Sunday was a huge let down. And we needed it. LightBoy’s party is over, capped off by a win in their roller hockey championship game. The Red Devils are now the Spring 2007 Champions. On the other hand, LightGirl’s team didn’t win one game this season. It was somewhat humiliating for them, but they learned so much technique, it was worth it. They all know it and feel good about it.

With little sleep, much energy put into planning and preparation for the previous couple of days, and little sleep the previous night, we all needed a low afternoon. We had one and it was made more relaxing by the rain we finally had after the drought that has been dogging the area. So, after a nice nap and some coffee I turned on the television to find something light and relatively disengaging to watch as I worked on a quilt. Gunsmoke fit the bill. So, with the LightChildren happily ensconced in front of their own television sets, I turned on Gunsmoke, a happy memory from my childhood. My sewing area is in our family room, so I can sew and watch at the same time. Or, really, sew and listen with an occasional glance at the screen for orientation.

It was a two-parter yesterday afternoon. Island In the Desert. The guest star was Strother Martin playing “Ben Snow” a half-crazed hermit in the middle of the desert who saved Festus from certain death. Here is the plot summary for parts 1 and 2 from IMDb:

Part 1 – Matt and Festus bring a particularly notorious killer into a town on the edge of a desert, where the sheriff cheerfully informs the killer that “tomorrow we start working on the gallows.” The sheriff spoke too soon: the killer gets the drop on him, murders him and flees into the desert. Festus, who stayed behind to borrow a new mule, goes in pursuit but is bushwhacked in his own right. Festus, however, is rescued by Ben Snow, a hermit who was a gold miner many years earlier — only to be shot in the leg and left for dead by his partner. Snow is half-crazed (“I’d even make friends with a snake!”) — but he actually found his gold mine, a spring which provides him with water and shelter and food from desert animals. He’s panned the spring incessantly and racked up a huge cache of gold dust. Snow might be able to get out of the desert (he’s tried before and left water caches as far as he could walk), but he’s so bent out of shape that he refuses to go without the gold — many dozen pounds of it. So he steals Festus’s weapons and handcuffs, turns them against them and makes Festus into his “pack mule.” When Festus asks why, Snow explains that he will buy up the town where his ex-partner fled and make life a living hell for the man. He also warns Festus that if he collapses, “I’ll shoot you like a mule gone lame!” With all the cards stacked against him, Festus sets out carrying the huge sacks of gold, while Snow follows in his tracks under the blazing sun. Written by Peter Harris

Part 2 – Festus is forced to pack gold dust across the desert, hoping to get to a town on the other end before his and Ben Snow’s water supply runs out. Matt and Newly, having been alerted by telegram, try to catch up to them. When Festus spots the tracks of the killer who also wounded him, he simply turns around and goes after the killer. Snow has a Hobson’s choice of shooting Festus and trying to make it out alone (which he knows he can’t do) or go along and pick up the convict. They find him, strap half the gold to his back, and force him to come along to face a noose at the end of the journey. A series of double-crosses follow, leaving Festus and Snow in the direst of straits. Written by Peter Harris

It is at this point, that the story gets interesting. The convict double crosses both Festus and Ben, discovers the gold, breaks all the water carriers and almost sets out for Ten Springs on his own. But not before he lays eyes on the last pack. In that pack is Ben’s pet rattler who strikes the convict’s neck and kills him. He dies with Ben’s voice screeching, “Greed’s what got you bit, boy. Pure greed!” in his ears. Festus and Ben must now make it to Ten Springs with no water. And somehow, because this is Hollywood and Festus is one of the stars of the show, they do get there. Along the way the relationship between Ben and Festus changes from confrontational to friendship.

On the hill overlooking the town Ben looked down and saw it in all it’s glory. People moving about, the saloon was in full swing. Lights were in all the buildings. It was a thriving town with much going on. Festus looked down and saw … tumbleweeds; heard wind whistling through the broken glass of a town long since abandoned. Ben grinned wide and strode down the hill into the town certain that he was to receive a rich man’s welcome. Festus followed, uncertain about his role in breaking his friend’s dream. They wandered through the town, Festus literally dying for a drink and Ben literally dying to enact his revenge until they came to the town graveyard. There they found the grave of the ex-partner (Sam Bristow) and the death date on it read 1859. Ben turned to Festus and asked what year it was now. And Festus replied that it was now 1875, “… and you’ve been carryin’ a grudge against a man who’s been dead all these years.” He walked away shaking his head. This information literally broke Sam’s heart. He cracked and shattered there at that graveside. He broke sack after sack of gold over the headstone, sobbing out his anger and grief. The gold was no longer of any use to him, it’s only value to him was to enact his carefully plotted revenge. Later, after Matt and Newly had rescued Festus, the three of them found him there, surrounded by gold dust. Dead. In losing his goal he had lost his will to live.

