Loving Bodies

Yes. it is beautiful. But not exclusively important,
and that's what took me a regrettably long time to learn.

It has long been an interest of both feminism and religious groups to foster an understanding of human worth that's not just skin-deep.

As a 20th-21st century woman, I consistently learned from guardians, mentors, and no small amount of media (or counter-media) that I should find a mate who would love me not only for my body but also for my mind.

This, I think, has been a good thing. But even good things have their limits.

Part of me may have always known this, but I really began to think about such standards for love in earnest a few years ago when my grandfather was dying.

He had Parkinson's disease, and by the last years of his life the capabilities of both his body and his mind were irreparably diminished. He was a strong, smart man who eventually could not recognize his loved ones or find his way home or feed himself.

It was not a love for his mind (what it was then or what it once had been) that made my grandmother and the rest of my family continue to care for him until his final moments.

This tangible caring may have stemmed from emotional connection, but they understood what we understand when we care deeply for any human being. They tended to him and gave him every dignity they could. Not just because he had done the same for his parents and children, or because he was once a hardworking and self-sufficient intellectual. They did it because they knew and loved a human being, regardless of circumstance.

When I experienced grief and depression around that same time, my partner and friends and family loved me not because they were in love with my mind (as it was then or what it once had been), but because they loved me, the whole me, no matter what changes I faced, and they were determined to show me that as best as they could.

(Circumstances never define the human being we love, just the ways in which we might show love to them.)

And that's when I knew how beautiful it could be to love a body.

So I'm not willing to let measures of beauty - even ostensibly honorable measures like in the image above - strip me of any amount of my humanity. And I'm not willing to privilege emotional love and mental love so consistently over physical love, whether that physicality is sex, or snuggling, or caring for someone when they're ill, or massaging someone's aches and pains.

For those who know that I'm demisexual, someone whose attractions depend almost solely on an emotional connection, this anti-hierarchy of love may come as a surprise. But the commitment to owning our own reality and affirming others' realities, whatever they may be, is marvelously compatible with seeing oneself or someone else as a whole person. In fact, many of us on the asexual spectrum appreciate physical acts of love as part of our own everyday reality, and our personal values will vary as much as in any other group.

For those for whom this is not a matter of innate preferences but of spiritual edification, consider what "loving bodies" looks like at its best in your religion. For Christians, even traditional marriage vows have included "to have and to hold" and "in sickness and in health," and remember how consistently that incarnate Jesus fed bodies, washed bodies, healed bodies. If we disembody our partners and our communities, we risk losing significant portions of what it means to be people of faith in relationship.

I'd like to challenge anyone wrestling with the merits of physical love to take note of it when you see it over the next few days. It could well be platonic or familial or neighborly, but notice some tangible interaction of profound caring between two or more fleshy humans. Notice how some acts are inextricably interwoven with mind and emotion, and how some are the embodiment of love in their own right.

Will you love some-body?

Reclaiming the Goodness of Darkness

Each year, First Presbyterian Church of New Haven prints a Lenten Reflection booklet with contributions from the community, one 200-word reflection for each of the forty days of Lent. I agreed to write one and was assigned John 8:12-20.

Source

¹²Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” ¹³Then the Pharisees said to him, “You are testifying on your own behalf; your testimony is not valid.” ¹⁴Jesus answered, “Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is valid because I know where I have come from and where I am going, but you do not know where I come from or where I am going. ¹⁵You judge by human standards; I judge no one. ¹⁶Yet even if I do judge, my judgment is valid; for it is not I alone who judge, but I and the Father who sent me. ¹⁷In your law it is written that the testimony of two witnesses is valid. ¹⁸I testify on my own behalf, and the Father who sent me testifies on my behalf.” ¹⁹Then they said to him, “Where is your Father?” Jesus answered, “You know neither me nor my Father. If you knew me, you would know my Father also.” ²⁰He spoke these words while he was teaching in the treasury of the temple, but no one arrested him, because his hour had not yet come. (John 8:12–20)

---

With our sights set on Jesus, the Light of the World, have we fallen into a system of light supremacy? Is a language of light as salvific and life-giving as the intentions of Christ?

Bodies and souls cry out to us: It's time to reclaim the goodness of darkness.

To reclaim the good darkness of the body is to affirm that Black lives matter, not only denouncing acts of violence but confronting even prejudices which are so pervasive that they are silent and unconscious. Jesus embodies his rightful authority because divine justice overrules legal privilege. Black bodies are their own living testimonies and God is their witness.

And reclaiming the good darkness of the spirit beckons us to live into a spiritual life of seasons, affirming the dark night of the soul as a time of renewal and transformation in its own right. As you meditate on God's splendor, do you find the eyes of your soul squinting in the light? Find a dark place to rest. Don't be afraid. Splendor may appear inviting, but you are no less safe in the depths of mystery. The God of day is also God of night, and that is good.

The Children's Advent Prayer

Although I wrote this prayer specifically for the Fourth Sunday of Advent in 2014, it can easily be prayed during other seasons with little adjustment.

In our service, a different child prayed each paragraph. The prayer is suitable for most ages, but it's quite moving in elementary and middle school children's voices. Our readers ranged in age from 6 to 17.

Take care to teach children words that may be new to them, like "abiding" and "incarnate," but don't hesitate to have even your youngest readers tackle such phrases, especially if they like to read. It's a wonderful chance for them to feel accomplished and expand their vocabulary at the same time.

