In the Presence of God

For the past 11 or so years, rarely has a day gone by where at some point I haven’t looked at Merlin, my huge tough dog, stuck in a little white dog’s body and said, “You’re my favorite.” I uttered that familiar phrase for the last time on Wednesday when I took him in for emergency abdominal surgery. He was expected to survive the surgery, and he did, but afterward, he developed complications and died. The hole in my heart is massive, as I knew it would be. One doesn’t lose one’s favorite without going through a fair amount of pain. That’s part of the deal we make when human and pet form a bond and one is snatched from the other.

I could tell you about the heavy grief I’m feeling today, share my guilt that I didn’t see him one last time, describe the moments where I swear I see him for a fleeting moment out of the corner of my eye. But, I think these are universal things pet owners go through when their beloved dies. For many, this is nothing new. What I did think about today is my grandmother and I think there’s something instructive there for those of us who are younger and more mobile. Or for the people I cannot understand – non-pet-lovers.

Grandma Max (yes, her name was Max – it wasn’t short for anything, and heaven help the person who tried to call her Maxine or some other nonsense) was an animal lover extraordinaire. Her last pet was a Pekingese named Trampus, but she usually called him Tramp or Trampy. Grandma named many of her pets after characters from old TV Westerns – I don’t remember most of the other names, but there was also a Festus at one point, too. She and Tramp were quite the team. She took that little dog EVERYWHERE. I can’t begin to tell you the number of people who did double-takes when they realized the “toy” in the rear window of her car was real. This was well before the day of doggie seat belts or any such devices. Had it occurred to her that Trampy being in that spot was particularly dangerous, she would have never allowed him to do so.

Tramp was an incredibly spoiled dog. Never once in all his years did a bite of kibble pass his lips. Grandma cooked for him. Every meal. Every day. She would make him chicken or serve him hamburger. Grandpa used to say “that dog eats better than we do” and it was undeniably true. Oh, and Grandma fed him every morsel of food by hand. Every meal. Every day. The two of them, Grandma Max and Tramp, shared a level of intimacy that few of us will ever reach. They relied on each other. Neither could live without the other – Tramp wouldn’t eat if Grandma didn’t feed him; Grandma couldn’t function if she didn’t have Tramp to fuss over.

So after feeling the crushing grief of losing my beloved Merlin and fighting through some bouts of spontaneous tears, I find myself this afternoon thinking about my Grandma and by extension all the other grandmas out there who are suddenly much lonelier after the passing of their pet. About what it must have been like for her in the days after her beloved Trampy died. About the quiet where there was once jingling tags as he patrolled from room to room to look out the windows (using the custom-built step stools Grandma had made specifically for this purpose). About the little dog she’d see from the corner of her eye for many months after his passing. About all the time she had on her hands, when she was accustomed to using those hands to feed and brush and pet her Tramp for hours every day. Grandma’s own health was beginning to decline. Her vision wasn’t what it used to be. She was easily winded. She didn’t get out and about as she once had. Her world was becoming a much smaller place, and now the bright light in her life was dimmed.

Grandma continued to be an animal lover, although she never again had another pet. In the times when her health was most precarious and she would have occasion to hallucinate, they were pleasant visions – small children, puppies and kitties would reside on her pillow. They were a comfort to her. At one point, an uncle or a cousin gave grandma a small stuffed poodle. She named it “Annie” and kept it with her for the rest of her life. Beyond her life, actually. It was placed in her coffin to spend eternity with her. For some people, being an animal lover is something deeply embedded in their core being. After everything else has gone, the ability to reason or recognize loved ones, mobility, bodily control, there is a spark of life that ignites when in the presence of a beloved creature.

Animals have a therapeutic effect. Clergy don’t have to be enamored with critters themselves, but they must recognize that for some in their parish, being in the presence of a beloved pet in a time of need, or bringing in a therapy dog to a care setting, is not like being in the presence of God. It is being in the presence of God. A pox upon the pastor who interrupts a truly prayerful moment for something that is a mere imitation in the animal lover’s eyes.

