I want to give a shout out about spiritual direction.

We have two spiritual directors “in residence” at Richfield UMC.  The Rev. Ruth Phelps and the Rev. Jim Dodge are both retired clergy trained in the fine holy art of being present with people as they seek to listen to the Holy with  the ear of their heart.

Spiritual direction is not therapy as we usually think of it.  Often when we see therapists, there is some sort of diagnosable issue we want help understanding.  Often we go to therapists to deal with what we perceive to be a malady.  Thankfully, therapists are fabulous gift in our seeking self understanding and healing.

Spiritual direction is a practice that affirms the holy that speaks and walks and moves through us each.  When we meet with a spiritual director, we bring the dense gifting (on good days we can call it that!) that is our life, and we sit with a companion who encourages us to listen deeply to what it is God would have us know about our selves and our being.  As any good mental health practitioner, they know they don’t have the answers, but that having a deeply listening conversation partner helps us come to know our own wisdom.  They are soul midwives.

I have found that navigating life as pastor, woman, and seeking child of God, is made infinitely more grace-filled with the Spirit gift of a spiritual director in my life.  I have been blessed by spending time monthly in a space and time set apart for holy listening.  There is no judgement or agenda beyond knowing my unfolding as sacred birthing.

Jim and Ruth are present in our church to provide spiritual direction for anyone needful of a good listen.  You can contact them by email (their email and contact info is on the back of our bulletin) or by getting their phone number through the church office (612-861-6086).

God longs for us to bring to life the fine holy gift of our being.  It’s good to have birthing coaches in our midst.

Yesterday I did a wildly unusual thing:  I cooked.

One of our kids was coming through.  She has the great good sense to be a vegetarian.  We don’t speak vegetarianism as a first culinary language at my house, so I wanted to have plenty on hand to welcome her home with.

I stuffed peppers, pureed soup, grated carrots, and walk yet with the smell of minced garlic on my hands.  It felt good to provide edible love for one of my loves.

And then the best feast of all: conversation and catching up with her and with Cooper’s good buddy from Brooklyn, New York.  We sat around a Scrabble board sharing stories and reflections about life as we sipped tea and shared imaginative maybe-I-can-score words (Cooper is outrageous in this regard) and laughter.  The dance that is great conversation was so fine last night.  It is grace to like the companions found along the journey that is life.

What I like about the people gathered:  Liz, Romer, Cooper, and Rachel, is the awareness that life is a constant unfolding and there is so much yet to be understood, explored, and taken in.  We share our questions and our leanings, the discoveries we have made since last we sat at table, and the discoveries we seek to give our energies to as we live into our futures.

There is unspoken alliance between soul kin, don’t you think?  There is a sense that we breathe with each other as honesty, courage and unfolding are embraced.  We can’t do each other’s work.  But we can cheer each other on and believe in the power of goodness that is.

We like each other.  Even if I won at Scrabble, we like each other.

I sat in a church basement on a Friday night.  It was great fun.

Minnehaha UMC (my husband’s church) was offering an evening of one-act plays and dinner.  It was a fundraiser for their UMW.  There were some 150 or so people there, happily drinking bad church coffee (no offense…), chowing down on lasagna and key lime pie, and loving being church.

Richfield used to do lots of theatre.  It was a big deal.  What I am thinking is that the time for such things is ripe.  We have lots of talented kids and adults, space that is perfectly set up for performances, and a wildly appreciative congregation.

The plays last night were pure goof.  That was the fun of it.  The actors were clearly having a great time, the audience behind them, and the pure gift of being in a place where real unplugged people were sharing their gifts for other real people was pure power.

Who’s in?  I say we do a night of dinner theatre.  No big deal.  Just a director, a crew of willing thespians, some dinner makers, and a great evening for being church.

Anyone interested?  This soprano has a theatre itch that needs scratching.  And, this pastor thinks we have a church hungry for fun, food, and goofiness to support a powerful cause.

Let me know…

Every Saturday for a bizillion Saturdays to come, I gather around a table with some fifteen other seeking souls.

What we are seeking is a healthy relationship with money.  In a world where marketers would have us believe that what we wear somehow defines who we are, we are seeking ways to learn to say “yes” to our future by saying “no”.

One of the comments grounding the class is that as a culture we have come to be convinced that dessert ought not be denied.  We want what we want and we want it now and if having something when we want it means we sabotage the main course of our days, well, so be it.