You may use this prayer freely in your own worship and nonprofit materials. If you print it or repost online, please cite it to Kimberley Fais (2014).

Source

---

Let us pray.  God, even in this season of Advent, waiting for Jesus to be born, we remember that You were a child once.  You know what it is to hunger and thirst. You know what it is to have joy and sorrow.  You know what it’s like to be held in loving arms, to grow up in a community of faith.  So today we pray for the children.

We pray for the children whose voices are not heard.  God of Truth and Patience, sometimes we need Your help to speak up, and sometimes we need Your help to listen.

We pray for the children who are hurt because of the color of their skin.  God of All People, give us the courage to recognize injustice.  Help us to be a community where we don’t hurt each other for the ways that You created us.

We pray for the children who experience violence and fear.  Abiding God, grant us Your peace.  Make us instruments of Your peace to everyone we meet.

We pray for the children who don’t know what tomorrow holds.  Companion God, journey with us.  Guide us when the future seems uncertain and we can’t find our way.

We pray for the children who are waiting.  Waiting for news, for a diagnosis, for a change, for a reason to move forward.  God of Anticipation, prepare us for then, but wait with us for now.

We pray for the children who are sick in body, mind, or spirit.  God of Life, bring healing and strength, hope and relief.

We pray for the children who must grow up too soon.  Playful God, rekindle our wonder and awe.  Even in the face of a troubled world, let us witness Your creativity.

We pray for the children who lead their communities and the world to new horizons.  God of Wisdom, give us the courage to lead and the humility to follow.

We pray for the children who seek forgiveness.  Gracious God, wrap us in Your unconditional love, and empower us to love just as fiercely as You love us.

We pray for the children who hunger and thirst.  Incarnate God, help us to nourish each other’s bodies.

And we pray for the grownups, who are still Your children.  Eternal God, remind us who we are, and whose we are, so that wherever we may go, we can always find ourselves in You.

Now let us pray together the prayer that Jesus taught us to pray…

(Continue with the Lord's Prayer as your denomination knows it.)

Amen.

Your Mistake Is Not the Last Word on You

Before I preached this narrative sermon to my classmates, I read aloud from John 21:1-19 (NRSV), projected the image below, and lit one candle to bring into the chapel the faint but unmistakable scent of fire.

Your name is Peter.  You remember that night—the night that Jesus was arrested.  It was the night that you did that thing you said you would never do, became what you said you would never be.  How could you forget that?  You never will.

Over and over again the people asked, “Are you not Jesus’ disciple?” and over and over again you said, “I am not.”  Three times.  Three times, just like he said it would be.  And you didn’t just deny Jesus or that you knew who he was.  You denied who he said you were and what he called you to do.

Are you not Jesus’ disciple?

No. No, I am not.

When it happened, you were warming yourself by a charcoal fire.  The air is still thick with the smell of it, even when you aren’t by a fire, because you will never forget that scent.  It’s always been unmistakable, but now it’s the smell of the most humiliating moment of your life.  Every time you warm your hands you relive that shame a little bit more.

And where do you find yourself now but right here at another charcoal fire?  It’s the first time Jesus is sitting with you by a fire since the night you wrapped yourself in the protection of lies.

But that’s not what Jesus talks about.  “Come and have breakfast,” he says, and as he cooks the fish you breathe in the smell of sustenance and wonder if things between you will ever be what they once were, what they should have been.

Here you are sitting down to a feast like nothing has even changed between you.  You became what you swore you would never be and you two have never even talked about it and this silence is actually starting to weigh on you as much as the shame ever has and God—Are you ever going to talk about it?

Jesus breaks bread and gives it to you, and as you reach out to take it, you can still see the wounds in his wrists where they nailed him to the wood.  But the fish are hot and the bread is fresh and you are hungry.  So you let the whole meal go by in friendly conversation, and you don’t ask Jesus about the awful thing burned into your memory to this day.

But he knows, doesn’t he?

And after you’ve eaten together, he speaks.

Your name is Peter.  At least, it is to Jesus.  Isn’t it?

“Simon, Son of John,” he says.  It’s a little like when your mother used to scold you for teasing Andrew when you were kids.  Except there’s a look on Jesus’ face now, and even though all you can think about is the burning coals and the heat of shame, there’s this look on his face and you can’t describe it, but whatever it is means you’re not in trouble.

“Simon, Son of John,” he says, “do you love me more than these?”

You do.  You cherish him.  He tells you to feed his lambs.

Maybe some time passes. You can’t be sure how much, because all that matters is that Jesus turns to you again.

“Do you love me?” he says.

You do.  You cherish him.  He tells you to tend his sheep.

The next time he says it like he knows what hearing a question three times will mean to you.  He says, “Do you love me?”

Someday the story of this conversation is going to be written down in Greek, and many well-meaning preachers are going to focus on the use of different words for love—agape love, phileo love—and what they think those words mean.  Some will preach how this goes to show that, even now, you can’t get where Jesus is or where he wants you to be.

Poor Simon Peter, they’ll say, because they too will never forget the night you denied Jesus and everything you were supposed to be for him.  It will be easy for them to interpret the words to reflect what they already know about you: That you fall short and Jesus needs to meet you in your weakness.  They will shame you even in your redemption.

Maybe they wouldn’t preach it like that if they could hear what you hear.