I was thinking about that later that evening when I read John Smulo’s most recent post about Churchless Faith. The post hit a nerve with me. Since early March this year, I count myself among the churchless faithful. I tried to comment on John’s post, but it didn’t go well. So I deleted the comment. I tried again in the morning and deleted it again. Then we were out and about and I found myself thinking more deeply about Ben Snow and his journey in terms of community. I began to put some pieces together and started to see some shadows emerging. These thoughts were too long to be a comment on his blog, so I did this post.

I found myself being a little too empathetic with Ben Snow this time I watched this episode. I’ve seen it before and understood that he had been driven sort of insane by his solitude. This time however, I began to empathize with his hurt and disbelief that a friend and partner could cause such pain and leave him bloody and alone in a desert. He did not know which way to turn or how to get out of the desert. Alone he was fed and watered in his oasis. That is how some of us are left after our dealings with “church.” Alone, we are fed and watered in our oasis with God, but we have no idea how to get out of the desert. On the other hand, remaining alone for too long creates a danger that we will begin to go slightly insane. Without the assistance and comfort of a community, how can we know where our food and water is coming from? How can we be assured that we are not in danger of focussing too much on revenge, or even that we need to focus on forgiveness when the time is right? Had Ben Snow been in a community he might have been able to move away from the pain and turn his mind away from his injuries. He had nothing else to do by himself but focus on how he’d been hurt. Alone that is what many of us do. In community with others, we have other things to focus on while our minds begin to heal. This is not to say we bury it or stuff the pain, but it is to say that we stop picking at the wound and allow it time to scab over and grow new skin. That we do not allow the eagles to come fresh each day and eat at our livers again.

So for me, I do not know what this new thought will bring with it. I know that I will need to be moving in the direction of community again. I also know that the time is not yet ripe. I also know that although I empathized with Ben Snow, I know to be wary of him too and that is a good thing. I have no desire to be lost and alone in the desert. Once this passes (and it will), my desire will be for community and I will get there soon.

I read somewhere, recently and I can’t remember where, that we exist mostly in the borderlands between chaos and order. We live in that tension between the two. If our world were to slip into complete chaos, well, everything would fall out of place and fly around. But, alternatively, if we lived in a perfectly ordered world where nothing ever went wrong that, too would have it’s own set of problems. The writer used the allegory of a waterfall with the smooth pool at the top to symbolize order and jumbled mess at the bottom to symbolize chaos, but it’s that rhythmic pulse of water falling in the middle that we live in … those borderlands. Where things are always just barely in order and always almost slipping out of our hands.

I loved that analogy. It really helped me to think through my life and see my house more clearly. I’ve been working my way through The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. I’m doing it for a number of reasons. I started because my psychiatrist recommended it. But he recommended it because I found a website of an old friend and the website made me jealous. Well, jealous is not quite the right word for it. It wakened old dreams and sent them surging up to the top of the pool again. I told my psychiatrist about this website and my friend and how focussed my friend seemed and how scattered I seem. That was the moment when I got a doctor’s note to quit my day job (such as it is) and begin quilting. To focus on that as who I am. He also recommended this book. It’s the first self-help book which has made sense to me. I have many of them. Too many, perhaps. But this one — this one fits me.

It’s encouraging me to do some other things. Things like haul out my books and begin to design a Native American quilt that I’ve wanted to do for several years. Begin to write some longer pieces of more fictional writing. Begin to take Arabic. Begin to do some biblical research on some questions I have about some women in ministry issues. In other words, begin to live my life again. Pick up where I left off before the conservative church got ahold of me 17 years ago and tried to fit my round peg into their square hole … for no other reason than that the conservative church is afraid of chaos.

What I learned there is that the conservative church lives not in the borderlands, but in fear. The conservative church seems to believe that in order to be in “God’s will” they must swim to the pool at the top of the waterfall. Or manipulate conditions such that they manage to live in that pool. But reality in this life and this world dictates that we live inside the waterfall itself. If you have ever sat near a waterfall and watched it for any length of time, you will begin to notice that there is a rhythm and rhyme to the falling water. There is beauty there. The falling water can be predicted and controlled to a certain extent.

So, for me … I am learning how to love God and my neighbor from within the waterfall. What will that look like? What is my waterfall going to be? Where are my borderlands? Have I told you that I love a good swim …

A very long time ago, in what seems as though it must have been another lifetime, I taught a womans Adult Christian Education Class at our CLB1. I taught on the books of Ruth and Esther. I began my planning with a reading of the stories in the Bible, but quickly knew that I needed some supporting material. I got some light reading (Lucado, Wiersbe, etc.) on my own, but asked our youth pastor/friend/mentor for some recommendations. He gave me the hard stuff. The Word Biblical Commentary, volume 9 by Frederic W. Bush. Whew … that’ll make your hair curl.