My Godsons and My Family Promises

I'm reading Growing in the Life of Faith: Education and Christian Practices for class today. Overall, I find the book highly offensive with a narrow definition of Christianity that I simply cannot relate to. Of marriages like mine and my spouse's that's been holding its own for nearly two decades, despite the fact that only one of us is Christian, author Craig Dykstra manages to muster a lukewarm acknowledgement that "redemptive partnerships can be formed." Um, thanks, Craig.

Dykstra's comment comes within the chapter titled "Family Promises." Other nuggets of that chapter include his expansion of another individual's argument (Ronald Green's "Abortion and Promise-Keeping") that "Sexual intercourse is, in and of itself, implicitly promissory. Just by having intercourse, we make promises to any potential offspring of that action." I had to put my highlighter down for a moment when I got to that section.

However, there were instances within the chapter that did get me to think about a couple of important touch points in my life: my godsons. I actually have two godchildren: my sister's youngest boy and my cousin's son. They're both of an age that if they knew I was blogging about them, they would feel a little squeamish. Fortunately, I can't imagine either of them would bother to check out my blog. So, here's what I can say about the promises I made to "my boys."

I cannot say I could come remotely close to recalling the baptismal date for either boy. However, I do pray about them. Often. The day they were baptized was one day of their lives. The cords of love and familial obligation will last forever. That's not to say that I don't lift up thoughts and prayers for my other nieces, nephews and cousins' children...even a couple of grand-nieces. They're all special. They all give their middle-aged, intentionally childless auntie / cousin a pang in her heart when she thinks about them, which is pretty often. Daily, actually. I do believe there are family promises that are made when we bring a young 'un into the world. However, I also take umbrage that my "heathen" spouse is somehow less obligated to love "our kids" simply because he is not a Christian.

I look to my godsons and I think of my relationship with my own godmother. It was also one where we didn't reflect on the importance of my "baptismal birthday," nor did we see each other with much frequency for long stretches of our lives. Yet, despite our sometimes divergent paths, we were blessed to strengthen our connection in the months prior to her death from cancer. I wouldn't expect "my boys" to feel any obligation to be with me in my final hours. At least they may not be physically present. But if there is a part of me that is still cognizant of such things as I am preparing to cross over to the other side, they and the other important people in my life: my spouse, parents, siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, friends who are loved so much that they have been forged into the family chain, and the saints who have gone before me, will be streaming into my heart and my heart will be pouring out to those whom I call family. Of that I can promise.

Inviting the Spirit to the Educational Party

I heard from a few readers that my last posting was a difficult read. I suppose it was. It was a conscious decision to look in the eye some of the concerns that have been bubbling up as I've been doing the readings and soul-searching for my Christian education class.

Perhaps I take these things too seriously, but I think there hasn't been enough care and concern placed in education, Christian or otherwise. How often have our churches searched for someone, anyone, to help lead a Sunday school or confirmation class and have been satisfied to have located a person who has passed the background check. (Your church does do background checks on individuals who work with children, right?)

At any rate, Sunday school and confirmation are just one component of Christian ed. There's a whole universe of other learning outside of those narrow confines. I'm just scratching the surface in the first couple of weeks of my CE class and have a lot of catching up to do, given I've not spent any time considering CE prior to this semester. One exercise we just did was to write a definition paper in which we come up with a personal definition of CE and then spend about 6 pages explaining ourselves. This was my definition for this paper (although I suspect it will evolve some as the semester unfolds):

Christian education is a gathering of individuals seeking to grow in their knowledge of the holy. When done well, Christian education is guided by the Spirit and all participants. Whether one is the learner or the “teacher/facilitator,” all who come open to the experience are enriched by the encounter.

What kind of surprised me as I rattled off my first draft was my willingness to allow the Spirit to be part of the experience. Even a couple of years ago, this would not have been the case. However, I'm finding that The Spirit I rejected in the past was not the Spirit in my midst. The Spirit isn't necessarily the drunken party guest, a noisy thing that mucks about, causing havoc at every turn. Rather, the Spirit as I encounter it today is a more subtle thing. As I explained to my Unitarian spouse, what I see as the Spirit is probably close to what he calls the "connective force" that holds us together.

When I pray for another or for myself, it's not that I see God as a waitress standing around with an order pad, just waiting for me to say whether I want my miracle with or without fries. I see prayer (at least this iteration of my thoughts on prayer) as a way to invite the connection between myself and the world. The Spirit is the web (or energy or force or whatever metaphor works better for you) that draws "me with thee" -- it's the Spirit that has the job of keeping me human, of keeping me grounded and connected.