You and Jesus don’t speak Greek.  You speak Aramaic, and what you hear is the very same question spoken three times.  What you hear is three opportunities to affirm your love and three instructions to cherish Jesus’ people the way you cherish him.  What you hear is Jesus calling you to be the disciple you were always meant to be.  What you hear is the emotion in his voice when his third question both breaks you open and restores you.  What you hear is the voice drowning out the crackle of fire.  What you hear is love.

Jesus calls you Simon, but you both know that you are and forever will be Peter.  You are the rock on which your beloved Jesus will build his church.  You are the one who will shepherd his flock.  You are the one who will speak to the Jews and the Gentiles.  You are the one who will die for them all—for Jesus, for his people.  You are the one who cherishes your friend no matter how ashamed you feel of your failure.

Peter, someday a Christian named C.S. Lewis will write about this kind of love between people who know each other the way you and Jesus do—that between friends, the question Do you love me? means, Do you see the same truth?  Do you care about the same truth?  Lewis won’t mention you or this conversation with your Lord, but if you could know what he would write, you might say, “Yes!  That’s what Jesus is asking of me.  Do we see the same truth?  Am I ready to care for his people as much as I care for him?  Am I ready to lay down my life?  Am I able to bear the name Disciple, to be the person Jesus made me and do what he called me to do?”

And Jesus thinks you are.  At Passover, you told him you wanted to follow him wherever he was going, but back then you weren’t ready.  Now, Jesus says, “Follow me.”  And you will.  The last word on you in this story is not your mistake.

And you don’t know this yet, Peter, but someday millions of Jesus’ people will put the ashes of burnt palms on their foreheads. Those sooty dark smudges will remind them that they are mortal and that they have fallen short of what Jesus has called them to be.  But there but for the grace of God, those ashes will mean so much more.  Through the ashes, anointed on each forehead in the form of a cross, Jesus will speak to their hearts: “My friend, do you love me?”

And if they can hear those words above the crackle of fire, and each and every reminder of fall and failure, then like you, Peter, the people you nourish and lead and all of their spiritual descendants—they too will know who they are and what they are meant to do . . .

If only they will hear love over the persistent whisper of shame.

The Carpenter's Apprentice

A Parable by Kimberley Fais

Photo Source

Manuel made his way through the woodshop that he had inherited from his father. Now himself an esteemed carpenter, Manuel found the apprentice at a workbench in the back, putting the finishing touches on a model ship about the size and weight of his own two hands.

Seeing his craftsmanship, Manuel told the apprentice, "You will build a boat fit for a journey."

The apprentice looked up in surprise. "I will?"

"You will."

"When?"

"While I am away."

Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice was overwhelmed with honor and excitement. This was his chance to do something real and useful. Oh, he loved fashioning toys that would delight and entertain children and knickknacks that would adorn shelves and mantels, but never before had he been entrusted to build a true vessel.

He made the boat from a dense wood, the most extravagant he could afford. It was the kind of wood known to make exquisite furniture, and the apprentice imagined his ship transporting a king across the sea. He embellished the mast and carved a figurehead for the bow. He sanded the hull smooth and drenched the interior with varnish until it shone. He added every imaginable accent and amenity to raise the boat’s appeal.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat at the woodshop.

"It's heavy," said Manuel.

The apprentice quickly tried to reassure the carpenter. "Wait," he said, bustling around the entirety of the boat and plucking off various pieces. "I can fix that. I’ll get rid of the extras."

The carpenter shook his head. "Build again."

Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice was embarrassed about his mistake; that he had gotten so carried away, so complacent. Of course his first real ship should have been humble, simple, understated. This time, he built a boat that was lightweight and thin and very nearly bare, save for the most essential of essentials; nothing unnecessary or cumbersome to weigh it down.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat at the woodshop.

"It's light," said Manuel.

"It'll float," the apprentice said proudly.

"And crumble in the waves," said the carpenter, a regretful expression to his brow. "Build again."

Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice found just the right sort of wood for a boat, but he became self-conscious about his ability to build a ship that would not be too unwieldy or unbalanced or structurally flawed. He had failed twice already, and he desperately wanted this boat to be one fit for water. He made a sturdy little boat, one that surely could endure a bit of tossing in the waves without toppling.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat in the woodshop.

"It's small," said Manuel.

"Size doesn't matter," wailed the apprentice, "as long as the boat is balanced and strong. That's what you said!"

"You made a boat for you," said the carpenter, "a safe and simple project. This time you must build for more than yourself."

The apprentice sighed with impatience. "Come on, Manuel. Even Noah got measurements for the ark. Just how big should this thing be?"

The carpenter replied, "Big enough."

"OK," said the apprentice. "So what is that in cubits?"

The carpenter simply smiled and said, "Build again."

Then, without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice built the biggest ship he could build. If a boat for one made him seem petty and self-centered and aloof, a boat built for a massive crowd would surely be inviting and triumphant. No one would be turned away from a ship this great, and what a tribute it would be to Manuel, the mentor whose apprentice single-handedly built such a remarkable ship.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat in the woodshop.

"It's big," said Manuel.

The apprentice looked hopeful. "Big enough?"

"Too big," said Manuel.

"Whoa, whoa, wait." The apprentice leapt to the side of the boat in its defense. "Are you worried about the floating thing again? Because I know this one will float. I used the strong, lightweight wood and everything."

"Too big," said Manuel, "because there are not enough sailors to manage it."

"So we'll get more sailors."