The “so be it” is ransoming our present.  We are living with increasing debt.  That debt means that we are living with past choices that constrict our present choices and rather than learning to say “no” to dessert (cars, vacations, meals out, palatial homes) we whistle in the dark of our financial reality and keep piling on debt.  And, we are miserable.

Learning how to say “no” in order to fully say “yes” is a spiritual discipline.  Learning to say “no” is a taking into ourselves and our behaviors the belief that we are enough and we have enough.  We don’t have to have the magical thing that will somehow convince us and our world that we are worthy.

We have enough.

I’m playing around with this in my own life.  I’m creating a budget.  Before anything else happens to my money, I give.  I give 10% (the biblical teaching about tithing) to my church.  I pay my bills, and then, before the temptations of unplanned spending takes me, I put money in savings.

Financial Peace teachings advocate for an initial goal of having $1,000 in savings ($500 if salary is less than $20,000) and then working toward the creation of an emergency fund of six months worth of expenses.

I have some work to do.  But I have to say that spending time with paper and pencil, creating a budget, saving money, and giving money has changed my way of living.

No more am I hostage to the anxiety that accompanies bondage to debt. Having a plan means claiming the “power God gives me to resist evil, injustice and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves” (UM membership vow).

The oppression of a sense of insufficiency and debt are real.  Throwing light on the dark that I and so many of us have whistled in is claiming power.

“No” power is feeling power full.

Tonight is amazing.  I have no meetings to go to.  What this means is that I get to eat dinner with my guy.

It also means that I’m aware that this ability to dine with family is a rare thing.  Given that most folk don’t do church all hours of the day, evening meetings are a must.  But not tonight!

Blended into the joy of supping with kin is a meeting I went to today.  A group of Richfield clergy gather monthly to build relationships, pray for each other, and discern how we can bring the voice of faith into the living our our city’s days.

I’m excited by the energy and heart around the table.  We are blessed with faith heritage that calls us to build communities grounded on the justice and compassion vision of our God.  Learning together how we can be any darn use in our city is powerful and necessary work.  We’re doing it.

So tonight, as I savor time over dinner with my guy, I savor the power of being a part of the movement of salt and light that is Christian discipleship.  As Eugene Peterson paraphrases the salt and light portion of the Sermon on the Mount, we are called to live in such a way that we bring out the God flavors of the world.

Delicious, this discipleship.

This morning came early.

My daughter Rachel has been diagnosed with a snarky kind of thing:  autoimmune pancreatitis.  She is being doctored by the best.  Part of her care involves doing an endoscopic biopsy and so here we are, at 6:30 AM, feeling the mystery of being flesh.

I’m sitting in a waiting room, knowing that there is nothing I can do to make this time any easier for her.  Time was when I could hold her on my lap and sing out the scare.  Now, we joke and breathe and motor though the morning knowing that on the other side there will be rest and relief.

Our world has been rocked by this realization that every single working part in our bodies is under-appreciated gift.  Autoimmune diseases are wily and they defy assumptions, since the body decides to turn against its own good sense.

In reading about autoimmune diseases, I am learning that they are 30% genetic, that if there is one occurrence in a body there are apt to be others, and that stress and environmental toxins are often the catalyst for flare ups.

And I think dear God, how is it we are spewing chemicals into creation so mindlessly that more and more are finding themselves piloting bodies that act out against themselves?  When will it be decided that pesticides and hormonal enhancements and all manner of tinkering with delicate balances ought be seen as outrageous and arrogant dabblings in the delicate good that is?

The questions provoked by Rachel’s (and our whole family’s) awareness of vulnerability are many:  Was she exposed to toxins?  Did I eat or drink something while carrying her?  Will her pancreas flare again?  How can I keep her safe?  What did it feel like to NOT worry about her?  All these questions are part of the living of these days and they prompt the most powerful questions of them all:

How will we each live the wonder of our being?  How to savor the intricate workings of our bodies?  How to care for flesh and thank God for (as poet Marge Piercy puts it) “that which does not hurt”?

How to live health in an increasingly toxic soup?

So many questions while waiting.

For the next few months, I will be spending my Saturday mornings with 20 or so people doing that thing we don’t do much of:  talking about money.

Darn, it is a loaded thing.  In the household I grew up in, it was somehow unseemly to talk about it.  Money (and that other big elephant, sex!) was not talked about.  It was my parent’s to deal with, and ours to know that it was high stakes stuff, based on the tension and shame that somehow seemed to surround it.

So I have made my way through much of life with a sort of distaste-love of money.  I love the power of making choices.  I don’t like the feeling of not-enough that inevitably rumbles when I lose my moorings and give myself over to what my culture wants me to know:  Namely, I will never have enough money, and never having enough money means that I will always be found wanting at some core level.

