@ trad clrgy: OMG keep up or u r toast

Today is Pentecost. Some folks call it the "birthday of the church" which I find to be pushing it a might, but it is one of my favorite days, despite the silly labels that people try to place on it. There's a reading from Acts that's typically done that even those who aren't all that familiar with the Bible but still attend a church now and again kinda recall.

The reading is an English major's wacky bag of mixed metaphors: We've got a rush of a violent wind, fire-like tongues, people who don't speak the same language, the notion of public drunkenness, and a Spirit that pours out among the people. There's a little something for everyone. Some years it's the wind that gets to me; other years it's the fire or the thought of the spirit sloshing about and getting everyone a little wet. This year, I think because I'm trying to understand myself in relation to the world, it's the speaking the same language that got my attention. How cool it would be if I could get through this whole seminary thing and still be able to speak authentically in my own tongue and yet be understood by others. Even cooler, if there was some sort of a spiritual translator who would fill me in on what's going on in the strange world of other's minds.

And here I'm only talking about the ones who speak English. The thought of having this instant translation service extend to the far reaches of the globe is mind-blowing, but given the way technology has made the world a smaller place that communicates across borders, in one sense, Pentecost moments happen all the time. The global exchanges couldn't happen without a great intermediary (in this case a bank of supercomputers) running trades and calculating exchange rates for individuals from Tuscany to Tuscaloosa to Tanzania. And that's just the foreign financial markets. Social media has made breaking down international barriers much easier for the individual. Ironically, sometimes I find it much easier to communicate with a person on the other hemisphere than I do the person sitting next to me on the bus. The distance to reach out to my seat mate at times is far too great to traverse.

One generation out and the "gee whiz" factor of the Pentecost story is going to be totally lost on the younger American audience (don't balk at the word "audience" we've long ago made worship entertainment, so let's face facts and call a spade a spade). How relevant will it be to them to hear about something that can happen in real-time from their telephones or whatever new technological device that can do the same thing, without all the wind and fire?

Reconciling tradition with technology is a challenge that is going to take down many a preacher in the future. I already see it in times when clergy diminish the relevance of tools like Facebook, Twitter, Caring Bridge and texting. For entire populations, these are the communication methods of choice. The people who choose to use them don't do so to isolate themselves from others; they use them to stay connected with people they care about in ways that those who don't even try to understand the technology can scarcely fathom.

All I can say is God help us if we don't allow the Spirit to run through fiber optic lines or wifi or satellite. Let our daughters and sons prophesy and see visions. God help us if we try to muzzle the still-speaking voice that is emerging on the waves of the Spirit poured out among us. I fear if we get in the way, there will be hell to pay.

Playing the field

I come from a long line of schmoozers. There are people in my realm who can chat up a rock and probably coerce an intelligible answer from it. My Grandpa Joe made a point of looking for connections and casting about until he found one. And he always found some common ground - someone they both knew, attended the same school, worked for the same company. He was not satisfied until there was an intersection of his life with the other person's. There are many in my family who have this knack for connection. I'm not one of them.

When it comes to networking, fellowship or the 1950s style cocktail party, you're apt to find me in a corner, hallway or kitchen, not in the center of the room working the crowd. While others feed off of the energy in the group, it drains me to the point of exhaustion. It's not that I'm afraid of gatherings, I can hold my own ... if I have to. But, while some seek these situations out, I'm calling my dentist office to see if there's a last-minute cancellation so I can go in for an elective root canal. Seriously, give me a room with a thousand people and a podium and I'm good, but give me 10 - 100 people in an enclosed space with no structure and you'll see me break into a sweat.

This can be a bit of a handicap in the line of work I'm pouring a lot of my time and financial resources to achieve. Maybe because I'm an inherently practical person, I identified my discomfort with small talk/small crowds as something to work on with my counselor. I'd hate to get a few years down the line and discover the time and energy was wasted because this small group thing was a deal breaker.

I've been doing some talking with people who seem to do a better job of working a room. Turns out a lot of what they're after are the same things I seek to do in more intimate settings; they're just more efficient or something at doing it on a bigger scale. What I mean is that I'll find the one person with whom I can connect, and assuming they're cool with me, I could spend the rest of the time with that one person. I guess I'm sort of a monogamous schmoozer, while others tend to like to play the field a little more. While I don't need to be a promiscuous mixer, it might be helpful if I didn't marry the first person that comes along, either.