"We will have only the sailors we will have," said Manuel.

"You know what this is all about," the apprentice insisted. "You know, but you're not telling me, and it isn't helping. How many sailors will need to board this thing?"

But the carpenter only smiled and said, "Build again." As he turned to go, the apprentice caught his arm.

"Manuel," the apprentice insisted, "I've built again and again. I need to know more. I need to know who is traveling and where they are going and how best to get them there."

"Yes," said the carpenter. "Yes, you do."

So the carpenter set out, and the apprentice went into the center of town.

He watched and listened and wandered the streets, noticing things he never noticed before. He realized then that ever since he became the carpenter’s apprentice, he tended only to notice people enjoying their handiwork—the children who had received toys built in the shop; shopkeepers using shelves and furniture and tools crafted from wood.

For the first time in a long time, the apprentice walked through town and saw and heard what people needed. The apprentice had only received his assignments from the carpenter, but it seemed that the carpenter had wanted him to surface from the woodshop so that he could talk to the townspeople himself.

But no one he met had any need of a boat.

Then he met a family just beyond the market. With some weary reluctance, the woman with a wriggling toddler in her arms explained to the apprentice that they all needed to get home, across the sea, and didn't know yet how they would make the journey.

The apprentice looked at the family; the mother and a few of her grown children would be strong and able sailors, and some smaller children would need a safe space to travel with them.

The apprentice smiled and said, "Come back to the woodshop with me to tell me more, and I will build a boat fit for the journey."

I'm Not Gonna (An Anthem for Amanda)

A parody based on Love Song by Sara Bareilles

I once heard that Sara Bareilles' anti-Love Song was written not for a romantic partner but for the music industry.  Bareilles wanted to compose songs for the sake of what she wanted to say and how she wanted to say it.  It got me thinking about the kinds of compromises people might make in their professions – especially moral and creative compromises – and the choice to draw the line somewhere.

So this parody goes out to my friend Amanda and candidates for ministry of all denominations, with a special shout-out to the United Methodist Church's District Committee on Ordained Ministry (DCOM).

I haven't had the pleasure of going to DCOM yet, but I've heard a lot of stories about people considering ordination who have reservations about one issue or another that might prevent them from being ordained.  Often this means a conundrum for the candidate: How much can I disclose about what I believe, who I am, or what has happened in my past?  What language will I use in prayer and worship?  Will I speak to God differently while in the presence of my superiors and my parishioners?

I've heard about people who struggle with using patriarchal or lordship language for the divine; people who belong to the LGBT community or who would otherwise ordain or wed them in their pastoral role; and people who have different understandings of what it means to be welcoming, inclusive, or ecumenical and what it means for the United Methodist Church to brand itself with the slogan "Open Hearts, Open Minds, Open Doors."  I've heard about people who challenge the desperate need for quantity over quality: attracting members but falling short of fortifying them and nourishing their souls.  I've heard about people who have lost their ministerial jobs or new opportunities because of health concerns (usually mental health), including one man who was at the top of a committee's list to become their next pastor until they discovered that he'd previously been institutionalized.

The fact that this man and others in all of these situations wrestle with how much to "tell" those who make decisions about their ordination or employment begs a few questions:

Do our churches want clergy who fit a certain image, even if someone must lie or withhold information about themselves, their personal histories, their health, their beliefs, their ideas?  To what extent will they support the virtues of authenticity and honesty?  To what extent are they willing to have diversity among the clergy – not just of race and age and so forth, but also of perspectives and abilities and experiences?

Please substitute the theme "I'm not gonna pray to 'Lord Jesus'" with the ordination-threatening issue of your choice, i.e. "I'm not gonna say I'm a straight man," "I'm not gonna call God the 'Father,'" or even something as broad as "I'm not gonna keep out the outcasts."  It's really about being authentic while pursuing your vocation more than any one theological conflict.

Heading to D-COM
Where you tell me
To breathe easy for awhile
But breathing gets harder
Even I know that
My ministry?
It's too soon to see
And my future's in your hands
(After the part I say what I need to)

Blank stares on your faces
No easy way to say this
You mean well, but you make this hard on me

I'm not gonna pray to "Lord Jesus"
'Cause you're used to it, 'cause it serves you, you see
I'm not gonna pray to "Lord Jesus"
'Cause you tell me it's make-or-breaking this
If I'll be ordained
I'm not gonna lie just to stay
If you want an honest clergy
Then I pray you don't desert me
When I stand
Before you today

I've learned the hard way
That we all say things you wanna hear
God's called on us
But it's still your call
You can still say who's in
What counts as sin
Fill the church with your closest kin
Hello to high and dry

Convince me to please you
Make me think that God wants this, too
I'm trying to let you hear me as I am

I'm not gonna pray to "Lord Jesus"
'Cause you're used to it, 'cause it serves you, you see
I'm not gonna pray to "Lord Jesus"
'Cause you tell me it's make-or-breaking this
If I'll be ordained
I'm not gonna change just to stay
And after all, I think it's wise
That I refuse to compromise
My conscience and lie here today

Promise me you'll leave the light on
To help me be
Whom God has called on
'Cause I believe there's a way
To accept me because I say
I won't pray to "Lord Jesus"
'Cause you're used to it, 'cause it serves you, you see
I'm not gonna pray to "Lord Jesus"
'Cause you tell me it's make-or-breaking this

Is that why you want a "Lord Jesus"?
'Cause you're used to it, 'cause it serves you, you see
I'm not gonna pray to "Lord Jesus"
'Cause you tell me it's make-or-breaking this
If I'll be ordained
I'm not gonna lie just to stay
If there's lordship language in it
I don't want it for a minute
And some silently agree but
I believe that our dear Jesus
Would want me to speak up today

An Open Letter to Paul from a Woman Prophet of First-Century Corinth

A letter written in response to 1 Corinthians 11 in the voice of a woman praying and prophesying in first-century Corinth (minus my footnotes and further references).