Looked at this way, of course the Spirit should be invited to the educational party. The Spirit is that really good friend who says, "you really need to get to know this person" (or idea) -- the Spirit can help break down the barriers. The Spirit looks to see that not only do you have a glass in your hand, but that it's filled. Being an introverted type myself, I appreciate the thought of enlisting the help of a good party planner. I can't force anyone to listen, but I can at least extend the invitation and see if the Spirit moves.

Teaching children: A cationary tale

Once upon a time there was a church. In this church were many outwardly pious people. They went to church regularly. They made a point of being seen putting something into the plate as it passed down the pews. Some of these people in this little God-fearing church had children.

One boy came from a home where order was very, very important to the father. Things had to be just so. Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know. When things aren’t done in a neat and orderly way, there are consequences. When the family pet wasn’t cleaned up after to the degree the father thought was appropriate, the pet was killed. In the living room. In the children’s presence. The older kids tried to make a joke of it. They didn’t want the younger one to think there was anything wrong with the situation. She might talk. The other children in the neighborhood went to the boy’s church. Everyone went the same church. The children knew what happened to the pet. They didn’t know what to do about it. They didn’t think there was anything they could do.

There was a girl. She had a little sister. She had a grandfather who said he loved these girls very, very much. He did things with the older sister that didn’t seem right. She went to her mother. Her mother told her it wasn’t nice to make up stories and said she shouldn’t mention it to anyone ever again. The older sister never did anything outside of school hours. No sports. No extra activities. She knew that if she wasn’t home by the time the elementary school bus arrived, her little sister would need to go to the safety of her grandparents’ house, because there are bad people out there who can’t be trusted if she were to be home alone. The other children in the neighborhood went to the girls’ church. Everyone went to the same church. The children knew what was happening at “grandpa’s house.” They didn’t know what to do about it. They didn’t think there was anything they could do.

There was a church with good people in it. The adults liked things just so. They liked it when the children came to classes and sat quietly when lessons were being taught. They liked it when the children were sweet and cooperative and cute. The adults didn’t like it when the children had too many questions. Sometimes the questions didn’t have easy answers. The adults didn’t like questions. Neither did the pastor. The children in this church learned it was better to sit quietly. To not ask too many questions, that how things looked was very, very important. The children stopped asking questions.

The parents of the boy and the girl were praised for the regular attendance of their children at church and classes, and that they always had a quarter to drop in the plate when it was passed down the pews. Except for an occasional outburst, these children were very well behaved. When the children spoke out, the people in the church knew the parents would take care of it.

Rather be damned than right

I'm reading To Know as We are Known: Education as a Spiritual Journey by Parker Palmer. I have a really difficult time reading anything, even books like this which have been labeled an "easy read." I'm not sure why, but I'm a very slow reader and find I have a hard time grasping the words on the page. (Weird confession for someone with a master's in English, but there you have it.) One of the things I've found over the years that helps me retain what I've read is to try immediately to apply what I've read to my life and see if it sticks. If I'm understanding Palmer correctly, he would agree with this approach.

Palmer sees true learning as a two way street: the one that is learning and the one that teaches (be it a human or an object) are both affected by reflected by the other the encounter. Taking great liberties, it seems Palmer is saying, "to learn it, live it." He seems to put learning and prayer in the same plane -- or perhaps as the same thing. "As I move toward the heart of reality," Palmer reflects, "reality is moving toward my heart. As I recollect the unity of life, life is recollecting me in my original wholeness. In prayer, I not only address the love at the core of all things; I listen as that love addresses me, calling me out of isolation and self-centeredness into community and compassion. In prayer, I begin to realize that I not only know but am known." (Page 11 for those keeping track at home.)