Thus began my first encounter with Biblical Hebrew. I skipped over a lot of it. At first. But then I began stumbling through the parts that dealt with the verbs and the tenses … and it seemed unintelligible. And I hated it. It was a discipline. But slowly it began to make a certain amount of sense to me. And I began to understand the book of Ruth at a whole other level that had never been available to me before. This was a story that I have always loved. It is a beautiful romance tucked in the midst of ashes and but now it has been cut and polished for me like a raw jewel.

As I fought my way through studying and presenting this material to my class, I grew to love Ruth even more. I also learned quite a bit about some of the traditions that have grown up around the story in the intervening several thousand years since it happened. I learned that the megillah (or scroll) of Ruth is read during the Feast of Pentecost or First Fruits. This is the Feast which celebrates the harvest and which celebrates the giving of the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai to the Hebrews. It is the feast which commemorates God making a commitment to live in community with His people forever.

So, why, might you ask, is this book about a foreign girl coming to Israel read during this feast? Well … the answer lies in many places. The first lies in Ruth’s declaration to Naomi early on in the story, “Where ever you go, I will go. Your people will be my people. Your God will be my God Your land will be my land.” She gives up everything about herself, to become a nobody in a strange land and take care of her mother-in-law. It is a gorgeous picture of love in the face of adversity. It is also a foreshadowing of who Jesus is and who He calls us to be and it sets up the story to present to us the concept of chesed.

Chesed is a Hebrew word for which there is no precise English translation. The best we can come up with is covenental loyalty in the context of merciful lovingkindness … which is, to say … a mouthful! It is an aspect of God for which we do not have a very good lens. But we do have the book of Ruth, which is replete with pictures of what chesed looks and acts like. Chesed is found in Ruth’s declaration to Naomi in Ruth 1:15-16; then when Ruth follows through on that declaration we see chesed in action. Chesed is found in Boaz’s loving care and commitment to Ruth and Naomi throughout the harvest season and in the fact that he would chose Ruth (a Moabite) and work to marry her, when he might have passed her off on to another relative or ignored her altogether.

So, indeed this is a fitting story to tell on the anniversary each year that we celebrate the giving of the Ten Commandments. It is about more than the Commandments. It’s about God and His desire to live in community with us. He limited himself, and gave of himself in order to hang with us.

Here is the cool thing about Shavuot. The Jewish community celebrates this as a commemoration of the giving of the covenant; the beginning of their relationship with God. The Christian community also celebrates Pentecost and we both use the same name. We celebrate this day as a commemoration of the giving of the new covenant; the Holy Spirit. On Sinai we were given the Law, but after the crucifixion and resurrection, on the same day we were given the Holy Spirit to continue our redemptive, covenental, merciful relationship with God.

The Holy Spirit Comes at Pentecost

1When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. 2Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. 3They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them. 4All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them.

5Now there were staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven. 6When they heard this sound, a crowd came together in bewilderment, because each one heard them speaking in his own language. 7Utterly amazed, they asked: “Are not all these men who are speaking Galileans? 8Then how is it that each of us hears them in his own native language? 9Parthians, Medes and Elamites; residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, 10Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya near Cyrene; visitors from Rome 11 (both Jews and converts to Judaism); Cretans and Arabs-we hear them declaring the wonders of God in our own tongues!” 12Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, “What does this mean?”

Shavuot begins this evening at sunset. It is these moments which cause me to reflect that our separate religions might just be a human construct and not divine. It brings to mind the Eastern Orthodox tenet that I can only know where I might find God, I do not know where S/He is not. So, whether you are Jewish or Christian, I pray you spend the next day or so reveling in a God who ripped the seams of time to be with us. Here are some thoughts that are pertinent to Pentecost from other bloggers.

First … read about moving from desolation to consolation at emerging sideways. It is a wonderful picture of redemption and provision like the story of Ruth, or the Hebrews. Desolation and consolation.

Second … read the story of Ruth again here at Velveteen Rabbi with a little bit of commentary. Beautiful.

Last … here is a poem from Rachel Barenblatt at Velveteen Rabbi to prepare you for Shavuot … it’s really quite lovely:

LONGING

I’m thirsty for davening
in this gritty desert
of car wrecks and cell phones.
Every person killed
anywhere
keeps the promised land
blocked to our passage.

Who knows the path
to short-circuit
this wandering?
Some days manna falls
but others we’re back
to toil, scratching
like chickens in the dirt.

If I was there at Sinai
to sign the ketubah
God offered, black fire
on white, most days
I don’t remember.
Everyone forgets the unity
we started with.

This year
when our anniversary comes,
God, I want to stay up
all night
to feel the letters
traveling up my hands
into my heart.

I want to sing holy at dawn
with the birds
in the willow behind shul
who open and close each day
with praise.

Some of my favorite movies have always been westerns. I loved horses, cowboys and indians when I was girl. Now that I’m a grown up, I still love them. Only now I’m supposed to sophisticated about it.