Greetings, Paul! Grace and peace to you. I pray that this finds you well, and that your presence and wisdom continue to bless others in Christ's name. We Corinthians give thanks to God for your guidance and loyalty. We are a raucous bunch, but you continue to care for us. We care for you, too.

By the way, I covered my head while composing this letter so that the thought of me speaking to the scribe would not be too distracting to you. I know you advised us in your letter not to eat meat offered to idols (even knowing that we are no better for either eating or abstaining) if it might cause someone else to stumble, so I imagine that you would appreciate that I veil myself as I author a letter to you, even though I'm not in the habit of doing so. I would never wish for you to stumble, Paul.

Now, I would like to respond to a particular passage of your letter. But it's not the meat thing I wanted to write to you about. I think we understand that one pretty well, and anyway, it's just meat, right? Indeed, the purpose of my letter is the topic of women speaking in the assembly, covering our heads, and your intriguing logical wordplay about women coming from men and men coming from women. All of this, possibly more than anything else in your letter at the moment, has certainly got everybody at the assembly talking—especially we women—so maybe you can help us think through it. We don't mean to be contentious for contention's sake, but rather speak amongst ourselves and write to you for the sake of understanding in the community.

For ease of reading and discussion amongst ourselves, we have divided your lengthy correspondence into different chapters and verses (for instance, the aforementioned advice regarding meat is Chapter 8). Don't worry; I've enclosed herein a duplicate of your letter, fully marked for your reference. Feel free to turn to Chapter 11 and follow along.

First, my own greatest uncertainty: I don't understand your explanation that man was not "created for the sake of woman, but woman for the sake of man" (v. 9), if we are also to acknowledge that each is made from the other (v. 12). Humanity was not made for hearts, but hearts for human bodies; and yet without functioning hearts, bodies would fail and humanity would cease. What's more, if either men or women were to cease to be created—or, perhaps, were all female children actually put to death before maturity —it would be the cessation of the other. Only the ultimate Creator, the God who could miraculously restore life to a body without a beating heart, could also create new life without both a male and a female parent. A boy-child who would serve as Lord and Savior to male and female both entered the world by way of a woman's womb, like you and I, Paul. Yet some think that Jesus' Mother, Mary, conceived him solely by the Spirit; if this is true, it means more than one woman's purity maintained: it also raises the importance of woman in the salvation of humanity and reminds us that we, females and males, are quite interdependent indeed, even in spirit. Therefore, I pose to you that your argument of male authority by way of nature is weak if you must rely on the concept that man preceded woman in the beginning and yet understand the cyclical nature of our human creation, let alone our salvation. I do agree with you, though, that "all things come from God" (v. 12) and that neither sex is "independent" of the other (v. 11). Your argument about origins substantiates that much.

Speaking of origins, what makes you conclude that man "is the image and reflection of God; but woman is the reflection of man" (v. 7)? There are certain anatomical differences between females and males—from our facial features and builds to the genitals that most simply differentiate us at birth. Do we believe that God has genitals? A large nose; a tall frame? If woman is a "reflection of man," the "image and reflection of God," why are these features still different? Even ripples in the stream do not cause such discrepancies in the reflections we see. I have not seen the face of God, but I wonder if my face bears closer resemblance to the Creator in whose image all humanity was made than it does to that of a man—even my own father and brother. I suppose I cannot know.

Now I would specifically like to address the matter of covering one's head, an act which you have clearly set aside for women, lest a man disgrace himself. I'm concerned because I've heard that Jesus was crowned with thorns before his crucifixion. Did Jesus disgrace his head when he prayed to God on the cross, or when he prophesied to the criminal beside him? If he was disgraced, surely it was for the thorns given in derision; not for praying while crowned. Yet you say: "Any man who prays or prophesies with something on his head disgraces his head" (v. 4). Logically, Jesus was indeed a man and a mortal one at that point, or else we may need to reconsider our understanding of his death and resurrection. Should Jesus have removed the thorns when he wished to speak (provided that his hands had been free to do so)? Should he have simply refrained from audible prayer and prophecy so as not to be disgraced? Paul, what would you have had Jesus do? What does it really mean to be disgraced, and are there not exceptions in which a disgrace by human measure may be instead a sign of glory for the Lord?

I have decided to listen to you, Paul, when you instruct us to judge for ourselves on the matter of whether or not it is "proper for a woman to pray to God with her head unveiled" (v. 13). You reason that nature has given my long hair to me as a covering; that it is my glory. I can think of nothing more sound than to offer such glory openly to God. Furthermore, nature itself teaches me that I was created with vocal cords, but not with a veil. When I pray and prophesy, I typically choose to use only the former to invoke our Creator.