I came up with a watch phrase for when I find myself getting impatient: Carrots and celery. I guess for the next little while, as I'm getting used to the idea of working a small crowd, I'll need to repeat, "You don't have to get hitched." Come to think of it, I'm sure my unintended spouse would appreciate a more open relationship, as well.

Not going to confuse me with a saint

"She's got the patience of a saint." Nope. That's not something you're ever going to hear about me. I'm just not a patient person.

What gives me eye tics more than anything else is dealing with things that DON'T MAKE ANY SENSE. People who cut me off in traffic when there's a mile of open road behind me. Tic. People who tell long stories that seemingly have no end in sight, or a beginning for that matter. Tic. Office bureaucracy. TIC.

I could try to blow some smoke here and say that even Jesus had his moments of melting down, but try as I might, I'm thinking I can't say I've had a money-changer moment just because I drew the short stick and ended up sitting next to the chatterbox on the morning bus...in really slow traffic. My reaction to a woman who doesn't get that the six rows of people around her don't want to hear the details of her family dinner, complete with cooking instructions, doesn't quite measure up to the anger Jesus is said to have felt when God's house has been turned into a den of thieves.

My spouse is quick to point out that I don't suffer fools gladly. It's sort of a point of pride. But, I also know it can be a handicap. When my initial reaction is to help speed a person along to the conclusion of a story, finish a small child's task, or force a process, I know I could be missing out on something really good. I've heard some people re-frame situations like these and look for the opportunities in the midst of frustration. I don't think I'll ever joyfully embrace long lines, pointless meetings, or long sessions of small talk, but there might be something to those moments.

Maybe it's sort of along the lines of my last posting about the troubles I have with prayer. Maybe I'm spending too much time trying to define it in terms of others. I KNOW I'll never have the patience of a saint. I know I'm not going to suddenly sprout a halo during a trigger situation. Maybe what I'll need to do as a first step is play a little game with myself.

In a class I took about a year ago in which we did "mini-internships" in a number of locations, we were frequently asked where we had seen God in the situation. I was assigned to a church, something I dreaded because of bad experiences I've had in congregational settings in the past. However, because of this annoying question, I knew I needed to look for moments where I had seen God, so I'd be prepared whenever the pop quiz came about. I found that the harder I looked, the more stressed I got and the less able I was to really be present with the people I encountered on the job. However, when I was distracted with busywork, like getting a meal ready for a community dinner, my brain could chill a little and I'd have surprisingly meaningful conversations with the woman who had a traumatic brain injury from a tumor that would eventually kill her.

At one point in the semester, the woman's health declined and she was gone for several weeks. I missed her. Terribly. When she returned, I told her how glad I was to see her. She told me she didn't remember who I was or anything about me. The funny thing is that I didn't care. It was enough that we were together, cutting vegetables and placing them in very neat rows on a tray. Being that anal with the arrangement of vegetables is something that would typically drive me batty, but in the calmness of the moment, I realized it was one thing this woman could control. By rushing the process, I would have robbed her of the gift she brought to the community. The only thing my impatience would have served in that situation would have been myself. And really, what was I in a rush to complete? Scrubbing potatoes? There were plenty of hands available. I didn't NEED to be in a rush.

This week I will play a game with myself. Every time I want to implode with frustration, I will mentally line up carrot and celery sticks, slowly and deliberately, and in solidarity with those whose carrots might be family dinners, or getting into the next lane on the road, or telling a musty old joke whose punchline is at the tip of my tongue. For a week, I'll try to make sure there's an abundance of carrots and celery, all in their places. Someone else can get to the potatoes. I'm the carrots and celery girl with whomever I'm with.

Is the week over yet?

Don't have a prayer in the world

I've been tasked with thinking about prayer before my next appointment with my counselor. It's not like she's a cruel person who just dreams these things up. I have the vague topic of "prayer" as one of my goals during these sessions. But, it is a very uncomfortable topic for me that I have avoided with an aversion reserved for occasions like reaching for a plant in your garden and disturbing a snake. Either that or the feeling you get when you lick a 9-volt battery. Prayer gives me the heebie jeebies. What I haven't worked out is why.