So-called “Spaghetti” westerns came out in the 1960’s. These were western films directed and filmed by Italian directors, often in Spain. They were often shot on a very thin (shoestring) budget. So, for all those reasons they were given the title, “spaghetti” westerns. They have a certain spare look and feel to them. The best known of the genre are the “Dollars” Trilogy starring Clint Eastwood: A Fistful of Dollars, For A Few Dollars More and The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.

I was too young to see them when they came out; I was still watching The Lone Ranger, Gunsmoke and Ponderosa. But now I watch them over and over again in reruns. They are best watched on a rainy Sunday afternoon when I’m quilting. Nothing is finer.

Of the three, my favorite is The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Clint Eastwood was “the Good” or Blondie (the man with no name). Lee Van Cleef was “the Bad” or “Angel Eyes” Sentenza. Eli Wallach played “the Ugly” or Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Mario Ramirez – called Tuco.

The plot line involves buried Civil War treasure. Blondie knows the name of the grave that it’s buried in and Tuco knows the name of the cemetary. Angel Eyes knows that they know. So everyone needs each other for information. Except that no one really needs Angel Eyes. There are plot twists and turns and (as is cardinal with spaghetti westerns) much gratuitous violence. In the end, however, here is how it pans out. Bad is killed, Ugly receives a reward and redemption from Good. Good walks away unharmed having redeemed Ugly and a town in the process. Good also manages to use only what violence is necessary for his own survival … while all others around him are killing for attention or delight. Ugly is three dimensional throughout the story, Good and Bad are only two dimensional … we only see them in part.

I think it’s interesting. I love to see how popular the story of Jesus is. You can even find it in spaghetti westerns. We tell it to each other over and over and over again. Good triumphs over Bad and redeems the Ugly. We give the story new names and new faces; new plot lines and new twists. But in the end, it is the story of Jesus and his triumph over death and evil. We love this story, so we tell it to each other again and again and again. Watch and listen … see where you can find it next.

The Ugly … just for fun (before you check out some of the other synchroblogs below)

Steve Hayes ponders The Image of Christianity in Films
Adam Gonnerman pokes at The Spider’s Pardon
David Fisher thinks that Jesus Loves Sci-Fi
John Morehead considers Christians and Horror Redux: From Knee- Jerk Revulsion to Critical Engagement
Marieke Schwartz lights it up with Counter-hegemony: Jesus loves Borat
Mike Bursell muses about Christianity at the Movies
Jenelle D’Alessandro tells us Why Bjork Will Never Act Again
Cobus van Wyngaard contemplates Theology and Film (as art)
Tim Abbott tells us to Bring your own meaning…?
Steve Hollinghurst takes a stab at The Gospel According to Buffy
Les Chatwin insists We Don’t Need Another Hero
Lance Cummings says The Wooden Wheel Keeps Turning
John Smulo weaves a tale about Spiderman 3 and the Shadow
Josh Rivera at The Rivera Blog
Phil Wyman throws out the Frisbee: Time to Toss it Back
Sally Coleman rushes up with Making Connections- films as a part of a mythological tradition
Kim Paffenroth pondersNihilism lite

Today is (quite literally) the 33rd day of Omer. Aren’t you glad you know that now?

It might be helpful if you knew what the heck an Omer is. If you were Jewish you’d know. Those from the Jewish tradition count the days from the second day of Pesach (Passover) to Shavuot (Feast of First Fruits). There are 49 of them. These are steps to purity wherein one becomes pure enough to participate in the Feast of First Fruits. So, essentially the Omer is counted as a series of days that are noted as belonging to weeks. Each week focuses on an different aspect of God (as found in Wikipedia):

1. Chesed – Mercy/Grace/Love of (intention to emulate) God (Power of Vision)
2. Gevurah – Judgment/strength/determination (Power of Intention)
3. Tipheret – Symmetry/balance/compassion (Creative Power)
4. Netzach – Contemplation/Initiative/persistence (Power of the Eternal Now)
5. Hod – Surrender/sincerity/steadfastness (Intellectual/Observational Power)
6. Yesod – Foundation/wholly remembering/coherent knowledge (Power of Manifesting)
7. Malkuth/Lower Crown – Kingdom/physical presence/vision and illusion (Power of Healing/Accomplishment/Level of Realization of Divine Plan)

each of the seven weeks of the Omer-counting is associated with one of the seven lower sefirot (#4-10): Chesed, Gevurah, Tipheret, Netzach, Hod, Yesod, and Malchut. Each day of each week is also associated with one of these same seven sefirot, creating forty-nine permutations. (Deeper symbolism)

I look at this and begin to wonder. I did a search on “seven” in the Bible and came up 524 hits. Some of them were of no consequence. But seven seems to be a number that has deeper meaning. Then I remember Jesus’ command to forgive seventy times seven and see the echos of counting omer. I wonder if we take Jesus’ words too literally. What if Jesus is telling us here that forgiveness is a process that we must step through. That we must count our steps … seventy times seven. Ten steps for chesed, ten for gevurah and so on. We must study these perspectives and allow ourself to steep in them as we walk towards purity and the feast of first fruits. I wonder …

Tomorrow this blog will be silent and dark in honor of the victims of violence at Virginia Tech and around the world. It will sit quietly in memory and prayer for their pain and suffering.

