Here are some links, conversations and tid-bits for your weekend perusal or something like that.  Or because I’m bored and should be doing laundry.

A really fabulous definition of what knowledge is … or is not.   An argument … but go see for yourself.

Have you read The Shack?  If you haven’t, then get thee hence, go to … go to (yes, it really will change you and your life).  If you have, go over to Waving or Drowning and put in your picks for the cast of the fantasy movie that we’re making.   I picked Mandy Patinkin for Jesus … but that’s all I’m telling you.  You’ll have to go see what started the whole thing for yourself.

Jake is looking for input on theology lectures … if you have a favorite and know where it is on an .mp3, leave it in the comments for him.  He’s putting together a mixtape of them.  Whodathunk?

Will Samson started a conversation about Dr. Wright and his soundbites but someone left a comment about abortion versus mountaintop removal.  I’m not certain I get it, maybe you will … in any case, go watch the YouTube clip and leave a more appropriate comment there to offset the silliness.

Over at Perigrinatio, Doug meditates on the one obligation we are called to.  It’s powerful.

Last, on a pretty somber note, I’ll join the growing wave of people who recommend the series over at FuturistGuy on Spiritual Abuse.  It is both sobering and redemptive.  I have found some of it extremely emotional, part of it made me want to throw my computer across the room, and then part of it made me nod in agreement.  But after processing it all I am glad for it.  It is helpful, healing and good.  I anticipate the next piece with some apprehension and some excitement.

One of my favorite blogs to read and meditate on is Velveteen Rabbi by Rachel Barenblatt. Rachel is a rabbinical student who lives and blogs in western Massachusetts. This is coincidentally near where my brother lives and near where I spent a lot of time as a child, so I feel a tie to her for this reason. But I would love her writing no matter where she did it. It is is full of imagery that makes the divine more approachable, more meaningful, and more real.

She often, as a rabbinical student, writes some form of commentary on the weekly parshat (portion). I hesitate to use words here because those words will define something that I am not qualified to define. But here is my very limited understanding of the Jewish tradition surrounding their scriptures. It is very usual to read through the scriptures (Torah … a portion of our Old Testament) every year. You begin and end during Shemini Atzeret/Simhat Torah (which holiday falls at the end of the high holidays in the autumn). The scriptures are broken into portions (parshats) that are defined and one could find those in a variety of places. So that on any given week, those Jews who are doing so are all reading the same portions of scripture together. There is something comforting in that to me.

This week (as she has in weeks past) she wrote a poem, but led off with this bit from Leviticus:

And if any of those falls into an earthen vessel, everything inside it shall be unclean and [the vessel] itself you shall break. –Leviticus 11:33

I stopped right there. And could not go on. I did not (at that moment) read the poem. “Paul said something about earthen vessels. I know he did. Now where was it? And what was it, exactly?” All I could remember at that moment was it was a good thing and I needed to know the exact quote and I needed to read it in context. So I found it in 2 Corinthians 4 –

7But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. 8We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. 10We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. 11For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body. 12So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.

Then I went back to Leviticus, searching for earthen vessels and what their specific outcome was to be. I read bits of Leviticus for the first time and was legitimately fascinated. Paul, the phormer Pharisee, would have known this. Clay or earthen vessels could be used for sacrifice, but once used, they must be broken. Bronze vessels could be scoured and cleansed, but clay vessels must be broken. I was particularly struck by this in Leviticus 6 –

24 The LORD said to Moses, 25 “Say to Aaron and his sons: ‘These are the regulations for the sin offering: The sin offering is to be slaughtered before the LORD in the place the burnt offering is slaughtered; it is most holy. 26 The priest who offers it shall eat it; it is to be eaten in a holy place, in the courtyard of the Tent of Meeting. 27 Whatever touches any of the flesh will become holy, and if any of the blood is spattered on a garment, you must wash it in a holy place. 28 The clay pot the meat is cooked in must be broken; but if it is cooked in a bronze pot, the pot is to be scoured and rinsed with water. (italics are mine)

After all of this, I went back and read Rachel’s beautiful poem and was immediately struck by this verse:

The heart is an earthen vessel,
the body an urn: made from dust

and patched with slip,
divine fingerprints everywhere.

Read her whole poem, then her explanation of Talmudic tradition concerning clay pots. How they are broken and then glued together again. The Hasidic tradition which teaches that the earthen vessel is also a metaphor for our hearts. And I go back again to Paul’s letter to the church in Corinth … “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.” We will be (or maybe we are already) broken, and then glued back together … “patched with slip, divine fingerprints everywhere.” Rendered useless and then useful again. In the process of becoming holy, we must also become broken and put back together. We must leave our cracks on the outside … an aesthetically imperfect vessel, which God can now use.

How many of you have killed a fly?

Yeah, me too. Squashed it like … well … a bug. Have you killed other bugs? Me, too.

How about other vermin? Have you ever killed a snake? Or a rat? Have you ever run over an animal by mistake with your vehicle? Or … have you gone hunting and killed an animal on purpose for food?

