blowing out the pipes

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Last night there were nearly 400 people gathered at church on a Friday night.  We were there to celebrate a spectacularly enhanced pipe organ.

The air was charged with gratitude.  Those who gathered were current church folk, past church folk, and those who feast on the sound of a fine pipe organ.  In the house were those who had put their bodies and hearts to demolishing the old and building the new.  We knew each other to be compatriots in the great work that was going to be brought to our ears and hearts.

We weren’t disappointed.  From the moment organist Dr. James Welch began his concert, we were taken in.  The river of sound washed over us with all the voicings such an instrument can share.

My heart was near to bursting with gratitude.  For a century and a half, a scrappy and grounded crew of the faithful has sounded praise and lament from the corner of 58th and Lyndale.  Children have been raised, missions begun, hearts held and lives dedicated to the practice of living as disciples of Jesus.  We were at it again last night.

Any church is a dance, a partnership between the Holy and the human.  We gather to remember who we are in the midst of the chaos and competing claims of life.

Last night, the “who we are” was so clear.  We are a people committed to the power and possibility of transformation.  We need each other.

And so it was that last night we celebrated the with the sound of the flute and the trumpet what it is to be alive, woven, and generative.

Thanks be thanks be thanks be.

 

 

three days

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It’s one of those things feared greatly:  a mammogram technician wanting more.

After the first go-round with my mammogram, it was decided that I needed another.  There was something there they needed a closer look at.  They commenced yet another flattening.  And then, they wanted an ultrasound done.

Shuffling from one room to another with heart refusing to engage with “what ifs” (yeah, right) it was determined that I needed a biopsy.

So, a day later I was back on the table for a slice and a snip.

And then the waiting commenced.  I had the procedure done on Wednesday.  I would find out on Friday.

The hours between were long.  While I knew the odds were great and my own sense of things positive, those words I long to keep far from me and mine:  “biopsy”, “cancer”, “abnormal”.  Those words would pop into my consciousness often.  The feeling of vulnerability was exquisite.

After making many phone calls on Friday, I got the news I longed to hear:  no cancer! Things are fine.

My life as I know it is handed back to me.

The mystery that is life and the wonder that is body health is too much for me to comprehend on most days.  On this day, I feel like I want to sit in the lap of the Holy and have a fine cry.

Tonight the organ at our church is being re-dedicated.  I will have a chance to sit in sacred space and open myself to the wonder that is resurrection; ongoing, always, eternal.

For now, on this day, the stone has been rolled away.  Alleluia indeed.

aftermath

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I spent Sunday at services of remembrance.

At church, we named the pain of 9/11, and allowed the space for grieving.  Preparing for that service, I joined the rest of the nation in remembering how the world shifted ten years ago.  The music played on MPR all week and the stories shared by those who were in New York on that day soaked into my soul.  The grief was raw and real.

Later on Sunday I went to an interfaith service of remembrance on the steps of the State Capitol.  Religious leaders in our varied regalia, singers and dancers, Heart of the Beast puppets and political leaders gathered with community members to name the pain and the hope, both.  It was good to be there.  I was not in a leadership position so I was able to be present and fully engaged at an emotional level.

Mondays are my day off.  Cooper and I got up and loaded the bikes on the car and drove to a bike trail that connects Cannon Falls and Red Wing.  We were out in the midst of a changing earth.  Leaves were falling, the air crisp, and the peddling fine.  We rode some twelve miles into Red Wing, shared a great cup of coffee and peddled back to the car.

For the first time since all my children moved back to Minneapolis, we gathered for a meal on Monday night, with the late addition of Cooper’s daughter who flew in from Kansas City.  We savored conversation, laughter and food.  I lost badly at cards.  We were family.

It was gift.  After being open to so much pain and death, the opportunity to move my body in the clarity of the air felt like a powerful affirmation of the gift that is life.  Sharing time with beloveds is the best celebration of living that I know.

There is a poignant awareness of the amazing grace of breath and love.

God help us to live gratitude.  There is so much we do not know.  Moment by moment we are given “alleluias”.  Whether bellowed or whispered, may we sound them through our being.

 

back to school

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Maybe it’s the years of being a student.  Or the years of being a teacher.  Or the years of being a parent.  Or the years of being a pastor.  Whatever it is that conspires to open my pores to new adventures, it is most powerfully present in the fall of the year.

I love this time of year.

At the cabin, the sunlight is a molten gold.  The compunction to gorge on all that is summer loosens, and the time seems precious and sweet, worthy of a still savor.  In the city, it is fun to pass children on their way to school, hands tucked into their parent’s and hearts open to all that awaits in the year to come.  Living as I do with a football maniac, I am regaled by stories of training and games, and our television brings into our home the celebration that is football.

And there is church.  The scurry is on to find Sunday School teachers and the choir commences practicing and as for me and my house, we feature the accordian on Rally Sunday and what could be more festive than that?  It is good for the heart to anticipate reconnecting with kin in Christ.