However, out of respect for the men in the room, lest they be distracted from God even as I speak solely of God, I will continue to remain clothed—and, if they are particularly weak men, I may even cover my head. Because we are so interdependent, so influential over one another, I realize that this may not simply be about my identity as a woman, but also about preventing man from being distracted by what you call the "reflection of man." (I hear that an unhealthy preoccupation with a reflection didn't work out so well for Narcissus.) Thank you for your insights into the limitations of men in our civilization and what we women might do in order to keep them safe and pure.

Before I forget, Paul, please send my love to your Mother. It's been so very long since we were together in Tarsus. Why, I think you were just a little boy still learning to talk. We had such a good time teaching you the power of words. Your Mother must be so pleased to see how eloquently you write today! No matter how much your life has changed in Christ, every time I read a letter from you, to this day, I swear I hear your dear Mother's voice.

Follow Through

A meditation on Mark 1:14-20 that I prepared for a service at a nursing home (actually an abbreviated revision of a sermon I haven't preached yet).


Image Source

What if the disciples' initial decision to follow is important--the event that starts them on their journey--but what if there's even more to this? The story of "Jesus and his disciples" could have ended at any moment had the followers stopped following. (There seem to be a few close calls when the disciples are not having their finer moments.) But because they ultimately follow through, the Gospels don't end at Chapter One.

Sports folks! I know you're out there. In baseball, golf, tennis, what makes a good swing? Is it only the moment that you lift your hands, or the moment of impact, or is it also the follow-through?

What makes your friend your friend? Is it that day back in kindergarten (or college!) that you were both so nervous about not knowing anyone that you made a pact to stick together? Or is it every day of your friendship since then that you do stick by each other?

What makes your spouse your spouse? Is it only the signed marriage license from the state? Or is it every day that you keep the vows you made to each other? If you were a traditionalist on your wedding day, you may have vowed to love and cherish your partner. "Love" here is a verb, and like the verb "follow," it beckons a choice, a commitment.

We also practice commitment to our communities and neighbors, to our work, to our rest and our self-care, or in devoting our time or energy to something with meaning to us. When we offer this kind of dedication to Jesus, we are not just following, but we are following through.

One more thing to mention: Being a person of commitment doesn't mean that we won't also need to make difficult choices and sacrifices. There are going to be activities and relationships in our lives that, for whatever reason, we will need to let go. Sometimes Jesus will call, and Zebedee and the hired men will stay behind.

But we may be surprised to see who has been called to travel with us and who else we'll find along the way. We are called to love enemies and strangers. We are called to love the enemy or the stranger that our friend or our spouse or our ex has become to us. We are called to forgive and to accept forgiveness, to heal and to accept healing. And we are called to share God's message with other people; to encourage others to take a life-changing swing at life and then follow through.

Because when Jesus called people to follow him, he called them to journey with him. He vowed that he would shape them into new people living with a new purpose, for however long they committed to the process and to him.

And so, when we have decided to follow Jesus, to see what he will teach us about who we really are, it is a decision that we must make again and again: to follow through, every day.

The Garden: A Revelation

When Hilary Rhodes of Woman at the Well sent me the post she wrote for this blog based on one of mine, her theological and historical exploration originally culminated in a beautiful personal testimony, which I loved even more than the insightful analysis of grace. I told Hilary that these parts' length and content (related, yet quite different) suggested to me that they should indeed be two separate pieces, so what you've seen this week is that first portion.

Because the second part is so personally meaningful, Hilary would like to make WATW its home, and I agree. It moved me, though, and so I'd like to make a point of recommending it to you and directing you over to WATW to read the full text. It's a descriptive piece about a spiritual vision she experienced; a story of depression and consolation, fear and grace.

Hilary and I differ in much of how and where we were raised and the theological and political landscapes around us. We have walked individual and intersecting paths. But I feel a sense of camaraderie in both her writing voice (particularly in her more personal writings) and in many of the issues she confronts. The blend of ideological differences and similarities between us, in fact, serves to remind me how simultaneously unique and intricately connected the parts of the Body of Christ truly are.

And so it is my pleasure to introduce to you Hilary's visionary tale:

I can’t tell you the moment I lost my faith. Sometime when I was about 14, when I was old enough to understand how shallow and fear-based and resistant to questions and dismissive of real need my experience of it had hereunto been. This was followed with six years of becoming an increasingly angry atheist. I can, however, tell you – almost to the hour – the moment I found it again:

The night of Thursday, September 6, 2008.

It was two months before one of the most heated presidential elections in history. I’d just come off a tearingly difficult, lonely, and isolated sophomore year of college, where I’d battled depression so severe that if I didn’t have anything to do, I’d stay in bed until 3 PM with the shades shut. I was saved by a deep friendship with an absolutely wonderful guy in my psychology class. (Matt, shout-out time.) But I’d been struggling over the summer again, and although I was about to take off to Oxford University and fulfill one of my longtime dreams, I was faced with a dialogue that was (especially on the right wing) about nothing but fear and despair. About the “destruction of America.” About this scary dark-skinned guy with the scary “Muslim” name. About how there might not be time for me, and my future family and children and grandchildren.

I was lying in bed in the darkness, crying. Just so scared. So scared. I was screaming in my soul. I was in agony. I couldn’t even breathe.

I couldn’t do it alone. I just couldn’t. It was too big for me. It was too much. It was beyond my ability to bear. And so I did the only thing I could:

I asked for help.

I listened to it echo in the walls. I watched headlights pass on the ceiling.

I eventually subsided into a troubled sleep.

And that night, the Word came back.