I’m not certain, but I don’t think I’ve ever killed anything larger than a bug. I did, however, grow up on a farm and regularly participated in the slaughter of animals for food. As youngsters, my brothers and I held headless chicken races to see which of the chickens would run longest after having their heads chopped off during the annual chicken kill. It seems gruesome now, but it was a way of distancing ourselves from the pain of necessary killing. We needed those chickens for food and could no longer afford to feed them. We kept some for the purpose of egg laying, others were for meat. It was part of the cycle of the farm.

Since growing up in that environment, I’ve had occasion to consider just what mental gymnastics it takes for us to kill. For instance, I have an unreasonable fear of spiders. My fear of them is really sort of funny when you consider how much larger I am than they. But I can’t kill them. One day, many years ago, I encountered a spider in my kitchen and went to get my neighbor, so that she could usher the spider to a new life in the great outdoors. I’ve gotten a little better; now I just ignore them. When I see dead animals on the side of the road, I have a brief period of mourning for them. They died at our hands, ignorant of the danger involved in crossing the road. Some of them get caught between jersey barriers, trapped and die, able to get in, unable to escape. Most of this we justify by claiming our dominion over the animal kingdom. Afterall, we have bigger brains, no? It is, at the end of the day, survival of the fittest; the law of the jungle.

I’ve gone on to consider, then, the killing of other humans. How do we justify this? We have many forms of justification for this. Some times there is no justification and then we deem it to be murder. A broken law. Other times we do justify it and call it war. How do we measure the difference? How do we teach men (and now women) to know that difference? To overcome their built in tendency to not kill other humans? It’s simple really. We reduce those other humans to animals. That is how it is done. We tell our armies that the enemy is/are less than human … that is, they are at about the level of animals.

Think about it for a minute. When you hear people (or yourself) talking about the “other,” what language is used? It’s usually not kind or gracious. It is uncomfortable. Think about the current war in Iraq. I have heard the “enemy” referred in terms such as “ragheads,” “towelheads,” “camelmonkeys” and the like. This language is particularly prevalent among the military. This sort of language about “others” is nearly always prevalent in the military of any culture. When it begins to become more common in the general culture we find it easier to begin wars and the making of slaves (either literal or virtual).

It is through the use of language that we devalue people. People … made in the image of God. Children of God. How often do you devalue someone? When you are driving, what assumptions do you make about the drivers who get in your way? When you are out and about, what assumptions do you make about the people who are different from you in some way … be it the color of their skin, or their gender, or their age, or perhaps a physical/mental disability or difference? It is only when we lessen their value and make people into something other than fellow creations of the divine that we are able to commit mass murder. Even when that mass murder is for good reason. Or is it ever?

Psalm 137

An Experience of the Captivity.

1By the rivers of Babylon,
There we sat down and wept,
When we remembered Zion.
2Upon the willows in the midst of it
We hung our harps.
3For there our captors demanded of us songs,
And our tormentors mirth, saying,
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”
4How can we sing the LORD’S song
In a foreign land?
5If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
May my right hand forget her skill.
6May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth
If I do not remember you,
If I do not exalt Jerusalem
Above my chief joy.
7Remember, O LORD, against the sons of Edom
The day of Jerusalem,
Who said, “Raze it, raze it
To its very foundation.”
8 O daughter of Babylon, you devastated one,
How blessed will be the one who repays you
With the recompense with which you have repaid us.
9How blessed will be the one who seizes and dashes your little ones
Against the rock.

Think about that last verse for a minute … who are the ones who seize and dash “littles one against the rock.” Who are those horrible people? What kind of monster would seize children and “dash them against the rock?” Well … a monster who didn’t really believe that they were children for starters. It would be a person or group who believed that he or they were doing some greater good in ridding the world of vermin.

You cannot kill those who you believe to be of equal value to yourself. I think that is what Jesus was getting at when he said, “You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, ‘Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.’ But I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgment. Again, anyone who says to his brother, ‘Raca, ‘ is answerable to the Sanhedrin. But anyone who says, ‘You fool!’ will be in danger of the fire of hell.”

Now, consider for a moment what it feels like to be on the receiving end of those comments. We’ve all been called a “fool” at some point or another in our lives. Most of us know how to toss that off and move on. But do we understand the cumulative effect of years and years of being called a fool for reasons beyond our control … reasons having to do with the color of our skin or the shape of our eyes or the place of our birth? What would it be like to be underneath a boot for the entirety of one’s existence merely for the color of one’s skin and nappiness of one’s hair? To wonder every time you got into the driver’s seat of a car if you’d get pulled over for no other reason than …. a policeman’s wish. To wonder about the security of your employment. The realities of lynching because of race are not actually gone in our country. How does a person live with that shadow skulking about the occasional corner? It is not something that I ever have to consider.

