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Whew!

A retreat with 30 women.  Two worship services.  This and that to tend to and then a gathering of souls who will travel together to Ireland in September.  48 hours of intense good are bouncing around in me.

Retreats are a lot of work for everyone.  Emotionally, it takes a lot for women to take the time to get away.  There are kids and dogs to provide for while gone.  And, there is the great emotional leap of courage that it takes to give over to someone else the charting  of the rhythm of the days.  All this with unfamiliar sleeping partners and sometimes challenging beds.

Planning for retreats is an act of faith.  Chemistry is a fickle thing.  I’m never sure what the vibe of the gathered will be, so I plan and pray and let go and trust that something will touch someone somehow in the course of our time together.

Always, as I look at the faces of the gathered and as I experience the ways they weave themselves into something never before experienced;  always I am moved.  So it was this weekend.

On this Sunday night after many chances to be in varying circles of faith seeking and faith grounded folks, I am amazed by those who show up, who say “yes”, who enter in, who bring their sacred selves into the power of community.

As tired as I am, I want more.

After a nap…

 

terrified

I love the long ago disciples of Jesus.  They spent a lot of time clueless and terrified.

And yet those bunglers are the best kind of teachers because in our lived solidarity with their ineptitude there is such hope.

Easter and Eastertide are such a wallop of emotional power.  There is such despair and such hope and such desperate need to find something that makes sense that might be future-shaping and given the body-wriinging of crucifixion and resurrection and road walking, Jesus is so patient!  When encountering the lot of them after his resurection, the first thing he says to them is “Peace”.

It seems he knows that while terror bound it’s near impossible to allow anything in.

I’m feeling such gratitude for the power of a Holy heart that knew that what is needed is a beat or two of peace.  What he taught those disciples after he rustled up something to eat is that when we allow ourselves to be open to peace and to hope and to the good of unclenching, there is room for breath;  deep and grounding and freeing breath.

I’m feeling a deep sort of compassion for the clench of the world.  We all want, we all need, we all ache for peace and all along?

That peace is.   One breath at a time.

just a singer

A friend posted a great picture on my Facebook page.

It is a picture of a band; Northwind by name.  Taken when I was in my twenties, the picture shows the faces of those I made music with for years.  I was a singer in a rock and roll band.

We had so much fun.  We were a cover band, launching ourselves into sharing whatever it was that would make people dance.  And they did.

I look at the face of that twenty-something year old woman and I laugh.  The picture was taken before I knew the stretch of being a mother.  It was taken before ministry and divorce and re-familying and the bumps and grinds that have made for life.

All that I am now walked in that long ago woman; the good, the challenging, and the questions I am (still!) impatient to have answered.

Who are we, anyway?

As for me, I am grateful for the memories of reveling and music making and night upon night of the dance floor coming alive to “Wild Thing”.

It’s not unlike church.  A crowd gathers every Sunday wanting to be moved to dance, to enter in, to throw ourselves into the jumble that is life.  We want to laugh and cry and mix it up with friends.  We do it without the slop of beer to loosen us.  But the sense of wanting to be taken into an experience larger than ourselves is real.  Spirit sets the table.  We join the dance.

What I’m realizing is that  I am still a singer in a rock and roll band.

And I like it.

play

It was a three date week.

Since Cooper and I didn’t think ahead to get reservations for Valentine’s Day, we dined out on Monday.  It was snowing lightly while we wandered downtown Minneapolis.  Being out and in the midst of city life was good.  A Barnes and Noble browse iced the cake.

On THE day (Valentine’s, don’t you know) we had no evening meetings.  Amazing.  So, we took ourselves for a stroll around a lake and got really wild and cruised the deli at Lund’s for our dinner.  The place was a zoo, filled with the likes of us who had procrastinated buying for the big heart dinner.  We came home with delectables and savored a night at home.

And, wonder of wonders, on Thursday we were again without evening meetings to contend with.  We were gifted with tickets to the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra concert.  Daughter Leah knows of my love for soprano Dawn Upshaw, so we found ourselves in downtown St Paul.  Again, we had time to wander a bit before being treated to a crystal clear voice and an amazingly heart-connected ensemble.

We found ourselves a bit giddy.  Shared meals, time to be and time for reveling in the Twin Cities we call home was grace.

Today over lunch with a beloved friend, we found ourselves naming the scarcity of play in our lives.  Competing claims on time and energy somehow put frolicking on a back burner.  That’s just dumb.  It’s hard to claim fullness of life when it seems the main objective is keeping way too many balls in the air.

As for me, I’m thinking I’m on to something.

The question is, what’s next?

I’m ready to play!

 

sermon interruptus

At Richfield UMC we offer three distinct worship services.

One is a “traditional” blended service held in the sanctuary.  We have a magnificent organ and lush music program.  We sing songs mostly out of the hymnals.

One of our services is held in that same space on Sunday morning and it is led in Vietnamese.  They too sing mostly out of the hymnal – traditional tunes with Vietnamese lyrics.