For many of you, it comes as no surprise that I have issues with prayer. I've mentioned it in past blogs. It's a struggle for me to articulate what prayer means to me; to actually have to articulate how I practice it would completely paralyze me, but Palmer's observation that in prayer for others he is drawn out of isolation and becomes in community with others is a pretty close reflection to how I view it, as well ... although it wouldn't be nearly as succinct or articulate coming from my lips. What this has to do with education is that he continuously touts the benefits of looking at knowledge not in the language of power and domination (one has a master in a particular field because one has successfully conquered it), but rather, one might look at knowledge as a web -- what we know is connected to others, other people, other objects, other ideas. When one puts as much effort into seeing the web as one does in "mastering" the topic, the world opens up in new ways. Palmer seems to be imploring educators to open up their minds and hearts to the others in the classroom not only for the student's well-being, but also for the sake of their own souls.

Another of Palmer's concepts revolves around truth. Truth, as he sees it, may not be "right." You can give an academically correct answer that rings hollow. It is not true. I think this is how a lot of confirmation kids must feel when they encounter a "my way or the highway" pastor. For them to give the correct answer in the eyes of the ordained means to lie to themselves -- one of the reasons my first stint at confirmation at the tender age of 12 was a colossal failure. In my heart of hearts, I said to myself "I'll be damned if I'm right for this guy." Looking back, even when I look at the kid I was -- I'm the one in the upper right in the old snapshot at the top of this post -- I still feel that way. I reject the notion some have that a kid grows out of obstinance; sometimes it's the adult who's way off track. I'm glad to know that I've managed to hold onto that truth after three decades. I hope I have the grace to hang onto that when I'm feeling insecure in front of students in a classroom. I'm damned if I don't let a kid speak a deeper truth than I can muster with all my high falutin' and expensive words.

Discernment

It appears my blog took a bit of a summer vacation. That's not to say nothing happened for the past couple of months, just that I haven't carved out the time to note it here. I'm pretty sure the important highlights will naturally crop up later on in other posts, so I'll spare you the boring catalog of what I did this summer and just get to what's currently on my mind.

I crossed another important milestone this week. I'm now what's known as a "Student in Discernment" with my denomination. Discernment is kind of a heavy word. Lots of connotations for people. Some have good associations. Some bad. I actually like this designation better than what my current state used to be referred to: "Student in Care of the Association." To me, that sounds like the association has a big bucket of care that they dump upon unsuspecting seminarians, nearly drowning them in hand-wringing worry in the process. I'd much rather be doing something active with my association, like discern my calling as a part of our shared community than to be fussed over. Connotations can flavor the activity. My two cents.

So, what did I do to mark this momentous event that is expected to eventually lead to ordained ministry? I got a tattoo. Yeah, I know. Some of you will go all Leviticus on me about this. I'm not about to launch into that whole can of worms today. That's your issue to grapple with, not mine. And, this isn't my first tattoo. About 12 or 13 years ago, the women in my family trooped to a now defunct tat shop in Newport, Minnesota for our first venture in marking our bodies. It was my mother's idea. My sister and I both thought it sounded like a reasonable thing to do, so we joined her in an early fall excursion.

Now as my mother approaches her 74th birthday, she's wanting to do another piece of body art, but my sister and I got out of the gate a little ahead of her this time. We selected the same image, different markings. We chose a dragonfly as the basic outline, although mine is more like a dragon-butter-fire-fly combo. Besides that I just think dragonflies are cool, there is a little bit of symbolism going on here.

I wanted to go with a firefly because it's an image I've used a couple of times in the past couple of years when trying to describe my faith journey and also my current path for discernment. Nothing has been crystal clear for me and if I try to look too far out, I make myself crazy. Yet, even in the darkest times, there's some faint light that's been leading me forward. Sometimes that light has about the same power as a firefly, but that's light enough. So, my invented insect has a glowing tail to remind me that there's always light, but it might not be obvious.

The butterfly is about the most stereotypical Christian symbol around, resurrection and all that jazz. I figure it's one that most folk can easily identify with and understand. But, here's the other thing about the butterfly: Its wings are an aeronautical wonder. They're super fragile, to the point that the slightest touch can crumble them. Yet, their wings are also strong enough to take them from the upper Midwest to as far south as Mexico. How is this possible? The wings have an amazing support structure that helps to distribute the stress of flying so that no single part of the wing is so taxed that it can break in flight. In theory, that's what my discernment peeps will be for me, a support system that will help me avoid crashing in mid-flight ... and that's what I hope I can help establish in whatever form my ministry moves to in the future. None of us alone can withstand the strain of living without the sometimes hidden support structure that holds us all together. Even introverts like me get that. But, a visible reminder doesn't hurt.