This is what I remember...

Read more.

Deceptive Christian Tippers

First, check out this article about customers who have left phony $10 bills marked with religious tidbits in place of monetary tips for their wait staff.

I'll wait.

...I know, right? I bet you're squirming with indignance, even if you've never worked as a server before, and/or you're concerned about the non-complimentary angle from which this piece serves up the Christian faith. Mmm, self-righteous deception for the glory of God. Delicious.

So let me begin (is it too late now to begin?) by saying that I think there's more to this than a critical view of Christianity. Some of Jesus' most controversial points were his criticisms of hypocrites and those who considered themselves most righteous. Today, this doesn't mean that we need to avoid Christianity or gathering as a faith community, but we do need to keep reimagining what it means to be a Christian while searching the core of Jesus' movement.

The article points out that not all Christians are poor tippers deceptive tippers, but the truth is, some are. So how do Christians reconcile that? How do we act, as Christians, knowing that this is the image of Christianity that some people - religious and nonreligious - have been given? How do we express what we believe and how we live without alienating or betraying people or being condescending to them? (Whichever "them." All of them.)

Instead of presuming to answer questions like these (since I think these are the sorts of questions best answered via actions), I'm going to highlight further what I consider a few important issues in the described scenario.

THE ISSUE OF DECEPTION

Do the people who do this think it's fitting that their religious intervention takes the form of fake money? What are they trying to convey, and what are they conveying instead?

If their message is that there are things in life more important than money, are they making that point by getting a hard worker's hopes up, thinking they've received a good tip, just to fool them?

Why not just leave a message on a card or paper instead; why go through the trouble of using fake money? Which brings us to...


THE REAL, HUMAN CONCERNS OF THE STAFF

As written in James, faith without good works is dead, and it does little good to give someone spiritual guidance if their basic needs are ignored (very Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, about 1800 years in advance).

By this example, should we replace all salaries with advice instead? How do the people leaving these tips support themselves? (And let's not pretend that a waiter's tip is beyond comparison to a wage, particularly if the employee's official salary is otherwise below legal minimum wage.)

Money is not the root of all evil; it has potential to do good, and technically it's just a tool in the extended bartering system of one person's time and labor in exchange for another's. So let's make every effort to make a fair trade.


THE GRATITUDE FACTOR

Traditionally, the amount of a tip is considered to be commensurate with the customer's gratitude and/or a measure of the quality of the service. Wait staff are often paid below minimum wage and depend greatly on their tips; unless stated, it's not included in the bill and the customer chooses the amount. A lack of tip signals extraordinarily bad service and/or extraordinarily ungrateful customers.

If a religious person is inclined to use this occasion to share the Gospel (more on that in a sec), they could do so separately and leave a note with the tip. Might look too much like bribing someone to convert, but tipping is being kind, generous, mindful of the server, and a decent customer. The note is just an additional and probably unsolicited expression of spiritual concern, whatever one's views on that matter. And speaking of which...


EVANGELISM IN ITSELF IS NOT A BAD THING

Mainstream Protestant churches and nonreligious groups sometimes villainize evangelism or proselytism, or else don't know what to do with it and shy away, but passive-aggressive practices like fake-tipping only fuel that fire.

At its best, (Christian) evangelism means sharing the Gospel, the good news - that something amazing has happened in Christ and continues to happen when the Spirit is at work in us. It means believing something so deeply that it simply must be shared; to avoid sharing altogether would imply that there's nothing so great or urgent there in the first place.

But the core of Christianity isn't about dropping a spiritual nugget of wisdom and running. Jesus and biblical writers like Paul emphasize community, unconditional love, and nurturing one another. Actually, these concepts being made reality are all a huge part of the message!

So telling others about Jesus isn't a bad thing, and these customers may genuinely believe that they're appropriately sharing an important message, but they've made no attempt to connect to the person in a truly meaningful way - nothing that demands risk or even much time and energy on their part. Unless they're chatty regulars, they're not around to nurture the server in faith or in general.

(Oh yeah. Sidenote: Casting Crowns touched on the idea of true Christian outreach and active care in the song "If We Are the Body.")

If anything, deceptive tippers teach someone to believe that Christians not only aren't generous but return (presumably) good service with self-righteousness under the guise of giving glory to God. They imply that, if God is actually supposed to work in the world through believers, then God does not provide or heal but only chastizes and counts followers.

Mainly, it's my hope that the religious and non-religious folks who read and reflect on the aforementioned Daily Finance article walk away with something other than a bitterness for Christians and others who seem too "pushy" in sharing faith (as, I admit, I have been prone to feel).

I hope that there is something fortifying and renewing to be found here - perhaps faith-affirming, or at least reconciling.

One of my favorite things about taking Church History classes in seminary (besides inordinate gobs of song parody fodder) has been confronting some of the terrible things that Christians have done, often in God's name.

Being honest about this troubling history - and realizing that "my" church and I are not necessarily much holier - has opened me up to thinking about all the good potential the church still holds and, perhaps most inspirationally, how we as a faith community can grow beyond and despite our mistakes.

For Vinny: Prayers for a Mourning Friend

When I returned from Florida in January, I was waiting in the airport for my rescheduled flight when I met a man in mourning. Being in motion ourselves seems to allow us opportunities to encounter people in need of a consoling passerby.