Our other service is called “Living Waters”.  We set out to create a worship service for the many who have been “painfully churched”.  So very often people have encountered boredom in church; a sense that they are to be passive consumers of someone else’s thoughts and convictions.

We didn’t want that.  So we set up the room with round tables and we meet in the Fellowship Hall with coffee cups and we welcome dogs and any other warm body seeking community and mind and heart stretch.

Our shared music is eclectic.  We use hymnal tunes, and we also use current and past secular music that brings the message of the day into our hearts.  We have a superb music leader, Victor Zupanc.  Victor is the Music Director at the Children’s Theatre.  He brings to our worship life a delight in working with different musicians, and a theologically questing spirit.  The man is poetry on the keys, and his spirit infuses our shared song.

One of the things that makes the service so fine is the people who gather.  We know each other, we like to play and question, and the work of the Spirit isn’t just about right answers, it is about finding our own answers to holy and vital soul questions.

Sharing a “sermon” in this context is not a one-way experience.  We share it.  Yesterday was an excellent reminder to me about why I love this service.  Twice during our sermon-slated time together, different members of the gathered asked a great question.  What this does is take us into the place where meaning is made.  Things get real fast when they are taken from one heart into many hearts.

In offering different sorts of worship, our church is seeking to live into transformation.  A great pulpit preach in a sanctuary where the gathered are active participants in the unfolding of the Word is pure gift.  I get to share that every Sunday.

And, I get to share the Word in a setting where collaborative unpacking of the Word is practiced.

So many gifts.  Blessed among women am I.

 

 

 

woman song

“Today at Jeanne Audrey Power’s apartment we saw all her shelves of feminist theology books and on the female face(s) of the Divine–was it all a dream? What about the last 50 years of women’s voices? Does feminist theology matter anymore?”  Facebook post.

The above Facebook post sings out at a powerful time in the church calendar.

On the fourth Sunday of Advent, we turn our ears and hearts to the song of Mary:  the Magnificat.  It is a song taught her through the voices of her ancestors, since her kinswoman Hannah generations before sang much the same song when she found she was to bear an unexpected son, Samuel by name.

The song resonates with the voices of God’s prophets through the ages:  God uses the least in order to proclaim that the vision of the Holy images fullness of life for all.  The mighty are brought to the level of the least.  The poor are filled with the food of life and soul that integration into community can bring.  The world can and will turn from scramble for power over to cultivation of power with in order that all might know grace.

And, Mary marvels, God calls her blessed in her decision to magnify the Holy. A thirteen year old girl who says “yes” to bearing the Word Made Flesh is called blessed.

Her song is sung and it resounds in our midst yet.

And, the song of woman is strangled yet.  A recent article in the Minneapolis Star Tribune shares this sobering fact:  one in three women in this nation have experienced violence directed at the Word Made Flesh of their bodies.  Women are targets of violence meted out through fists, through advertising, and through the sorts of systemic violence that creates a culture in which women who lead and women who sing are subjected to derision and barbed-wire ceilings.

Was it all a dream, the Facebook poster asks?  Can it be even timidly conjectured that Feminism has wrought the sort of systemic change it sought to name and challenge?  Does anyone care?

Who is singing woman song any more?  And why is it there seems to be a “there, we did that” sense that the song is needed no more?

The ways we language through worship and public discourse is bound yet by images of the Holy as male muscle-flexer.  Introducing inclusive language through mindful choice of prayer and hymnody can make for exquisite challenge.  The resource aren’t much there.  And the push back is relentless.

The song is more powerful than our cultural penchant for ostrich-stance.

I care.  My daughters care.  My men-beloveds care.  The Holy cares.

The song of woman is the song of life and thousands of years ago a young woman took up the song and the world was changed.

Oh, that we would carry on the song of the Word.  We are called to magnify the vision of God.

We are blessed.

tree of life

I have been drawn to trees of late.

Truly, it has ever been thus.  Some of my most powerful childhood memories include times spent held by trees.  Climbing trees was an elemental need for me then.  Sitting on a branch, surrounded by green and growing and supported by power and movement, I was home.

In my professional life, I have been powerfully engaged in green and growing.  It has been a season of funerals for long time members.  As I have sat with family and heard stories and hearts, I have felt grafted into the alive thing that is family.  Pastors are allowed to be, for a time, a part of the life cycle of families.  When we gather for funerals, the hope is that family members feel surrounded by the life beat that is a growing, powerful, and eternal tree of life.

Today in the mail I received a gift from one of the families.  I had come to know them well through officiating at the funerals of their grandparents who died weeks apart.  They are a beautiful lot, and the ways they named the knot holes of family life and the alive of gratitude moved me.

They sent me a tree.  It is on a silver pendant, crafted by one of them.  It has heft and power, this symbol, and I am moved by the convergences.  I am blessed to have been a part of their witness of the tree that is life.  I am blessed to wear that symbol as I continue to sink roots into the Holy and reach toward the sun in my own life and the family I am blessed to learn with.

