores that are so onerous, it's the getting started on it that takes a lot of oomph, oomph that at present I haven't got. I just look at what needs doing and feel overwhelmed. Oh, sure, I know the drill: break it down into small, manageable pieces, get it done and then goof off, take a nap or do whatever it is you really want to do. Got it. I really do. Getting it is the easy part. It's the actual getting going that's the hard work.

This week the church marked the celebration of the Ascension, the event of Jesus' ascension to heaven. I wonder what the disciples were thinking at the time. "Dang, he's gone again!"

Once before they had suffered this loss of the leader and teacher to whom they looked for guidance in what they were to do next, what they needed to learn next, even where they needed to go next. They had been in this place before, mourning the loss of someone dear and important to them and feeling acutely the absence of the man who was the symbolic rudder to their boat, who kept them on course and out of trouble. They didn't have long to feel rudderless the first time; barely had they gotten past the initial shock of his death when he was once again among them -- and yet not in the same way he had been before. Some of it was different, but he was still among them at times, just like he had been in life. He still gave direction and stimulus to their lives and activities and so they could continue to follow and do what was asked, demanded of them.

Then came the Ascension. Jesus went away again, this time in triumph rather than the shame of the cross. Still, he went away from them, beyond their sight and leaving them to put into practice the things that they had been taught to do, say and be.

"Dang, he's gone again!"

"Now what do we do?"

I imagine for them, the knowing what to do was in place -- they'd been practicing for quite a while now. They had their memorized lessons in place and now it was time for them to do something, sort of like getting past their final exam.

Having been a student, it's easy for me to remember the "Oh, dang!" reality of final exams and the idea of going into a situation that will determine my grade in the class or program barehanded, alone, with nothing but a pen and what I carried in my brain to get me through it. But if I don't go into the testing room, the examination chamber or the assembly of examiners, I don't have to do anything but study, rehearse—and probably do some praying. Sooner or later, though, I have to face the examiners, the test papers and the blue booklets of blank pages and I have to do something about and with them.

But there's a test beyond that exam. What am I going to do with what I've learned and upon which I've just been tested? Like student teaching, I've had a period of study and work under the guidance of teachers and then been evaluated by them. Jesus taught and the disciples learned and did their practical exams and now came the big test beyond their final exam. They either had to go out into the world and put into practice what they'd been taught or they could cower behind closed doors, lost in a flurry of indecision and uncertainty. They knew what they had to do, it was just a matter of getting up the gumption to actually do it.

While mowing the floors and sorting through papers doesn't compare with going out into the world to teach, preach, comfort and heal, it is still the next thing I have to do. The disciples had to go out the door, I have to pick up a tool or a task and physically do it.

"Dang it, he's gone again." But no, he's still here, just not in the same way. The disciples had to learn that, so in essence the end of their apprenticeship under Jesus was the beginning of their post-grad learning, the guidance from an invisible hand and inaudible voice . I have to face that too, in my daily life. It's time to do the next right thing. It's time to go out the door and begin to practice what I've learned. And, just like the disciples, I'll find that I haven't learned all the lessons yet, I just have some distance-learning ahead of me.

"Dang, he's gone again -- but he's still calling the shots!" That's the message Ascension has for me this year. "Not get out there and win one for the Big Guy!"