Women are encouraged to take self-defense classes in preparation for fending off sexual predators. Perhaps people with different colored skin should also take such classes in preparation for fending off angry hate-filled mobs. Perhaps if we embraced where race relations really are in this country, the recent flap over Dr. Jeremiah Wright’s comments from the pulpit would not be seen as inflammatory. Those comments sound pretty awful. “America’s chickens coming home to roost,” in the shadow of the 9/11 attacks sounds callous, cruel and incendiary. One cannot condone a reverend or preacher actually saying those things in his outloud voice to a congregation can one? Can you? It causes us to pause in our adulation of his follower, Barack Obama, and wonder about his wisdom in following such a mentor. Or does it? Do we really know all that we need to know about Dr. Wright based upon a few sound bites that were released by media moguls who are less than enamoured of liberal causes? Watch, if you will, the above-referenced sound bite taken in it’s full context below.

I am not condoning racism. I am not condoning hate. I am not condoning frenzied, emotional outbursts that do not have love at their center from those who follow Jesus. However, when I listen to Dr. Wright’s words and hear more of his heart, I begin to understand more of who he is. I begin to understand why Obama may (or may not) heartily disagree with him, yet remain a member of Trinity. I have people in my life whom I love dearly, yet with whom I disagree vehemently about certain things. They are part of my family and we are as different as night and day. Would I should disown them, if I were to run for political office? My uncle has advocated (seriously, not as a joke) paving over the Chesapeake Bay and is a racist bigot. I have other family stories which would curl your hair. Most of us do. We are, in the end, all human and all say and do things of which we are later ashamed. Or not. But which make other people question our intelligence, wisdom and character when taken out of context.

Perhaps the larger question might be, what exactly are we looking for in a leader? Are we looking for perfection, a king, a messiah? To find that would be anti-constitutional. Or are we looking for someone with the intelligence and strength of character to know who a good mentor is and learn from that person, despite his or her flaws. Perhaps we need to find a person who can learn from many people drawing on their strengths along the way rather than slavishly following one person and mimicking the flaws in their jewels.

What can we understand from this? I think it is this … in the end we are all more alike than different. We need to ask more questions than we do when things like this hit the front page. Questions such as, who stands to benefit from this? And think long term when you answer that. Who is the long term beneficiary of a drawn out and equivocating Democratic primary race? Hmmm … the Republican party. Think about that for a while, while you ponder the ideas that have been raised in this very hateful period of the race.

On this Easter morning I thought I’d do a visual of joy …

Giggling for no apparent reason …

Lovin’ every minute of it!

Bein’ silly … cause she can.

Scored the first goal! YAY!!!!!

I win!! We win!! YAY!!!!!!!!

Dying eggs …

Happy Easter Morning … go forth and enjoy the risen Son.

Every once in a while Jewish traditions cross with Christian traditions in odd ways. They make for interesting bedfellows because of the foreshadowing and stories that the Jewish traditions raise for us. This year is one such year.

Tonight at sunset begins the Jewish holiday of Purim. This is the feast which celebrates the deliverance of the Jews from a death sentence; a holocaust of sorts in the 5th century BC. It’s a wonderful story filled with love, lust, greed, princesses and princes. I’m only surprised that the artists at Disney haven’t gotten hold of it yet. Last year I had the opportunity to tell the story in a unique fashion. In the first person, so to speak. I spoke with a heavy accent, like the aunts in My Big Fat Greek Wedding … so read the following with that voice in mind.  Oh, and spit when you say Haman (just for effect):

I am Esther. No … no, no, no. Not THAT Esther. I am her granddaughter. (Laughs a little) … oh look at me … I am not beautiful enough to win the heart of a king. Not even in my youth. My grandmama … now she, oh she was a different story.

And she could tell some stories too. I was never quite sure which ones to believe. But I loved it when she called me over to her wing for tea in the afternoon. It was our special time. I’m named for her, you see, so we had a special friendship. We’d relax on the pillows and drink cup after cup of tea. She’d allow the eunuchs to bring it to her, but then she’d shoo them off. She never did get used to having so many servants around. She liked to pour her own, you know.

Now me, I’ve always lived in this beautiful city Shushan. I get a little nervous when my husband thinks about leaving town for the country side in the summer. But grandmama, she grew up at the country place. It was second nature to her. She and Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) lived there for the longest time. Her parents died when she was very young and he was all she had left in the world. He had never married (he was what we used to call a “funny” uncle … may his name be blessed … ), so he took my grandmama in.

So, today we celebrate Purim, the festival of Lots. Now here is the funny thing. My very grandmama, Esther, told me that this holiday is about her. That we are even now celebrating her story. Well. I find that almost too big to be believed. So. I will tell you the story she used to tell me while we lay about on our pillows, sipping tea. Then you will tell me if you think it is true or not.

Grandmama and Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) had been living out in the country side in a little town by a lake until she was a young woman. They were doing well in this little town, but when Grandmama grew older the town’s busybodies began to busy themselves with Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) and Grandmama. So they left for larger and more anonymous pastures, he being a “funny” uncle and all. They came to the city of Shushan and he was able to establish his business once more.