Today, however, I’d like to quibble with words. It bothers me that the incident has been coined a “massacre.” I have issues on a number of different levels with this. First and foremost is that Virginia Tech has and will continue to contribute many stars to the galaxy of engineering universe. It is a top school for engineering in the country. Henceforth now though, it will be known as “that massascre” school.

Secondly, the incident was not, NOT, a massacre. Yes, a large number of people were killed by someone who was more heavily weaponed than they. Yes, he came upon them when they did not expect him. They had no defenses. However, the word massacre implies a certain sense that the forces of killing have the support of higher authority (government usually). A massacre usually occurs during a state of war. The MyLai massacre is a modern occurence. The Anfal Campaign was a several years long massacre undertaken by Sadaam Hussien to punish the Kurds in northern Iraq. The Battle of the Little Big Horn is another well known episode. In a wonderful turnabout the U.S. government is attempting to right the wrongs done in the Sandy Creek Massacre 142 years ago by establishing a memorial to the Cheyenne there. A massacre is also undertaken by many who have full control of their faculties. They are following the logical (if misguided) precepts upon which their way of life is based.

The incident at Virginia Tech ought more properly to be coined a tragedy (an event resulting in great loss or misfortune), or a catastrophe (a state of extreme -usually irredemediable- ruin and misfortune). Seung Hui Cho very clearly did not have full control of his faculties for quite some time before April 16 and likely for years previous to the event. This was no military campaign which was following the logical (if misguided) precepts based upon a way of life. This was anger, frustration, howling rage, fear, and evil personified and it ended with the taking of his own life, something that true massacres never end with.

When we call an event of this nature a massacre we separate the shooter from his community in such a way that the community is no longer responsible for him or to him in any fashion. He must exist outside of the community in order to wreak such destruction. And yet, Seung existed within his community. What can we learn from this about the nature of community? About the nature of this specific community? What must change within that system or other larger systems to prevent these sorts of brokenness from occurring in the future? This was no massacre because Seung was part of these people. This was a tragedy, a heartwrenching, gut twisting failure on the part of our whole system to help the Seung Cho’s of this world find their voice.

Since I left my church almost 2 months ago, I’ve begun working out regularly. I realized this morning that it’s become a place of worship for me. Is that possible? There is music. There are people. There are encouragers, exhorters, evangelists, prayers (spoken and unspoken). There is no sermon; not directly. A wonderful thing about my place of worship is that it is for women only. Women have voices here and women are heard. My voice is heard here. I do not choose to speak tho. I have nothing to say. I watch and listen and exercise.

On Saturdays when I go to my place of exercise/worship I drive past a set of low office buildings. They are mostly nondescript. I drive past them on weekdays too, but there is nothing noticeable about them on weekdays. I think that there must be a women’s health services clinic in one of the offices, because on Saturdays there is always a small group of people picketing against abortion on the side of the road. It’s almost always all men. I know that abortion is a tangential issue for men. But why don’t more women take up pickets against it? That’s interesting.

Hockey has now consumed our home. LightGirl has 2 sets of goalie gear and 2 of skater gear (in-line and ice) and LightBoy is working on 2 sets of gear. There are bags, sticks, skates and pads everywhere.

Missional is becoming trendy in Christian circles. Brother Maynard even has a cool graphic to show which way the trend is turning. It’s the latest watch word for Christian branders to run after and get while the money is to be made; WWJD for the 2000’s? The only problem is that actually being missional is important. Bro. M. posted his cool graphic because that’s where his heart is at. There are a lot of us following those numbers in a not so idle fashion because we want to see it catch on somewhere deep. We want it to be real … not trendy. Trendy would just break my heart one more time.

So missional means (to me) living a life that more and more comes to resemble that of Jesus. It means treating everyone who’s path I cross as individuals with gifts and needs and a life and a story to tell, even if all I will hear that day is a sentence. It means giving out of my abundance to those with less; not from a pedestal on high, but from a bridge across. For many people missional seems to mean living an urban lifestyle. Their desire is to live in and among the urban poor. I’ve been contemplating whether or not missional can be taken to the mountains successfully. Do rural folks need missionally minded people in their midst? Maybe an artistic quilter or something? I don’t think I’m cut out for many more years of this city living. It’s strangling my soul.