The dragonfly. What's up with the dragonfly? Besides being an exceptionally nifty insect, I like how it looks like it's zipping along, willy-nilly, with no particular purpose, yet, it's actually pulling off a zillion useful jobs for its ecosystem ... not the least of which is keeping down the skeeter population. So, yeah. All that churning that's going on...perhaps there is some useful purpose to it in the end. Who's to say?

So that's the reason for the image and the timing - I wanted to commemorate this milestone with something that will help remind me of some important stuff on the days that I'm just not feeling it: My connection with my family, my faith community and with God. The location? Well, it's just above my inner right ankle. What's the symbolism there? Sorry to disappoint. One very practical reason for its location is that as I get older, I'm pretty sure I'll still be able to cross my leg so that I can see it. No saying the same would hold true if it were in another location. Not everything has to be deep all the time. Heck, if we don't agonize over a story of God mooning Moses, a little permanent ink just adds more color to the party.

Washing in the Jordan seven times

Those who have been following this blog for a while know that in the past several months, I've been seeing a counselor who works a lot with folks who are seeking a vocation on the churchy side of the street. It's not that I was worried my immortal soul was in jeopardy or that my relationship with God had fallen apart ... or even that I thought I was losing my grip on sanity. (No more so than other seminarians who struggle to balance work, family and school obligations, anyway.) I was just feeling stretched a little thin and unfocused. I was beginning to think if I didn't start getting new tools to get a grip, too much could slip away before I'd even notice.

So, a few times a month I checked in with my counselor and followed her suggestions on being aware of what I'm doing, being intentional in my spiritual practice, and working through some of the character traits that could get in my way of effective ministry, like impatience. Many of those exercises have been worked through right here on this blog, like identifying the milestones in my life that are important to me and where I'm going, thinking about the role of prayer in my life and how it could affect my future vocation, searching for ways to bring grace and patience into frustrating situations, and how to balance my introversion (note I didn't say "overcome" it) with the need I'll have to work a room when I'm in a ministerial role. Like most good counseling experiences I'm familiar with, I've learned that very little of the sessions have to do with tremendous insights from the counselor; it's more a case of the one paying the bills taking time to actually think about the issues at hand, whether there's an actual resolution to be had or not.

My counselor went over my list of goals last week and announced it appeared we'd discussed each of them and while I had some work to do, it was stuff I could do on my own (and here's the surprising part) with some help from my dog Beans. Huh? What help could a 2 year old bundle of unfocused energy be for me? I felt a bit like the famous general (and leper) Naaman must have felt when he traveled to Elisha's place to ask for a cure and was told to go wash in the Jordan seven times and he'd be healed. (Yeah, I know, this is pretty esoteric stuff for a large batch of my readership. You can read the whole story here.)

The point she was trying to make, I think, is that sometimes we're too quick to shell out big bucks for a cure (you know, like up to $125 a session, including insurance billing) when there's a simpler solution right under our noses. For me, the "simple" solution is to continue working with Beans in his Therapy Dog classes. Granted, we're not going to pass this time -- trying to bite someone on the first night of class pretty much disqualifies the human/canine team from getting a completion certificate. (I won't say which of us did the chomping -- we're in it together, so it was our combined action.) However, there are a lot of lessons that transfer nicely from the therapist's couch to the classroom: socializing, patience, empathy, reading others' emotions and learning how to work with what you have.

I have to say, my counselor is right. Instead of getting exasperated because we haven't completed a lesson perfectly, we both need to enjoy being in the moment and in each other's company. We need to learn to adapt to each other's shortcomings and help accentuate the good qualities of each other and lend a helping hand (or paw) when the other is just not getting it. Actually, Beans is a much better team member than I am. No matter how many times I screw up, he still offers his paw for a high-five or a shake and is ready for whatever comes our way next. Sometimes there are things he hates. It's obvious, but he still has a sense of enduring unpleasantness that many of us could only hope to emulate. I think Beans would joyfully take the chance to jump in the Jordan seven times, especially if I were right there with him. Well, buddy, for the next six sessions of this class, and for the rest of your life, you can count me in. Let's get muddy!