Last week, I hurried out of my last class to prepare to catch another flight. I was cutting it close. Twenty steps beyond the classroom door, a young man sat on the floor outside of another classroom, his knees up and his head in his hands. Another student and I paused to check on him, and he explained that he just had a headache. We wished him well and let him be.

Within a minute I was down the stairs and out the building, finding another young man walking along the path in the other direction. If it hadn't been for the first man, crouched down and seemingly vulnerable, I may never have noticed the comparably subtle yet pained expression on this second man's face. Just a step past him by the time it registered, I turned and asked if he was all right.

"You don't even know me, and you care." He crumpled onto the pavement.

My cellphone, i.e. sacred time-keeper, had been in-hand to keep me on track. I put it away in my bag and sat down.

Even in hindsight, I can't tell if this was an experience of the Spirit simply overcoming me to care for another, or one in which I needed to bend my own will and halt my own frenzied spirit to heed a call. I only know that, for that moment, the man was Christ to me.

I won't easily forget his furrowed brow or fallen tears as he told me that he had lost his best friend, Sarah. He couldn't explain much beyond that, and for the most part, we let the silences speak for themselves.

Before we parted, I asked if he would like me to continue to pray for him - for peace, comfort, and strength at this difficult time, I said, when he hesitated. He agreed.

And so, with Vinny on my mind for almost a week now, I'm sharing this with others who might send hope and blessings his way, and into the atmosphere in general. What stays with me most about encountering Vinny is how much he seemed to hope that someone would find him, and how he seemed surprised that someone did.

Please keep Vinny and Sarah and their loved ones in your thoughts and prayers, as well as all those who feel alone or don't know whom to seek out. You never know when you might be the person they're seeking. And if you're struggling with something, anything, I pray you'll also find a listening ear just when you need one, be it God, a friend, a family member, or an unsuspecting passerby.

Peace to you.

Whatever You Do

My dear friend's church is one of those which has endured major damage from Hurricane Irene. I offer up this hymn as a prayer for their community and for all those affected by severe weather, systemic problems, and other difficult circumstances - and as a prayer for all those in the position to serve them.

May you realize the blaze of light in even your darkest situation. May you realize the magnitude of the light you have to share.

Blessings, all.

---

"Whatever You Do"
(by Carolyn Winfrey Gillette,
inspired by Matthew 25:31-46)

"Whatever you do to the least ones of these,
I tell you in truth that you do unto me!"
Lord Jesus, you taught us! May we learn anew
That when we serve others, we also serve you.

When poor, waiting children pray hunger will end,
When those long-forgotten cry out for a friend,
When thirsty ones whisper, "O Lord, where are you?"
We hear, in their longing, that you’re calling, too.

In prisons and jails, Lord, we find a surprise;
We see you in people whom others despise.
At hospital bedsides we offer a prayer
And find, when we visit the sick, you are there.

When we reach to others in flood-stricken lands
And offer our hearts there, and offer our hands--
We notice, Lord Jesus, the gift of your grace:
We see, in the crowds of the suffering, your face.

"Lord, when did we see you?" Your teaching is clear
That when we serve others, we're serving you here.
And when your church heeds you and helps those in pain,
Then out of the chaos, hope rises again.


Lyrics by Carolyn Winfrey Gillette
Copyright © 2008
Photo of Carolyn from http://www.hymntime.com/

Give Up Everything You Have

This comic by David "Naked Pastor" Hayward, "graffiti artist on the walls of religion," explores the idea that we may need to be willing to relinquish more than our physical means in order to be at peace with God.


"Trash Your Theology"

Of course, Hayward and some of his readers discovered a rather meta loop, unable to avoid theologizing about the possibility of relinquishing one's theology. But the significant point remains: that if we go so far as to ascertain that our own understandings each somehow fall short of Ultimate Truth, it seems inevitable that there will need to be some sort of adjustment involved before either we embrace Truth or Truth embraces us... whatever the case may be.

The most common interpretations of Jesus' command for someone to give up everything and follow him are to leave behind one's former work or personal life (the first disciples, for instance) or to sell one's possessions (the wealthy man who received exactly that word of guidance).

Certainly, material and monetary accumulation and major shifts in one's path are all worthwhile topics for discussion and self-reflection. These matters are more profound than self-denial or suffering. Loss of this nature opens up the possibility for an incredible gain. Consumer culture tends to teach us that the only good "loss" is weight loss. What little else are we readily willing to give up?

But simply put, as Lois A. Lindbloom writes, when we say "no" to one thing, we simultaneously say "yes" to something else, and vice versa (Cultivating Discernment As a Way of Life). I would extend that: when we say "no more" to one option - in habit or lifestyle, relationship or career, location or mindset - we simultaneously embrace something new, even if we aren't quite sure yet what it is.

So I find the idea of dying to self as an ideological liberation to be inspiring and perhaps less thoroughly explored terrain. The first time I noticed the concept articulated well was in the book Three Simple Rules: A Wesleyan Way of Living.

Author Rueben P. Job writes: "Are we ready to give up our most cherished possession - the certainty that we are right and others wrong?"


Questions for Discussion and Reflection:

What do you think you may need to shed before you can move on? Consider the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual facets of your life.

Today, what might God be calling you to let go? ...to embrace?

Meditate or journal on your views about loss.

What do you think it would look like to attain a balance of trusting in what you believe to be true and giving up the certainty that you are right?

Good Work, Jesus

Keep it up!



Courtesy of Your Blog Hostess, Age 6-ish