Sometimes, the thing that is parish ministry near takes me to my knees in wonder.  We hold the space in community where we pray that others will find each other and the Holy and in that partnership move toward life transformed.

I am transformed.  I am transformed by the welcome, the lament, the laughter and the snarl that is life.

The tree will remind me:  Sanctuary is, alive is, life is.

 

circle of light

I have just come from a circle of light.

Clergy women from around the metro gathered for worship and lunch.  We were asked to share our name and where it is we have seen the Holy during this season of Advent.

The answers were soul resonant.  The Holy is present in church and children and mothers and in the ways we are able to open our hearts to the light of love.

Following the time together, we braved the howling wind to walk to one of our sister’s condo.  She was having an estate sale.  She is moving to California in order to be fully present there in her retirement.

This woman is a titan.  She has blazed trails for women in such a way that we who gathered are her spiritual offspring.  She has provoked and challenged and witnessed and been a voice of one crying in the wilderness and being in her home in order to own a piece of her life was a pilgrimage of sorts.

I wandered through her condo feeling the bittersweet of gratitude and grief.  How is it she will leave Minneapolis as her home?  Who will we be without her goading presence?   How does it feel to her to have her life opened and marked and sold to those who come to buy?

But mostly, I felt wonder.  As I looked at the faces during the brunch and in her condo later, I was amazed to know myself as a sister in connection and the light of that woman-bond is banked treasure.

Jeanne Audrey, your witness resounds.  The rough places are rough yet, but in your company and with the many who share a passion for justice, we will live together yet into the vision of wholeness in the Christ.

This I believe.

 

What if?

I met yesterday with clergy of many stripes.

We were Lutheran and Church of Christ and United Methodist and Presbyterian clergy from Richfield and Bloomington who responded to an invitation.  The invitation was this:  how might we come to know each other and our shared call to prophetic ministry?

What is prophetic ministry?  It is ministry grounded in scripture; ministry that challenges us to consider that a constant strand running through scripture is the insistence the Holy lays before us that we are to bind the wounds of all.  The prophets sounded call to those who had wandered from the less-than-easy.  They reminded God’s people that without acts of mercy and justice communion with the Holy is not.  In particular, people of God are to tend to the needs of the most vulnerable.  If they are not cared for, the ways of God are not being lived.  Jesus sounded the voice of the prophet throughout his ministry.  His was not a message of behave-nicely-boys-and-girls-and-you’ll-eat-bon-bons-in heaven.  His was a message of creating the kindom of God NOW, here, wherever it is you find yourself.

And we who were gathered?  We are needful of support and a sense that preaching prophetically won’t get us fired.

The men and women in the room yesterday are people of great heart who entered the vocational fray that is parish ministry because they were moved by hope.  We who gathered yesterday share a contextual reality.  In the sixties, our churches were busting out with young families and the buzz of being suburban dream land.

Now, fifty some year later, we are living in inner-ring suburban churches seeking new ways to be in relevant ministry.  Our parishioners, many of whom were part of the glory-days church boom are aging, our membership often change-resistant even as the world morphs outside the church walls, and our voices isolated and more prone to soothing than challenging.

What if, we asked ourselves.  What if we talked and learned and listened and discerned where the common woundings are in our communities?  What if we gathered with other people of faith from our ‘hood and strategized ways to respond?  What if we linked the hearts held in common by the Christ and joined hands to better our communities?

What if we aren’t alone, trying to appease pew folk who do what any of us who are frightened do:  clamp down hard on what is and fiercely defend it? What if we dared to trust God enough to step into relationship with each other and the communities God has called us to serve?

What if?

 

treasure

And so begins another season of life here on Blaisdell.

Oldest daughter Leah and her wildly alive Pit Bull have moved out.  The room that housed her life treasures (and mine, for surely she is life treasure extraordinaire) is emptied.

It surprises me each time I go upstairs, this vacancy.

I am filled with wonder about this elastic and colossal thing called love.  It is a force in life that finds endless ways to hum between parents and children, partners and pets.

Children come, they go, they partner with others, they hurt, they triumph and always always there is space and hunger within me for their being.

I had lunch with my girls yesterday.  We walked arm in arm down the streets of St Paul and shared Thai food, laughter, and hearts.  Advice was sought and shared, notions played out and life swapped.  This morning I had breakfast with my 21-year-old son.  Always this child has been tender of heart and voracious in his hunger for life and living and while being a sometimes terrified bystander to his questing is rough going, my faith in his amazing beauty is boundless.

I have loved every phase of their being, these people who shared my body for a time.  I sometimes long for the days of sleeper jammies and newly washed heads under my chin for reading marathons.  I long on occasion for the days when I could tuck them in at night and rouse them in the morning.  Their presence in my every day was ground of my being.

And, it still is.  They are flown, my babies.  Flown to the lives they are creating through their willingness to engage and stretch and live.

They are treasure unbound.