Shortly after they arrived and settled in, the King’s messenger came through the streets announcing an interesting beauty contest. It seems that the queen had shamed him at a party and she was now the former queen. He was looking for the most beautiful and poised girl in the land to become his new queen. Uncle Mordecai and Grandmama looked at each other. Grandmama was thinking, “Well, I’m glad I have no chance at that! Now let us proceed with our work.” Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) was thinking, “How blessed am I to be the uncle of the most beautiful and poised woman in all the land!! Now I must proceed with my work.” And he gained her acceptance of the idea that she would enter the contest.

Poor grandmama. I and my parents grew up in the royal court. We understand the intrigue and the servants and the gossip. Grandmama was a simple country girl. Beautiful, intelligent and poised. But innocent and naive in the ways of the court. She told me many times over of the miracles and amazing tales that gained her the crown. But I cannot recall those rambling reports. The end result however was that Grandmama was chosen to become Xerxes queen. Who knew a simple Hebrew country girl could become Queen of all Persia?? But that’s exactly what happened. Of course, Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) helped with some of the strategy, and Grandmama was fortunate to have drawn the favor of the best of the court eunuchs. King Xerxes was blinded by Grandmama. I’ve seen the mosaics from the time. She was perfectly lovely.

Grandmama and Uncle Mordecai decided that it would be best if she kept her heritage a secret. Hebrews were not exactly popular in Shushan back then. There weren’t too many of us. We’d drifted north after the diaspora, and many of us had originally been taken as slaves. In later years we’d won our freedom, but were still living outside of Israel. There wasn’t much to go back to. There still isn’t … although I’ve heard that some are gathering now to rebuild the wall in Jerusalem and are following a new leader called Nehemiah. My own grandchildren have said they will go to join him. Me, I’m not so sure …. I think I’m too old to travel that far. But to see the Temple before I die, it would do these old eyes good.

Well … Grandmama made herself busy learning the duties of being Queen and more, learning the intricacies of the royal court. OY!! What a mess. She’s told me more stories about her faux pas. And … she lived in mortal fear of the consequences of her mistakes. After all, Vashti had been banished for simply refusing to dance one night when the King and his friends were drunk.

In the meantime, Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) continued to build his business and went about town freely. Until one day when he passed through the city gate and neglected to properly pay his respects to the King’s advisor, Haman (may his name be cursed). Now Uncle Mordecai meant no disrespect of Haman. Uncle Mordecai, as a proper Hebrew, did not bow or scrape to any man.

Haman (may his name be cursed) could not rid himself of the image of Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) refusing to bow to him … in public … in (of all places) the city gate … the place to be! Did Uncle Mordecai not know who he was dissing? No, Uncle Mordecai was unconcerned. Haman knew, just KNEW, he had been humiliated. He began to lurk in the places that Uncle Mordecai frequented to see if Uncle Mordecai would bow to him. He had himself announced to see if, perhaps, UM had simply made a mistake. But, NO! Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) simply kept about his business as if Haman (may his name be cursed) did not exist. And Haman’s rage grew. And grew. And grew.

In the course of his obsession, Haman (may his name be cursed) discovered that Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) was a Hebrew. So Haman hatched a plan to exact his revenge … not simply on Uncle Mordecai, but on all of Uncle Mordecai’s people as well. He was a clever man and he presented Uncle Mordecai’s insolence to the King. But the way he told it, the whole Hebrew people might at any time be insolent in just sucha manner to the King. Haman (may his name be cursed) concluded that the best and most efficient manner of managing this problem would be to kill all the Hebrew people. Kill them so that none of them would ever dis him or the King again. And everyone in the empire would know what becomes of those who do not give proper respect to the King or his advisors.

Haman (may his name be cursed) presented this plan to the King with all appropriate supplication and whining. And the King bought the idea that Haman was selling! So they rolled the dice to see which day would be best to kill all the Hebrews throughout the empire, thus protecting Haman (and the King) from further disgrace. The date was set for the 13th of Adar. The edict was sealed with the King’s seal and sent out into all the land, but the city of Shushan was bewildered.

Now, Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) put on sackcloth and ashes when he read the edict. Indeed, many Hebrews did the same throughout the land. He was, however, able to get a message to Grandmama about the impending doom and urged her to plead the case of her people before the King. She sent word back, “But I cannot. Anyone who approaches the King without being asked first, is put to death!” Uncle Mordecai, replied … “You must. All Hebrews will be put to death and you will be included in that. Who knows but that you have come to your royal position for just such a time as this?”

Then it was Grandmama’s turn to hatch a plan. She sent instructions to Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed), to gather all the Hebrews in Shushan and have them fast for three days and three nights. She promised to fast with them. At the end she promised to approach the King. And so. The tables were now turned. It was Uncle Mordecai who was following Grandmama’s instructions.

The next day, Grandmama prepared herself very carefully. She anointed herself with her best perfume and her grandest cosmetics, then she stood at the foot of the throne room in her most beautiful day gown, with her eyes downcast …. just … so. Until at last the King took notice of her and gave her permission to come forward and speak. At that moment she invited the King and his most favored advisor, Haman (may his name be cursed) to a special dinner party that evening. The king was glad to accept. My Grandmama had the best cooks.