I grew up in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Vermont. Here’s a photo of the house and surrounding grounds that I spent the 5 years from 1st through 5th grades in. Granted this photo was taken in about 1900 and though the LightChildren think I’m ancient, I’m not quite that old … yet.

Now the Belchers (handily indicated by the red dot) were an elderly couple who lived down the road from us. Aunt Jo(sephine) and Uncle Greg. I used to visit them every Thursday afternoon for tea. They were originally from Canada and very delightful. They taught me many skills. How to make the cross bars on peanutbutter cookies. How to tell the difference between “like” and “as” and when to use which. How to play cribbage. And most importantly how to beep the letter “R” in Morse code. R being Uncle Greg’s first initial. I used to walk down to their house after school and Uncle Greg would bring me home on his way to the post office to pick up the mail.

Now, if you also look carefully at the photo, you will see that facing “my house,” and a little to the left is a somewhat large-ish brick house with two chimneys. I’m not certain what that building was used for at the time this photo was taken. But by the time we lived here it had become a museum called the Kent Tavern Museum. The building had originally been built as a home and “… from 1837 to 1846 was a stagecoach stop on the road from Montpelier to Canada.” Since we were only about 15 miles from Montpelier, this tells you something about the length of time it took to get to Canada in those days.

So it was a museum with artifacts from its glory days as a tavern. My mother was the curator. This sounds far more grand than it was. She loves history as much as I and this wonderful old building was lying fallow. So she rounded up some of the elderly ladies in town to get it open a few hours a week. The best part (as far as I was concerned) was the gift store and the fudge! That was a magical fudge recipe that I have never been able to duplicate. It was all volunteer to the best of my knowledge and the old ladies in town gave of their time and their institutional knowledge of town history to run it.

I knew every single one of those ladies by first and last name. But I would get ferocious looks if I dared use their first names. They had earned the title Mrs. So and So and I’d best use it. Even my mother called them Mrs. So and So. They were wonderful farmers wives who knew the seasons (all five) and when they weren’t helping their husbands, they were helping their daughters. They taught me a little about sewing, knitting, crocheting, tatting, drawing and whatever else they’d brought to keep their hands busy. You see, I had free run of the place when it was open as long as I didn’t bother the visitors and stayed out of the way. And those old ladies were a magnet to me. They had stories to tell. And I might get a piece of fudge.

Now if you look further around to the left at the pond and go around the pond to the left you’ll a sawmill. That’s Robinson’s mill and it’s still there. It was there when I was a child too. We used to go and play in it. Gingerly, because it was a kind of creepy place and floor boards were a bit rotten. But there’s an open area next to the mill that’s used a couple of times a year for town potlucks and cookouts (that’s what we call barbeques up north). We roast corn on the cob in it’s husks. Several people bring homemade baked beans. There are lots of hamburgers and hotdogs. When we lived in the house marked “my house,” we could just walk. But people of all ages came to the cook outs. Almost all of the adults knew all of the children’s names. At the very least they knew who they belonged to. Even if we’d wanted to, my brothers and I couldn’t get into very much trouble. My brothers tried pretty hard too. But someone always knew what we were up to almost before we thought about it.

I know that when you get a “certain” age you begin to immortalize your upbringing. So, yeah, maybe there’s a little of that going on here. And, believe me, I know about the down side of growing up in small town New England. It can be ingrown, inbred, insular and just as horrid as any ivory tower. But my vision for a healthy church looks like these vignettes from my childhood. There are old people who are interested in young people. There are young people who are interested in old people. There are people from all generations who pause and have time for each other; to listen to each other’s stories, to value one another for the gifts they bring. To understand that some people bring baked beans and some people just bring chips. And all of the grownups look out for all of the kids in a community because they know them and love them. The children, by the same token, know that they are known and loved by all the grown ups. The boundaries on the community are porous enough that people can come and go without regret or animosity. There is healthy respect for all embraced by all. That this healthy church will have many generations where all people will be welcome and all stories will be heard and the journey will include good food along the way.

My most beloved television program is “Law & Order.” I’ve been watching it for years. I first discovered it in re-runs on A&E during the day. I was breaking a very naughty soap opera habit and looking for something to replace them with. I was newly home with a baby and bored out of my skull. I know that the proper emotion to express as a new mother is delight and everlasting joy at your new child. But housework and infant care are also boring beyond belief, especially if one is accustomed to daily adult interaction and stimulation. So, I began watching “Law & Order” reruns during the day … 1 o’clock in the afternoon on A&E. Then I’d turn the television off, in an act of supreme self-discipline. Sometimes.