Part of my aversion might be that I haven't exactly figured out what God's job really is, but it doesn't seem as though the Creator came up with the first call center. I think that distinction would have to be attributed to the evildoer (either that or some enterprising business person with an affinity for cubicles).

But there's something about the image of a call center that seems to fit the notions of prayer I frequently see in others. There's the complaint line, where one can share lamentations. The help desk, where one takes issues and hopes for better things after the system reboots. The sales desk, where one barters for a better price for the things one wants. And there's the line that seems to get very little use. It's the line where one can share thanks.

Seems like the only times the compliments hub on the switchboard lights up is when the caller has received a favorable result from one of the other lines. It's a transferred call. Rarely does a call come in directly. Instead, there's some asked for product or service that is delivered to the order-taker's specifications and the call transferred on. Too often I wonder if the caller is somehow hoping that the favorable feedback will result in a gift certificate for a future purchase to be sent in the mail in a sort of divine quid pro quo.

I know, all this thinking about how I perceive prayer through the eyes of others doesn't get to what it is I think it means to me. For two weeks now, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about this. Anytime I'm not actively working on something else, it seems as though this has been running in the background, like a virus scan or backup software program. Today when I brought up the "prayer" window I had minimized, this is what I had on my screen:

• Prayer is the moments when I'm walking on the trail and my dogs spontaneously tear around in a fit of joy.
• Prayer is the moment in communion when I feel my soul might be in communion with the saints in my life who have departed this world.
• Prayer is when I've been with dying loved ones and have slowed my breathing to match theirs and we've had long silent moments where I've laid my hands on them and felt the flow of energy between us equalize, when the distinction of where I end and the other begins becomes meaningless.
• Prayer is that short span of time when I'm doing my sorry attempt at running and, despite a nagging throb in the knee or tweak in the ankle, everything just feels right.
• Prayer is when I lose who I am as an individual and am fully in the moment.
• Prayer is when the cat climbs on my lap and settles in for a snooze.
• Prayer is when I look at what's happening around me and the only thing I can think is WTF???
• Prayer is when I'm embracing one in pain and know there's not a single word that can help any more than my simply being there.
• Prayer happens more than I acknowledge, but it is rendered speechless.

Maybe that's one of the issues I have with prayer. I put food on the table through my ability to put words to the page. Prayer, when it is really happening in my realm, has no words. When I force words upon it, I have taken away its power. When I try to utter a prayer to the world, I find I don't have a prayer in the world.

Accenuate the positive

The UCC started a new online ad campaign yesterday. Here is the video...

It's gotten me thinking about the ad campaigns we set for ourselves. What is it that we broadcast when we open our mouths, our checkbooks, our lives to others via social media outlets like this blog, Facebook or Twitter?

Much as I'd like to say that I've got a coordinated, consistent multi-media effort, I don't think that's the case. But really, most of us don't have our own PR team and stylists following us around to make sure each appearance is picture perfect.

I was thinking about putting together my own video in response to the UCC's ad, one that helped define who I am (only the positives, or course). As tempting as that sounds, I have a lot of paper-writing and reading to do this weekend. But, if I were to put together a mash-up, it would feature movies and stills like this: Pictures of my family from my childhood, especially cousins and grandparents; silly candids from high school of friends I'm blessed to still have in my life and love me, despite my quirks; a series of stills showing the various places I've lived (I might leave out the rat-filled "murder house" for the sake of having something that plays well with the public); and lots and lots of walks in the woods, in the mountains, and across fields with my spouse and our many, many animals. I'll be sure to do lots of wide shots, so the viewers can see the countryside.

I think it's in the shots with those I love and in creation, if you squint really hard, you can see the shadowy image of the creator. Maybe you don't have to squint at all. If you've met my friends, my family, my critters, you've already seen the creative and defining force that shows my good side for the cameras. My hope is that I'm in their "good-side" ads as well. When the question that's so popular in some of my seminary classes is asked, "Where have you seen God today?" It would be nice to know that I make as many cameo appearances for the ones who mean so much to me as they do for me. As the old joke goes, may I be as good a person to my loved ones as my dog thinks I am. Wag on.