At the dinner, the King grew curious and asked my Grandmama, “Now, what is it you wish from me? Just ask … even though it be half of my empire and it will be yours.” Now Grandmama had become very wise to the ways of the King in her short time at court, and knew not to ask right away. So she said, “If you think well of me and if it would make you happy, please just come again to dinner tomorrow night. I will ask you tomorrow. In fact, it would make me happy if both of you came to dinner tomorrow.”

The next day, Haman (may his name be cursed) could not relish his satisfaction at dining two nights in a row with the King and Queen because the bitterness of Uncle Mordecai’s insolences were so sour in his mouth. The only thing that gave him any solace was giving the order to build a gallows for Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed). This was his wife’s idea. And he was able to go to dinner that evening with a somewhat lighter heart.

As the serving eunuch poured from the second bottle of wine that night, the King once again inquired of Grandmama, “Now, my sweet young Queen, what is it that you desire from me? Just ask … even though it be half of my empire and it will be yours.”

Grandmama gathered all of her courage into her throat and replied (with her eyes properly downcast and just a shimmer of tears upon her lashes), “Oh, my King. If you think well of me and if I make you happy, I beg of you … please spare my life and more than that, I beseech you to spare the lives of my people. My people have been sold for destruction and slaughter and annihilation. If we had merely been sold as slaves, I would not bother your royal Greatness with such petty details, but we are to be executed in several months time on the 13th day of Adar and I have no one left to turn to.” She said this last with a proper quiver in her voice as one facing execution without crime or trespass.

The King roared his displeasure at the disgrace that was being brought on the royal household, “Who is HE??? Where is the man who has dared to do such a thing?”

And Grandmama revealed the traitor, “The adversary and enemy is this vile Haman (may his name be cursed.”

The King (in a rage) paced about the palace and the garden, whilst Haman threw himself upon Grandmama and her mercy … begging and pleading for his very life. But it was to no avail. The King upon his return, sent Haman (may his name be cursed) to his death upon the very gallows he himself had built for Uncle Mordecai.

Now, I’m not really clear on how it happened next. The King could not undo his own edict with his seal on it. So he sent out a new edict which allowed the Hebrews to defend themselves against all those who hated and despised them. In some towns and cities (such as Sushan) this meant that many people decided to align themseves with the Hebrews (and Uncle Mordecai who had been elevated to the King’s advisor) and so great festivals erupted. But in other places it seems that battles were fought and as many as 75,000 people were killed on that day which was meant for the annihilation of the Hebrews.

Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) next asked for the execution of all ten of Haman’s (may his name be cursed) sons. The King granted him this request. So it came to pass that Uncle Mordecai the Hebrew became the exterminator of Haman the Aggagite. Which has some greater meaning that Grandmama kept trying to tell me about. I forget now.

I only knew Uncle Mordecai (may his name be blessed) in his most declining years. He was a very devout man. Stern, but ever with a twinkle in his eye for little girls with flowers in their hair. He used to tell me stories about Grandmama when she was a little girl, but she was ever so much more obedient than I. She knew how to find the hidden things, how to seek after the important bits. Grandmama and Uncle Mordecai … well … they knew how to find their way back to Adonai in all of this. But, me. I hear this story and I cannot find Him anywhere. Grandmama used to insist that yes, He was at work behind the scenes … I say He was so far behind, he must have been in Egypt. To me, Adonai became the God who hides in this story. Where is He? He is nowhere to be found. Afterall, He is not the God of Xerxes, nor of Haman and that is clear in the destruction they planned for us. He is the God of Uncle Mordecai and of my people and even my people went about killing for sport.

So at last we are at the end of my story … we celebrate this day and this redemption. But I ask you now, do you think this story my Grandmama told me was true? Just how did we come to celebrate Purim? Why is this day so different from all other days?

You can find the real story of Esther in your Bible or click on that link. It’s one of my personal favorites. Where is God in this story? As we enter the days where we commemorate Jesus’ death before the resurrection, I wonder about the presence of Yahweh and how we hear Her. How we act or don’t? Then, when we do, sometimes we carry out not justice, but revenge.

Good Friday, 1613.

Riding Westward

John Donne (1572-1631)

1Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
2 The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
3 And as the other Spheares, by being growne
4 Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,
5 And being by others hurried every day,
6 Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
7 Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit
8 For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
9 Hence is’t, that I am carryed towards the West
10 This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
11 There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
12 And by that setting endlesse day beget;
13 But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
14 Sinne had eternally benighted all.
15 Yet dare I’almost be glad, I do not see
16 That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
17 Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
18 What a death were it then to see God dye?
19 It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
20 It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
21 Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
22 And tune all spheares at once peirc’d with those holes?
23 Could I behold that endlesse height which is
24 Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
25 Humbled below us? or that blood which is
26 The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
27 Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
28 By God, for his apparell, rag’d, and torne?
29 If on these things I durst not looke, durst
30 Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
31 Who was Gods partner here, and furnish’d thus
32 Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom’d us?
33 Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
34 They’are present yet unto my memory,
35 For that looks towards them; and thou look’st towards mee,
36 O Saviour, as thou hang’st upon the tree;
37 I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
38 Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
39 O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee,
40Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
41 Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,
42 That thou may’st know mee, and I’ll turne my face.