Today I had my own “back to school” treat.  I gather with a group of amazing colleagues throughout the year.  We gather to share stories and joys and aches and to share in the pleasure of each other’s giftedness.  We have been together, some of us, for some seven years, so the stories of our churches, seminaries, children and lives are known and honored.  Today, after a summer hiatus, we came together. Just laying eyes on such fine folk was juice for my soul.

Somehow, this time of year makes me mindful of the learning I long to do in this classroom called my life.  In each person I encounter, in each moment given, the opportunity to learn about myself, life, and the Holy is offered.

I’m praying I have the sense to take life up on the learning that is offered.  Back to school it is, day by day by day.

 

moment by moment

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It was one of those cherished oasis times in the midst of much.

Cooper and I were sharing coffee this morning.  Around us was the detritus of young adults moving out – Rachel today and Jameson tomorrow.  It was a breathing time.

Until I let the dog in and she was going nuts.  She kept trying to get out of her own skin and she took her misery into the living room where Cooper was sitting.  At first I thought she had gotten into a wildly improbable patch of burrs.  I couldn’t figure it.

And then I realized she was covered in angry hornets.  Twenty or more of them.  Bedeviling her for all they were worth and can I just say this:  Cooper is deathly allergic to hornet stings.

So there we were, this trio of the consumed.  Zoe was consumed by misery, Cooper consumed by the desire to help and the desire to flee, both, and I was consumed by the need to protect my beloveds from the terror of the angry hornets.

I shooed Zoe out into the yard again, figuring it would buy me some time to be sure that Cooper was not stung.  The hornet killing commenced inside but oh, when I looked at my sweet girl she was again covered with even more of the hornets.

I tried swatting them off of her but they turned their anger on me and were not too interested in leaving their fur hostess, so I got out the hose and even then they would not let go so it was a drench and pluck technique adopted by this pajama-wearing mama.

After a trip to the vet and a shot of Benedryl, Zoe is fine, I hope.  I’m to watch for hives.  An exterminator is even now at the house dousing that nest of death with move-out enticements.

But oh, the agony of it all.  Into the midst of the idyllic, misery can swarm in and deal terror.  My beloveds are safe on this morning.  I can laugh at the tableau of a dancing woman in her pajamas wielding a hose on her terrified dog.  I can give thanks for the ways the swarm is vanquished and the back yard made safe again.

But, as poet Jane Kenyon so powerfully states, it might have been otherwise.

We are safe for this moment.  Thanks be.

ramblings

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What a kick.  We went to the state fair today.

The first thing encountered was this:  we got the senior citizen price for admission.  We didn’t ask for it.  It just happened.  This is a bit terrifying to me.  Cooper maintains it was the company I was keeping, but really, a senior citizen???!!!!

The second thing was something I had never seen before.  Tucked into one of the areas at the fair are some twenty microphones on poles.  All of the microphones face a big screen and on that big screen lyrics to songs scroll karaoke style.  People were – really, it is true – singing in public!  With gusto!  We bellowed a few with the rest.  Watching people of all ages approach a microphone and settle in for a good sing made my heart crazy happy.

The people watching was wonderful.  Folks were happy to be out and making that oh-so difficult decision about what sort of food stuff on a stick they were going to eat next.  As for me and mine, there were no stick edibles ingested.  We suffered not.

We hovered at the MPR booth and watched Amy Klobuchar be interviewed.  It was good to be in a place where people lofted cheers about liberal-leaning sensibilities.  We stopped by a booth where one of Rachel’s friends works on Franken’s staff.  He was deep in conversation with a constituent and would not break professional-style contact with him, no matter how we misbehaved in the background.  Our Adam is all grown up now.

We saw lambs hours old and piglets the same and babies in strollers and art and quilts and Minnesota loving the stroll that is life in this state.

And this “senior citizen” walked long and gratefully, delighted to have the chance to be alive and in it on this day.

 

who’s on first?

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It is a morning of intentional deep breathing for me and for this living thing called my home.

In the next week two people are moving out and two people are moving in.

Rachel is vacating the nest she has lived in for two years.  She has been a most delightful roomie, breezing through the days with updates on life and adventures.  While working AmeriCorps, the third floor of our home was a cheap place to live (the coffee pot is always on, not a bad side benefit).  Now that she has a grown-up girl job in her field (pinch me!  It’s so fine!) she is moving into an apartment with friends.  It’s time and it is right and I will miss her.  Luckily she will be only five blocks away.  This I like.

Son Jameson is moving out.  He landed here six weeks ago after a near-year adventure in New Orleans working AmeriCorps.  At 21, his sense of play and need for friend gaggle is great, so having a house of his own is a near desperate desire.  He got the word yesterday that his rental dream house is his, so he will move this week.  He will be a mile or so away, able to come and go and congregate and music make as he pleases.  This is good.

With Rachel’s move in the offing, we decided to rent out the third floor, so on the 31st we will move into uncharted while familiar territory:  sharing our space, but this time, with a renter.  She will have access to the kitchen and will need to enter and leave through common space.  She is a nice young woman.  I think this will work.

And, frosting on the cake and almost unbelievable to my heart, my eldest daughter is moving back to her people.  Leah has been in Denver making life and learning much and having done her time, she is coming home to a great new job and a rejoicing fan club.  It hasn’t really sunk in yet.  I don’t have to steel myself for inevitable good-byes.  I get to see her and hear her and be with her and love her crazy from a much kinder distance.  She will live here for a time until she finds her own abode. Our house will be filled with her beauty and the fruits of her tiny bread-kneading hands.  She returns bringing with her Chela, a pit bull mix.  I’m trying to send peaceful energies to my creaky black lab and to the energetic and not-well-dog-socialized Chela.  May peace reign in their hearts!

So, a Saturday morning spent alone in this house soon to be stirred into changed and new life is a precious gift.

repulsive good

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“I thank your ladyship for the information concerning the Methodist Preachers. Their doctrines are most repulsive, and strongly tinctured with impertinence and disrespect towards their superiors, in perpetually endeavoring to level all ranks, and do away with all distinctions. It is monstrous to be told that you have a heart as sinful as the common wretches that crawl on the earth. This is highly offensive and insulting, and I cannot but wonder that your ladyship should relish any sentiment so much at variance with high rank and good breeding.”

From a letter by the Duchess of Buckingham to the Countess of Huntingdon. Lady Huntingdon was a supporter of the Wesleyans.

So much has not changed.

I love the snippet of disdain shared above.  It is the response of a woman not too keen on being challenged to live the gospel.  To be lumped into the whole of humanity rather than cosseted by class was offensive and insulting to the dear soul.  She would have none of it.

How different is the response encountered today?

I natter on often through sermons and other writings about the significant challenge it is to live in the ways of Jesus.  Situated as I am in a middle to upper class congregation in the midst of a groaning mission field, a goodly portion of work goes into trying to peel back the walls of the church and our hearts to see the realities lived by our neighbors;  to see those realities, and to know them as our own.

There is push-back.  It’s human and natural to want to distance ourselves from pain, particularly when apprehending that pain means we take it into our bodies as our own.

Living the gospel means we are called to question all things that enslave and keep bound the hopes and bodies of our community.  It means practicing “impertinence” and “disrespect toward superiors” in order to explore how it is systems of government and culture countenance the gouging of the poor.

There are mutterings about the political nature of ministry and sermonic messages but I ask you, how can followers of Jesus “go along” with impertinence in check when the gulf between the rich and the poor widens and the aches of the displaced are so often silenced by derision and class cocoon?

I am blessed to be pastor in a congregation that “allows” such impertinence and challenge.  It isn’t always welcome, and it isn’t always appreciated.  But we know that what binds us is stronger and more powerful than the so-many forces that seek to silence the call to wholeness for all of God’s people.

On this day, I am grateful for a community that sanctions the speaking of the repulsive and saving message of the Christ.

past blast

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One of the child scroungers who live in this house found a relic from my past.

It is a tape from a band their dad and I were in for four years.  The band was called “Northwind”.  We were a five piece band playing all the hot spots in Stevens Point, Wisconsin in the mid ’80’s.

Oh my.  I hear the tape and I’m transported to another place and time nearly 30 years ago.

That band was a flat-out hoot.  We were good.  We loved to have fun.  We played as a house band at the Holiday Inn in town, which meant that we played six nights a week until 2:00 AM, got up and went to work, and did it again the next night.  We played weddings and New Years Eves and company parties and in bars and making music with good people was good good work.

Watching my son experience this tape is great fun.  He’s trying to be appreciative between guffaws.

What it does for me is remarkable.  I’m torn between laughing, wincing, and weeping.  So much has happened in the between years.  Babies were born, cities moved to, degrees earned, and so much life lived.

But I think that if I were able to be on stage with those men again, I’d know every song, every harmony, and love every minute of making that music again.

But I’m not sure playing the trumpet was the grooviest best idea…

burp!

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It is said that in some cultures the best compliment given a chef is a healthy burp after a luscious meal.

These days, I am stuffed full of the meal that is life and it is burping season.

My birthday was yesterday.  I began it with my beloved crafting strawberry pancakes. There were no other creatures stirring in my house (of the two legged variety, anyway) so we were able to begin the day quietly and sweetly.  The ground of a fine love is a very fine thing upon which to build happiness.  This I know.

I spent the morning doing my Wednesday things:  calling my mom, sharing bible study with my men’s bible study group, doing the sorts of things that an impending worship bulletin asks of me, and savoring the great good of the best staff in Christendom.

Lunch was shared with a dear friend with whom my heart has spoken honest and true for many years.  And then, my 21 year old son and I scooted around town on the pink scooter of happiness and found ourselves with our feet in the water at the end of the dock on Lake Calhoun.  Time with him is precious.  It was great gift.

The day was brought to a close with a great feast with kin.  Interspersed throughout were birthday wishes ala Facebook and cards and I went to bed stuffed with happiness.

Today was equally fine.  I gathered with an interfaith group seeking to mobilize people of faith to defeat the upcoming marriage amendment that seeks to squelch the rights of same-gender-loving persons to join in marriage.  I met at table with a wild and passionate children’s ministry team.  Earlier in the day I prayed and strategized with a fine crew of United Methodists who are seeking to build new faith communities.

Really, how does a person burp gratitude for so much?