Milestones of the heart

I recently started seeing a spiritual counselor -- at least I think that's the term. To me, there seems to be a lot of gray area about when one is a regular counselor, a pastoral counselor, a spiritual director and a spiritual counselor. I was looking for a spiritual director (I think), one who is licensed specifically for spiritual direction, but I wan't having a lot of luck looking and didn't want to go to someone who didn't come recommended. The person who was recommended to me by a trusted instructor is a counselor who is trained in pastoral counseling and spiritual direction, hence I think she's actually a spiritual counselor.

I'm not going because my life is falling apart. Life is pretty darned good, really. That's part of the reason I wanted to go. I'd like to be one of those pastors who is actually well. It's a lot rarer than you'd think. That's not to say things are perfect. Those who know me well know it's been one doozie of a year, and there are "issues" that I could benefit from having an objective third party help me think through. We can all use a hand.

After going through the requisite "history" intake -- tell me about your childhood, etc. -- we're moving on to the interesting stuff: setting goals and looking at milestones. The goals will be a topic for another day. The ones I've identified right now are figuring out the role of prayer in my life and getting over my discomfort with small talk. Seriously. Either we've got something to talk about or we don't. That's not going to get me far in the ministry. I have to learn to deal.

But, the milestones part is interesting to me. When you think about it, there are hundreds of thousands of events in all of our lives that could be considered defining moments. What we choose to name a milestone says a lot about who we are. Mine include getting confirmed and joining a church at 17, getting married, adopting our first dog (Gynnady), moving to New York, 1994 (so much happened that year that I just lump it all together), learning not to be an "ingrate" (aka, exploring my relationship with the creator), 2000 (another rapid-fire year of change), and the deaths of a number of loved ones in the 2000s.

I've been thinking about what these milestones have in common and decided it could be boiled down to the word "movement." Either they were physical moves or they were movements toward learning to love in new ways -- loving a spouse, family, critters (and learning how to be a steward of a little piece of creation), those who have made the ultimate move, or loving the creative force that I'm learning to define as God. I like having had this assignment. I don't think about myself in terms of how my life and love intersect, but really, is there a better way?

I often find myself stopping short and wondering what the heck I'm doing in seminary, anyway. I'm an impatient, close to middle-aged woman with a tenuous relationship with God (on a good day) who has trouble carrying on a graceful conversation with strangers (or those with whom I'm familiar). So what is it that's drawing me to a life where I'm going to spend a lot more time with strangers carrying on conversations that require a certain amount of grace, and often about God? Judging by the milestones I've been able to recognize after a little time and space, I suspect the answer lies somewhere in the intersection of life and love.

Don't forget me.

One of my friends calls today "Monday-Thursday" because when we were in high school, she misheard me when I said I was walking down to church for communion because it was Maundy Thursday. Maundy Thursday is my most favorite day on the liturgical calendar. If you can call the day that commemorates Jesus' last full day on earth a "favorite," that is. It's on this day that the Last Supper is said to have occurred.

The story told is of a man named Jesus who is aware that he will soon be executed -- he's become too inconvenient for the Roman Empire to keep around (contrary to popular belief, the Romans killed Jesus, not the Jews).

The storytellers share a touching detail of a man, who knows he's got limited time. And in that time, Jesus does what a lot of would do -- He leaves a legacy. In the act of sharing bread and wine, a ritual is created that does nothing less than immortalize this man called Jesus. Jesus says, "Don't forget me." And we haven't. Whether a practicing Christian or one who holds a different set of beliefs, in this culture, most have at least heard of Jesus and many are at least somewhat familiar with the notion of bread and wine symbolizing (or even being) the flesh and blood of Jesus the Christ.

None of us wants to be forgotten and none of us wants the memory of someone we love to fade away. We look for ways to leave a trace of the person who has died and gone to "God knows where." We leave grave markers, memorial plaques, gather in small or large groups to share memories. We leave autobiographies, photos, art. Our personality traits -- both good and bad -- are passed along from generation to generation. Glasses are raised, toasts are made. Bread is broken the chalice of wine is shared. We remember.

Maundy, a word that comes from the Latin mandatum, or mandate/commandment, expands the message of not forgetting an individual. Jesus' mandate to those who choose to listen: A new commandment I give unto you, that you love one another as I have loved you. That's one heck of a legacy, if you ask me. One to remember for the ages.