Imagine my delight when I discovered that this television show was in production on NBC! WOW! What you have to understand is that NBC is not on my radar. It just doesn’t exist. Well, it exists, but you see … we don’t get that channel. It broadcasts on the other side of the mountains in New York, so we don’t get it. I know, now there are the wonders of cable and satellite (not to mention that I currently live in Virginia not Vermont), but I forget about all of that and just discount NBC. It’s just not on my radar. Other people watch it, because they get that channel. I don’t. Weird wiring from my childhood strikes again. So anyway. I watch Law & Order very nearly obsessively. I watch it in reruns on TNT. I watch Special Victims Unit on USA. I watch Criminal Intent on Bravo. If it’s on, I find it and watch it. Some of the episodes I know so well, I can begin to recite the dialog. But there is one episode in particular that haunts me.

It’s one of my favorites and, yet, it makes me cry every time it airs. It was first aired in season 6, entitled Pro Se. It’s about a homeless man who went on a murderous rampage and killed 3 people. It turned out that he was schizophrenic and off his medication. Once he was in jail and on his meds, he calmed down, stopped hearing voices and turned out to be a brilliant attorney. He defended himself during the case (hence the title of the program) and was well on his way to winning when suddenly he threw it all down, decided to allocute and spend the rest of his life in a mental institution.

During his allocution it became apparent that his inner demons were back, indicating that he had stopped taking his medication some time during the trial. He had been faced with Hobson’s Choice. He knew that having freedom meant that he was responsible for himself and he was unlikely in that instance to reliably take his medication. Being institutionalized meant that he would be medicated and therefore aware and able to function, yet in an environment where he was unable to use his faculties. Or be institutionalized and not medicated, yet others would be kept safe from his delusions. There was a lot of dialogue concerning this decision and all of the ramifications; whether or not an adult can be forced to take medication against his will when not taking it meant that he became harmful to others. There was even a small part of his mind (soul or brain) which knew this, but could not overcome the power of the delusions caused by the schizophrenia. On the other hand, taking the medications caused such a fog to come over his thought processes that that was not who he was either. In one particularly gripping scene, he said to ADA Claire Kincaid, “It’s taking every single ounce of energy I have, just to hold this conversation with you. When you leave, I will be exhausted.”

In either choice he was caged. In one by his illness, in the other by the state. There were no choices left for him and if he chose physical freedom, he was likely to harm others again. A fact which he knew and abhorred. But neither could he abide the fog the medication caused. I can understand that. I take medications for combined seizure disorder, depression and anxiety disorder. Sometimes it takes all of the energy that I have just to hold a conversation. To keep my thoughts in one place and have them come out of my mouth in a cohesive organized fashion. I did not used to be this way. So I empathize with the character in this episode, even though my problems are an anthill compared to his fictional issues.

All of which is to say that I did not make the comparison between a person with multiple personality disorder (e.g. mentally ill) and the Bride of Christ lightly yesterday. Nor did I do so in criticism of one thread of memes (People Formerly Known As …). My criticism, if any, was aimed at the increasingly shrill commentary coming out of blogs more associated with the institutional church than with the emerging conversation. I am sad because for two years now I still hear the same complaints and criticisms. Yes, indeed we are, many of us, terribly hurt. I’ve been hurt by two churches now; the second badly enough to increase my medications. I’m not for one moment suggesting that the conversation take on a plastic positive spin. I am suggesting that we remember a couple of things.

The first is that we are all of us, both hurting and whole, institutional church and emerging conversation, all who claim the name of Christ as Savior, are part and parcel of His Bride. When we engage in this name calling and so-called Truth bearing, we are harming each other and putting distance between ourselves (Christians) and those we want to invite to the wedding feast. People, for good or ill reason, fear the mentally ill and they are sequestered on the fringes of society. I’m not terribly concerned with being on the fringes, but how can we invite people in to the banquet, if they’re looking askance at us?

The second thing we need to remember is that we have a Lover who is anxious to heal us. So while there is no magic touch. No miraculous cure. He is there is to gather us up under His wings as hen does her chicks; giving consolation and comfort from He who can provide it. I’m not calling for false bravado, but real grace which comes from Living Water. That as the healing takes place we will each encourage one another to stand in forgiveness. That this grief, hurt and anger will indeed be a journey and not a stopping place.

Last, we all in all of our separate communities are standing separately before God. As with my meds, the insanity is taking every ounce of our energy just to think about the conversation. There is very little left for moving forward or even more importantly looking around to seek reconciliation with our brothers and sisters. We were given a commandment by Jesus (to love God and love others – our neighbors) and a Commission (to go out, taking the Gospel to our neighborhoods, our towns, our cities, our countries, to the ends of the earth) and deliver it in a winsome fashion, not beat people over the head with it. What is there about the Gospel that is inviting? We know what is inviting, but we need now to make the venue welcoming. Our human equity has long since vanished. So the time has come, I believe, for us all … every last one … to be humble in repentance for the wrongs we’ve done each other and ask for healing within the Body, the Bride. That the meek will be lifted up and carried forward to receive comfort and blessing. That those without a voice, will be given an open throat and ears willing to hear.