“Daddy,” LightGirl twinkled and spun, “do you have ….

… any money?”

The adults nearby sputtered in laughter. One looked at me and said “Daddy?!” I rolled my eyes … she knows how to twist her father around. But he can handle her. It reminded me of an experiment my mother and I did on my father a few years ago.

Not too many years ago either, LightGirl was alive, but I don’t think LightBoy had yet joined us. The first part that you have to know is that I barely remember a time that my father (the GrandPea) was not hard of hearing. However, he only very recently got hearing aids. This experiment happened before hearing aids. LightMom and I did this in a number of different settings and it was successful everytime. She would call his given name in increasing volume and he did not hear. She would even whistle and do some fairly loud things to get his attention. Nothing, no response. But if I would say, “Daddy” in a regular tone he always heard me right away. “Dad,” sometimes got him too.

That’s what it takes. That’s all it takes for my dad to turn and come out of his reverie. A simple “Daddy.” I haven’t lived at home in over 20 years, but his ear is still tuned for it. I’m a mother now myself, but he is still listening.

It occurred to me when I was retelling this story to my friends that when God, “Abba” or “Pappa,” or “Daddy,” He is tuning in to us in the same frequency. When S/He gave us permission to call Her by a familial title of love that was indeed the moment of adoption.

Do we have what it takes to use it?  It takes courage, familiarity, sass and desire to use a “small” name for God.  To pick Him out of the crowd of all the smaller gods we venerate everyday, lift Her up and worship only Him, by using a familiar title … Daddy.  S/He’s invited us to do this.  And is waiting with a listening ear.  The question now is, will we?

God of all seasons, at times, this Lenten path feels as if it will never end. Deep down, we all know that it will, but the winter seems determined to stay past its welcome and signs of spring are but a dream hovering in the distance. Help us to keep putting the hope of Easter before us on the horizon. It will come.

Gracious God, thank you for your abiding presence and for the peace you bring to our souls. Surely goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our lives, and we shall live in your sacred presence forever. Amen.

This was the Sunday Prayer at RevGals this morning.  I started breezing through it.  Then stopped and read more slowly.  Then stopped again.  I read that first sentence over and over and over again.  “… this Lenten path feels as if it will never end.”

Today marks a year of Sundays since we left our CLB.  In my life and faith, winter seems determined to stay past its welcome.  The hope of Easter is beyond the horizon.

It is because of this long, perilous journey to Jerusalem and extended time in the desert that I find myself seeing God in funny places now.  I hear him speaking in different voices than before.  I seek healing that is holistic and may not ever involve me.

Yet with my shaky knees I will stand and in barely whispered voice I will say, “Gracious God, thank you for your abiding presence and for the peace you bring my soul.  Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I shall live in your sacred presence forever. Amen.”

This week in the Osgiliath Classical School we’ve begun a new project. We are studying the weather. As a spine for this study we’re using a book called The Kids Book of Weather Forecasting with meteorologist Mark Breen. The LightChildren were each assigned the task of reading the first chapter and then they had to work “together” to design a weather log and come up with a list of tools that one might need to keep a weather log current.

First there was a two day argument over when they would work together. Once they began to work together, there was a loud and protracted argument over who’s list should “win.” LightGirl had a list that was created mostly around her senses. LightBoy had a list that was mostly more objective measuring tools. He, in fact, scoffed at her senses. She attempted to win him over to her more organic manner of observation. However, they were both clubbing each other over the head with their respective lists, in a metaphorical sense. When the clubbing left metaphor and became physical, I intervened.

“Alright, you two,” said I, “did you actually read your assignment?” Vigorous head nods followed by open mouths ready to assert their righteousness. I quickly went on before words could leave the open mouths, “I believe the assignment was that you were to work together,” and I emphasized the word “together.” “This means, LightGirl, that you do not come up with a list and LightBoy goes along with it. And LightBoy, you do not get to come up with a list and expect that LightGirl will go along with it. Do you both understand me?” More head nods, but the mouths are still open ready to defend their honor and tell me how horrible the other sibling is.

“No, I don’t think you do. You are both trying to win. There is nothing to win here. You will only win when you work together. It is very likely that there is something of value in both of your lists and that there is something that needs to be dropped in both of your lists. I do not know what those things are … that is for you to figure out” The mouths are closed now and they are beginning to look at each other as realization dawns. “Now. Get thee hence into the school room and work together on one list between the two of you.”

Off they went. They sat down in the school room and worked out a plan to figure out a list and then worked out a list. Then they presented it to me. The plan involved looking through their book together! Stunning. And thinking and talking together. Their final list was impressive. Lo and behold, it contained elements of both of their original lists.

I often allow arguments to carry on (until it gets physical). I allow them to work out their own relationship within certain boundaries. It can get painful and loud for the parents. But it is training ground for them to understand how to live with others. How to work out difficulties. How to work together even when each is certain they know the “right” way. I try to emphasize that they are always in this together. There is never a time when one is right and the other wrong. If When there is a fight, they have both contributed to it and both must contribute to reconciliation. As my mother used to say to my brothers and I, “It takes two to tango.”

So when I wrote yesterday about reconciliation, apology, power, dominant culture and oppressed culture, I was coming to it from that perspective. But most of you don’t know that. I forget that I’m kind of a blank slate when I write. Not an entirely blank slate, but I’m not as three dimensional to you as I am to myself. Most of us bloggers are. If anything, when we read a blog, we bring to it our own perspectives, prejudices, backgrounds, etc and read it through our own particular lens. Sometimes that lens has been broadened, sometimes not, sometimes it has been more healed, sometimes less. Sometimes the issue being written about is the driving force behind how we read the blog that day. There are so many different permutations and combinations of those possibilities, it kind of makes my head explode to think about it.

I am humbled by the grace extended to me by Patrick, Peggy, Grace and Christy in the conversation that followed. My experience of such has been rare indeed. So, if I may, I would like to give some context and flesh to my post from yesterday.

When I read posts such as Josh’s critique and participate in conversations about women in church, I often hear a sense of bewilderment and frustration from men of my generation and younger generations. The frustration that I hear sounds something like this, “I don’t know what to say/do. It never seems like enough. There are women in leadership now. We are moving forward. Why won’t women stop complaining.” Please, please read Josh’s critique … it is very good and he does make some very valid points. But … maybe it’s just me, but I can also hear a sense of bewilderment and frustration underlying his piece. A certain sense of why is this happening here? Why is this continuing to continue?

So, I very baldly and badly wrote that we “need” an apology. Which is not entirely true, as Peggy and Patrick were both very kind to remind me. We women do not “need” an apology. We “need” God/Papa to remind us that we are loved despite any of our earthly hurts. However, what I was trying to communicate was that it would be helpful to the process between the genders if an apology were offered at some point. I was trying to communicate that on the basis of what has happened in South Africa in the 1990s and what is poised to happen in Australia now, an apology might be a way of helping to drain those wounds.

As Peggy wrote, and I deeply agree with, I’ve got issues with a sense of entitlement. So I’m not certain that I think women are entitled to an apology. But I need to say that in my outloud voice now, because it’s obvious from the comments that at least some of you heard me say that. An apology extended as the result of a demand, is almost worthless as we all know. It is usually extended because of some form of extortion in that case, whether physical or emotional. The apology rendered is then meaningless, and we’ve all endured our share of those.

So what is the purpose of an apology? I’ve spent a lot of time over the past several years studying that question. I’ve read a couple of books. In short the purpose of an apology is to let a person who has been wronged know that you understand the hurt that has been done, you regret the harm was done in the first place and you will attempt to make it stop. It is an attempt, however feeble, to take some form of responsibility for a wrong done and to understand the harm that has been caused to the person who was wronged. Those are the two main prongs of an apology. Take responsibility and understand harm.

You’ll notice that my definition of an apology did not include anything about feeling guilty or bad about oneself. I did not write anything about eternal shame. I did write about remorse which is something different. Guilt is entirely different from remorse … guilt is a state of being, while remorse has to do with an action. One ought not to feel guilty about the state into which one was born. However, one might feel remorse about the status of those who are not in that state. Does that make sense?

None of that, however, makes an apology necessary. In fact, an apology is simply irrelevant in the economy of God’s forgiveness. S/He loves us and will heal our wounds, if we will allow that. What then, do we do about trusting the other? The one or ones who harmed us? Our wounds may be healed, but the trust has been broken and the relationship has not been reconciled. An apology offered (not demanded, but offered) is an incredible first step in that process of rebuilding trust between the two parties wherein the trust has been lost, to whatever degree.

That is where I think that an apology offered by male leaders of institutions (churches, both local bodies and denominational) could go a long way toward helping to re-establish some of the trust that is currently lacking in some of the female Jesus followers. Are we entitled to it? No. Do we also have junk to apologize for? Yes. Yes, we do. But as Christy wrote in her comment, “It’s not about asking people to feel bad and guilty – it’s about recognizing that all of us are responsible to do our part to work for justice.” It’s about all of us … all of us in this together, recognizing our responsibilities, the harm we’ve done, and the good we’ve done. That the inequities are harmful to the dominant culture just as much as they are to the under dogs. That justice, grace and mercy are for all of us, not just some.

So, let’s go back to the schoolroom and make our list together. Okay?

I remember when I first heard about blogging. I was not impressed. I certainly never thought I would actually have a blog. That sort of thing was for silly-hearts and people with nothing better to do all day. I, of course, would never be so nerdy as to need a place to write my thoughts on the internet for all to see.

Then I was introduced to blogging more seriously and I was intrigued by it. I began to read other people’s blogs and realized that I could participate in them. I thought that perhaps I could write one too. There are things that I have grown to love about blogging. I love the relationships that have developed across the country and around the world through this funny system. I hope that one day I will get to meet some of these cyber-friends I’ve made. I love the new perspectives on life, the universe and everything that I am exposed to through blogging. There is one thing I don’t like about blogging though. That is it’s immediacy. Conversations happen in the blink of an eye and require instantaneous thought. There is little time for reflection and processing or the conversation will move on by. It is, of course, life in the information age. Life moves faster and so must thought.

For a variety of reasons, I have had an intense week this week and blogging has taken a back seat. I had a number of other things going on that required my time and attention, so yesterday I finally had some space to turn to my clogged reader and do some catch up reading. There I found a small bit in Emerging Women pointing me to a somewhat lengthy conversation at Josh Brown’s place entitled Challenging the Critiques of Emergent: A White Man’s World. I came late to the conversation; Josh had put up his original post on Feb. 11 and I think there were already 50 someodd comments when I stepped into the conversation. In his initial assessment of the critiques of Emergent it’s “just a bunch of white men sitting around talking theology,” Josh makes some valid points that are really worth considering.

In the comment thread that follows, there is a lot of discussion about the very different perspectives that come out of more mainstream Christian churches contrasted with the perspectives of people who come from a more fundamentalist or evangelical background. It is well worth reading the post and the comment thread. I found it worthwhile, though I felt that there was “something missing,” but could not put my finger on it.

At the same time, around the world, Kevin Rudd (Australia’s Prime Minister) announced an apology. He apologized to the Stolen Generations of the Aboriginal Peoples of Australia. Please take a moment and read the full text of the apology. It is an apology … a full apology. It offers no excuses, no outs; it is an acceptance of responsibility for wrongs done and offers a way forward to right them. If you use that link, you’ll see an audio-slideshow in a sidebar to the right. One of the voices near the end says, “Sorry is just a word.” She’s right. It will be interesting to see what the government of Australia does to make good on it’s promises. Things are very hopeful right now as I hear from Matt Stone that Mr. Rudd has reached across their aisle to his opposition to ensure that the necessary laws will be passed unanimously.

I woke up this morning with these two things on my mind. Playing back and forth, as if on a teeter-totter. I couldn’t get White Man’s World off my mind. The post, in general, had a sense of validity, but yet, I could not fully agree. What was missing? I was chewing on it. The Australian Apology was giving me hope. I was in the middle of a conversation about it with Matt. Since my childhood I have felt that our Native American population has been in similar straits as the Australian Aboriginals. We know from the history of South Africa of the great power of an institutional apology and the great lengths to which it can go towards reconciliation.

I am accustomed to having ideas play around in my head for awhile. So I let them go. They were having fun on the teeter-totter, after all. Who wants to be a kill-joy and pull ideas off of a perfectly good teeter-totter ride? And I went about my important morning business of drinking coffee and reading a few blogs to wake up. I read Christy Lambertson’s Throwing hand grenades at Jesus: This isn’t what I was going to write. She quoted Matthew 23 and went on to write:

There was a point in my life where chapters like this would tap into my cold fury at Christianity, Inc. and inspire me to launch into my well-rehearsed speech of “Why you people suck!” – delivered with fervor. Today, though, I’m mostly just sad – sad that Matthew 23 feels so very very true, that underneath the anger is still a well of pain. Even after all this time and all this work, some scars never go away, and I may always feel locked out of the kingdom of heaven – whatever that is. Sometimes it still feels like they won, because there is so much about religion I just can’t do: praying and expecting a tangible answer, believing in a personal God who loves me, all the creeds and liturgies and trappings, and a certain simplicity of faith in the goodness of God and things in general.

I’m at peace on my path, more or less, but I still sometimes think I might be missing something, that there was something I was supposed to be able to believe and participate in, and that faculty of trust got taken away. It would be nice to once, just once, hear someone in a pulpit get up and speak of God and not wonder what he’s hiding or who he’s hurt along the way. I would like to feel like I don’t have to keep my distance if I want to save my soul, like I don’t have to shut myself down completely just to walk in the goddamn door.

There’s so much more to what Christy wrote that you really, really must read it for yourself. If you’ve never read Dry Bones Dance, you are really missing out. She is a voice in the wilderness. I can’t speak for Christy and I’m not entirely certain about all the different bits that she might be referring to, but … when I read her post the teeter-totter in my mind hit perfect balance and I knew the needful thing.

An apology.

I want to be very, very clear. This is not just about Josh. This about men in the church in general and in the emerging conversation specifically.

Men: We women need an apology. We need it from the leaders and we need it from our local leaders. I understand that many, indeed most, of you are not now part of the problem. We understand that most of you are working to change things. But I think that until you recognize, acknowledge and admit that there is a problem and apologize for your part in being a dominant culture (because you are … I’m not blaming you, it’s just the way things are, until they are changed), we are going to be stuck in some sense.

There is a well of pain underneath the skin of all of us women of evangelical background. Some have it deeper than others. That well needs to be drained during the working out of gender reconciliation. Or that work will not be complete. It will always have something missing. Women cannot drain the well on their own. The path to opening that well and allowing it to drain begins with an apology.

That’s all.