Yuck.  What this class I am taking at church consists of  is the teaching of a get-yourself-healthy-financially guru named Dave Ramsey.  It is brilliant.  Though he shares not many of my feminist sorts of sensibilities (at least, based on some of his har-har not so funny jokes) the man has a mission and he shares it effectively.  Financial Peace.  The two can go together.

I’m taking the class with my 23 year old daughter.  The class is being led by two men in their twenties.  There are folk from outside the church and inside the church learning ways to live a relationship with money that empowers rather than enslaves.

I followed that class with a training on adaptive leadership, and the presenter there talked about the power of words.  Rather than talking about what we don’t have, or about abundance – which means there will always be unattainables – he suggested the word “sufficiency”.

What do I need in my life?  What is sufficient for me and my house?

The questions are great.  The class is great.  The power of taking money out of the closet and into the places of my life that make for hope and healing is mighty fine.

We’ll be offering the class again in the fall.  I’m bearing witness here.  It’s great.

Today was flat out fun.

I got to go in and see the Sunday bulletin and Annual Report go to press.  I got to preview slides used for worship and rehearse in my heart the rhythm of praise that will be shared by hundreds in two day’s time.

I got to have lunch with my daughter.

I got to have time at a coffee shop to read and think a bit.

I got to have coffee with a young adult who is a cauldron of ideas for our ministry and saints-be-praised has the follow-through capacity it takes to make things happen.

I got to visit a church member and wrap her in a prayer shawl made by the hands of her sisters in Christ.

I got to come home and hug my beloved before he left for a weekend church retreat.

I got to write a sermon I am excited to preach.

And now?  Now, I get to choose from the stack of books awaiting my reading or the dog who is always ready for attention.  In short, I get to while away these crazy rare unclaimed hours in any way I choose.

It’s been a great day to be in the midst of the buzz that is church and life.

And oh, what a gift to have the time to savor it.

Last night the political theatre was opening night stellar.

There was the sight of assumed foes coming into the House chambers two by two in order to take in the speech of the President.  After all the wrangling that erupts all too often in elevated stress and little progress, our leaders wanted to make a statement about playing and working well together.  Sign acts matter.  Let’s hope they do.

It’s hard not to be lumpy in the throat when watching the pomp and circumstance of the State of the Union Address.  In one room are the persons we have entrusted to represent us.  Say what you want about them, but the people dutifully or enthusiastically clapping in that room last night have traded in much of their lives in order to be a part of the workings of government.

I heard a commentator on NPR rue the day when the spokesperson role of the President changed.  He (or she) used to be heard as the President of the United States.  During the speech, he was perceived as speaking for the country.  Now the president is heard as the spokesperson for his party.  Rebuttals and counter statements are stoked throughout the speech in order to be shared by the other party’s appointed spokesperson.

Increasingly I feel less hope for unity.  As a confirmed Pollyanna this concerns me a bit.  I feel less hope because the rush to proclaim doctrine is seemingly more important than the desire to be still and listen and learn from each other.  The sexiest sound bite wins; the one most sure to inflame, while lives continue to be decimated by inequities and solutions seemingly beyond the power of our imagination and will.

But oh, as the hand shakes were shared and the vision proclaimed and the camera full of the visages of people who love their country, there was hope and wonder.

Truly, God bless America.

It’s not as though I relish pain.

It is really cold here in Minnesota.  It is in the double digits below zero.  My grand old house, full of windows and never apt to kill us because of carbon monoxide poisoning due to its leaky-sieve ways, is working mightily to hold warmth.  My car responds with an are-you-kidding-me groan when I start it up.  Sweaters and Smart Wool socks are the arraignment of choice.

It’s really cold.  And, it is stunningly powerful, this cold.  It is reminder that living in Minnesota cannot be done without a goodly dose of humility.  We are able to live in this wild place only if we are aware that it has teeth in the form of mosquitos, wild critters, and deep deep freeze.

We can domesticate so much.  This cold is not one of those things.

So finding warmth is a must.  Shelters across the city are full to capacity.  Energies are put to creature survival needs.  Those of us out and about assess the bundled up presence of others and together we have a sense of the power of enduring while facing the challenge.

I don’t relish the pain.  But I do relish the reminder that I am a creature alive on the land and respect for my limits is a must.

I’m blessed to have home, blessed to fear not about finding warmth, blessed to be reminded that I’m guest in the grand gift that is Minnesota.