There is a Promised Land somewhere out there and we must stumble towards it together, because separately we are hearing voices and slowly but surely losing our way.

Prologue

It all began with Bill, and his rather delightful polemic, The People Formerly Known as the Congregation. Bill was thinking out of the box a little and using a rubric that had been used in another format in order to get our collective attention. He accomplished that. Several others jumped aboard the train (Grace, Jamie A-R, John, Lyn, Greg, Dan, Heidi, Copernicus, Sola Gratia, Brother Maynard, and Paul) and wrote other pointed pieces that continued in that vein and I think we are now up to parts 9, or perhaps 10. I don’t know, my reading turned to skimming somewhere around part 5. I just got sad. I began to see backlash on institutional church blogs; people who are linking to these in anger and bitter humor.  (UPDATE:  several hours after posting this I read the second of Brother Maynard’s three part series in this meme.  Dear Reader, you really need to as well.   My post is but a shadow on the wall.)

More than that, an ever-widening rift is developing between the old and the new. The piece of the Church that was to be “just a conversation” is hardening it’s lines or perhaps the lines are being drawn for it and the piece that is the old, the institutional Church, is calling names and making faces. Oh, it’s being slightly more dignified than that, but it’s the adult version of, “I’m packing up the marbles and keeping them for myself. Nyah.”

So, what follows has been on my mind for quite some time now. I began writing it over a year ago. The imagery comes and goes, but I have not been able to get it out of my head (which probably is some indication of my level of insanity). I began reading the latest round of postings which began with Bill‘s TPFKATC with hope that has degenerated into sadness. We are all continuing to circle the drain with our anger. It’s not that anger or expressing it is bad, but we must begin to harness it into something constructive, redemptive, conciliatory or we will ultimately lose the true battle which we ought to be fighting.

As you read what follows, please understand that I am in NO manner attempting to speak the mind of Jesus. I am taking the metaphor of the Bride and Bridegroom and playing it out in imaginative fashion; so, dear reader, you may make of it whatever you will.

The People Known As The Bride of Christ

Jesus is coming. Jesus the Bridegroom. He is coming for His Bride. He dressed in his tuxedo. He’s been preparing the universe for this time since He called time into being. He’s longing for this Bride dressed in dazzling white. Pure. Clean. If He is to be Lord of Lords, then His Bride will be the Queen in the Kingdom of God.

What sort of Bride do we present Him with? At the moment, she is dressed in the tatters of a whore, no dazzling white here. She is behaving as though she is possessed of multiple personality disorder. In serious distress, this disorder is causing her multiple personalities to be at war with one another as she stands at the back of the church ready to walk down the aisle.

Now Jesus sees past the clothing and the MPD; He sees only His beautiful Bride. Not so the guests at the wedding. They are frightened by the spectacle of the tattered rags, ratty hair, dirty skin and raging arguments from within one person. They are leaving the church in small groups, and ones and twos. Slowly, but they are leaving. The banquet feast that Jesus has set for them is not enough to keep them there.

It soon becomes apparent that the wedding which was a central event in society, written up in all the best papers is now so insignificant that it’s barely worth mentioning by word of mouth. It was to have happened in the big church in the middle of town, but now it’s being held in the tiny little church down the road a ways. There just aren’t enough guests anymore. The Bride has frightened them all away with her squabbling, fractious nature and all of the rules she set for coming to the wedding.

Jesus opened the doors wide. The Bride started to close them. No drinking she said. No smoking. No dancing. Only come on Sunday. Wear beautiful clothes. I must have beautiful clothes. And your hair must be just so. Make sure your children behave. Raise your hands in worship. No, don’t. Yes, do. No.

These things and more are the issues She is now fighting about within Herself.More and more guests just keep slipping away. And The Bride? Well, She appears to be unaware, indifferent; far more concerned with her inner demons than with her guests. She knows she ought to be thinking of them and their needs, but she cannot seem to pull her eyes off of herself.

Epilogue

I have not written this because I feel that we ought all just get along and sweep our differences under the rug. I’ve written it because I feel that we ought to be picking our battles more wisely. There are really only a few battles that need to be fought. “In things essential, unity; in doubtful, liberty; in all things, charity.” Thomas aKempis. Is the church possessed by demons? I don’t know. But we’ve become a fringe element of society and it might be good to think about embracing that rather than continuing to act as if we’re the biggest show in town. Arguing about how to rearrange the deck chairs on the Titanic is a waste of time and energy. But perhaps we could learn some new patterns and begin to work together in and through our differences. Reminding ourselves of what we have in common more regularly might be a good place to start.

Nicene Creed

We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty,maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.

We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father; through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven, was incarnate of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary and became truly human.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered death and was buried. On the third day he rose again in accordance with the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father.

He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son, who with the Father and the Son is worshiped and glorified, who has spoken through the prophets.

We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church. We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen