One thing I can say about Union Theological Seminary is that it’s never boring. There are always speakers, special chapel services, rallies, and events, amplified these days by Occupy Wall Street and the Protest Chaplains group that sprung out of our student body. There are always tests and papers and books to read. People are eager, active, engaged. And you even catch occasional glimpses of people who are famous, whether they’re here filming a TV show (like Law & Order or Pan-Am), scouting locations for information (like Daniel Radcliffe did) or here to speak/attend a special event (such as Cornel West, whom I spotted speaking to the president of the seminary on Wednesday).
But every now and then, you witness something and know you really saw something special.
Tuesday morning at 10am, Dr. James Cone walked into the classroom with a huge pile of books, which he carefully arranged on the table behind him. He began his lecture on black liberation theology. Now for the uninitiated among my readers, Cone is considered the father of black liberation theology, which sees Jesus not just as redeemer but as liberator and comfort to the oppressed and suffering. It is a theology that is inextricably woven with socio-economic and political movements, as well as the lived culture – both sacred and secular.
Dr. Cone began telling his story – where he came from (Arkansas), how he found himself studying white European and American theologians and becoming disgruntled with their utter lack of contact with his daily life as a black man in the days of Jim Crow. He spoke of watching Malcolm and Martin speak their diametrically opposed yet somehow complimentary messages. He shared the pain of seeing his black brothers and sisters beaten and killed on the lynching tree, at riots. He told us how the 1967 riots woke him up and led him to begin writing a new theology:
It was the response of white churches and white theologians – they called black power activists all kinds of names. I decided then that like the prophets, I have to show some sign that I was not the same person. That event changed me. My first outburst was an article in Is Anybody Listening to Black America? called “Christianity and Black Power” – I was the ONLY black systematic theologian. I was determined to say SOMETHING about what the gospel is because all I had learned had NOTHING to do with it. *
We learned of his progression from his first book, Black Theology and Black Power (1969), through his responses to his critics, through working with other black theologians (notably Gayraud Wilmore) to define what the theology really is and how it expressed. He showed us, book by book, what he wrote, why he wrote it, and who also contributed to this field of black liberation theology.
This book is “my last word” – this is my heart. It brings together everything: who I am, what this journey has been. This is my favorite book. It doesn’t speak as much to a specific moment but rather is a culmination. It took some time to tell ’em what I think and what the Christian faith truly means (it took me 10 years to write).*
He said he could die happy, knowing he had finished this book.
And we all got it. We all understood that we had just heard the whole story – witnessed this man’s telling of the entire arc of his life’s work. While decades’ worth of students have heard this man teach and preach, watching him work through this amazing theology, we were the first class to see the entire story described, first hand, by the man himself.
James Cone has a passion for what he does – and a passion for his faith – that is awe-inspiring. To witness his telling of his story, to know we are learning from a man who has reshaped theological thought for the next generations, well… it was really something.
I feel blessed and honored.
* I transcribed his words during class – typing as fast as I could to capture every word. Any errors or misquoting are my own.
Every Monday thru Thursday at noon, Union Theological Seminary holds a chapel service – they vary wildly, with many different speakers, themes, styles, music. Thursdays always incorporate communion, however, although the flavor and presentation changes each week.
The first communion chapel I attended two weeks ago was uncomfortable for me. As I have talked about a bit here and with others, I’ve been thinking more deeply the role Jesus might play in my life and in my theology. I have grown to appreciate the model, lessons, and hope that Jesus offers… but am still quite far from calling myself a Christian, as there are some seemingly important tenets of the faith that I cannot reconcile (and which I won’t go into at this time). Suffice it to say, however, I have grown to deeply respect a true Christian faith as modeled by Carl, and many of the friends I have made on Twitter and at Union. Thus, I feel strongly about my participation in some of the sacraments – or, I should say, refusal to particpate – particularly when it comes to Communion. In my mind, it is a sacrament shared by people who believe in Jesus Christ as savior and son of God; it is precious, meaningful, an important and sacred act of the faithful. Because I do not believe those things, I don’t believe I should take part – I haven’t taken part in a Christian Communion in almost 30 years – and I respect the sacrament too much to denigrate it by my half-hearted, unbelieving participation.
So the communion chapel two weeks ago was uncomfortable, because it was clearly a sacrament for Christian believers. I understood the message – and it was not for me. It’s hard to separate being excluded from excluding myself, but it was clear that this was not a ritual for me. I decided that I would probably skip most Thursday chapels as a result.
Fast forward two weeks to this past Thursday. I went to chapel despite there being communion, because one of my professors, David Carr, was giving the message. I figured that when we got to that part of the service I’d slip out, so I sat near an aisle. Professor Carr’s message was centered around the story in Matthew about the vineyard owner who pays everyone the same wage, whether they worked 11 hours or just 1. His message was about abundance, particularly in response to the latest charges against President Obama about ‘class warfare’ when he suggests that the wealthy pay their fair share. Carr spoke of Jesus’s message in that parable, that a society is healthy when all have food, and clothing, and shelter, and even an hour’s worth of meaningful work.
A good message… a healing one… but it was in the prayer that followed that God spoke to me (I am sorry to say I don’t know who wrote it):
God of abounding, lavishing, unfair grace,
At times, your generosity challenges us, overwhelms us, and even offends us. We ask that in this moment, you would push us to love one another more deeply. We also ask that you grant us grace for ourselves in those times that we fail to love one another well. As we approach your table, where all are welcomed and none go hungry, we are reminded that there are still many situations – in our own community and in the world – in which your abundance does not seem so apparent. We now pause to offer up prayers for people and places where more of your bountiful unfairness is needed.
God of abundance, teach us how to live with open hands and open hearts, that we may tear down the barriers that divide us and contribute to the healing of the world. As we come to your table, we ask that you continue to challenge us with your unrestrained love and meet us in all of our needs. In your name we pray.
Amen.
By the time the prayer ended, I was sobbing. After the prayer, we sang Daniel Schutte’s “Table of Plenty”:
Come to the feast of heaven and earth!
Come to the table of plenty!
God will provide for all that we need,
here is the table of plenty.
O come and sit at my table
where saints and sinners are friends
I wait to welcome the lost and lonely
to share the cup of my love.
Another of my professors, Paul Knitter, presided over the Communion, and while he used many of the familiar words of the sacrament, he repeated the sentiment that this was an invitation to share of God’s abundance, to sit at God’s table. All are worthy – whether they believe or not, whether they work all day or just an hour. All comers… all hearts welcome.
God opened up the table to me, who feels unworthy and unwelcome, excluded and apart from. Me. God invited me to sit at the table.
And I could not refuse.
Still sobbing, I made my way to receive the morsel of homemade bread dipped in wine and the blessing Professor Knitter offered. I sobbed through the final song, “The Peace of the Earth Be with You”… I sobbed in the bathroom after the service ended.
It has taken me until today to begin understanding what happened – and I’m still not quite sure, but I DO know that for all my feeling “outside’ – especially in a most decidedly Christian seminary, and with a most decidedly Christian boyfriend – God said “you’re welcome too.” God doesn’t seem to care that I have doubts. God doesn’t seem to care that I’m still quite angry. God doesn’t seem to care that I feel unworthy. God has a place for me at the table. How can I refuse?
The following remarks were delivered at the Time of Remembrance and Renewal at the Round Lake Auditorium on the evening of September 11, 2011.
We gather here today, in our community, among friends and neighbors, to mark perhaps the most momentous event in our collective memory.
We gather to remember those who lost their lives, to remember those who gave their lives, to remember all who served, and to remember our own innocence lost.
But we also gather to wrap the grief and anxiety of the last ten years with love and hope.
It seems surprising in some ways, as we have grown so inured to tragedy. We have all experienced personal losses. We hear the news of lives lost in distant wars and nearby shootings. We see tragedy everywhere – especially these days as flood waters devastate our region and tear apart families. Yet we don’t often gather ten years later to remember.
So why do we gather for this one? And why is this one so hard?
I believe it is because the events of September 11, 2001, was not just a random incident or an act of nature. It was personal: a planned and targeted attack on us.
Many of us were personally touched – we lost loved ones or knew someone who did. We knew people who rushed in to help when millions were rushing out. Others know people who had gotten a late start, had a dentist’s appointment, ran into train delays, anything – anything – ANYTHING that kept them from being at the World Trade Center and the Pentagon that Tuesday morning.
In that first year, we did many things right to manage our grief. We held vigils, memorials, such as the one held in 2002 in this space; we offered our financial support, we went to help. We worked through those first trying, heartbreaking years.
But still we sit, ten years later, still knots in our stomachs and lumps in our throats when we think of the Twin Towers, and the Pentagon, and the men and women who brought down the fourth plane in Pennsylvania.
We need more room to heal our wounds, to tend our grief, to mourn our loss.
And so we gather today to wrap our arms around each other, to share memories, to consider the scary and frightening world in which we live.
Our world is scary – I don’t have to tell you all the things that frighten us now – and the many ways our fear manifests. We remember these quite easily – even more so if you travel by airplane or take a day trip across the border into Montreal…
But we are not here just to remember our fear – we are here to transform it.
It is ten years later, and we still feel raw. So how do we get to a place of renewal? That’s what I hope we can discover together today.
We who are gathered here come from many faiths, or none at all – we draw comfort from our sacred texts, our beliefs, and that moral conscience inside us that knows right from wrong, good from evil.
And our faiths vary – we are Christians and Jews, Muslims and Buddhists, theists and deists and agnostics and atheists. Those lines alone can divide us – it is easy to see the differences between beliefs and let those differences take charge. And there are lines of nationality… and race…and identity – easy ways to divide us into a comforting ‘sameness.’
In fact, it is in our ancient tribal nature to be drawn to sameness – to see the world in terms of us versus them. Us versus them was very important when we feared total destruction of our little nomadic villages. Us versus them provided protection against predators and conquering hoardes. Us versus them is comfortable. Instinctual.
But we don’t live in the ancient world anymore. We live in a global society – the world is bigger than ever. We can chat online with friends in Manitoba, Madrid, Mumbai, Melbourne… our media, communications, products, ideas, and friendships are expansive and global.
And as large as the world is, is as small as it has become. Events that happen on the other side of the world shake us – whether they be tsunamis in Indonesia, genocide in the Sudan, earthquakes in Haiti and Japan, famine in Somalia, shootings in Norway, or riots in London.
Our women and men in uniform serve around the world in wars with people we hardly know but are intimately connected with – because this world, as large as it is, has grown small.
And when the world is this small, we have to let go of some of our tribal mentality… or at the very least, open up the tribe to include everyone.
The choir sang a few minutes ago words inspired by Deuteronomy 6, verses 4-9:
we should love one another with all our hearts…
and we should care for each other,
with all our souls and our might.
Mother Teresa reminds us that we belong to one another… we are one family, one tribe.
It’s hard to remember, of course, when part of our tribe hates us with every fiber of its being… it is all too easy to remain angry and hurt. It’s easy to keep our wounds open and feel their rawness. We feel powerless to combat the evil that is seemingly more tangible than ever, making it easy to circle the wagons and hide in our pain.
But we should love one another with all our hearts.
And whether you believe in God, or gods, or no god at all, that golden rule – to do unto others as we would have them do unto us, reminds us that the acting in love – compassion – is how we heal. Meister Eckhart suggests that we may call God love; we may call God goodness, but the best name for God is compassion.
And out of compassion comes renewal.
Compassion comes when we listen to one another’s stories. When we listen to one another, not as enemies or people who are different, but as people, we hear their stories and we understand that they too hurt…and cry…and celebrate…and love.
Compassion comes when we think outside ourselves. Part of our celebration here today is a thank you to the men and women who serve on the emergency teams – fire fighters, EMTs, police. These are people who show compassion in spades – they think outside themselves and say “how can I help my neighbor”?
Compassion comes when we allow the weight of our pain to open our hearts a little bit more. Instead of our struggling to hold it closed or cry out in agony, we let our hearts be heavy… and full… and we act and speak out of that pain… we heal through our woundings.
It is through compassion that we find renewal. It is through compassion that we see love, and joy, and peace. It is through compassion that we touch the divine in ourselves and each other, what the Buddhists name when they say “namaste.”
So we go forth together today, holding each other, remembering, and loving one another with all our hearts. And while we may not always know or feel or see peace… we can always pray for peace.
Union has welcomed us, the 175th class to enter this seminary, with the theme of Stepping Stones. It is certainly fitting, as we’re all on a journey… wading into sometimes unfamiliar waters, not quite sure where we’re going to put our feet next. The Dean of Academic Affairs, Daisy Machado, talked to us about the story of Jesus walking on the water; Peter had faith enough to step out of the boat and was fine, until a storm came. Then he sank, but called out “Lord, save me.” Peter may have lost his step, but he didn’t lose his faith. He didn’t know where the next stepping stone was, but he was pretty sure there was one, and he reached out in faith in order to find it.
It’s that image that carries me, too, into seminary. In my piece on Getting to the Yes, I talked about Kierkegaard’s idea that we live life forward but understand it backward – and some of that is stepping out, seeking the next stone, not sure where it is or what it looks like. I have no idea where I’m going (woyaya!) but in faith (and with a lot of hard work) I’ll get there.
And so… all of this is but an introduction, to say that I’ll be using the category “Stepping Stones” to talk specifically about the seminary journey.
And what a journey it has been! A week in, and already my head is going to explode with all the richness and joy. Yes, I know, I’m still in those glory days… ten miles away from the muddy concert site as it were… classes don’t start until late next week. But we had an incredible week of orientation, everything crammed into fewer days because of the hurricane. Some highlights:
I met some of the most amazing people who will be on this journey with me – they are young and old, every race, every gender. Gay, straight. Christian, Jewish, other. They are still in school mode, or long out of college. They are already ministers or not sure they want to be minister. And their stories! Amazing stories of faith, hardship, struggle, and hope. Every one hearing a call to serve somehow, many – like me – unsure what form the call will take.
I met some of the most committed faculty and staff – from the facilities people to the president – all with a sense of calling, a sense of family, a sense that Union is someplace different. I know this place is special – it’s got a long history of being on the cutting edge of theological education, and situated as it is in a world class city, it’s got a special calling to be there.
I have already made some friends I feel will be with me for many years after our degrees are completed – people with whom I instantly clicked, who have a variety of experiences I can learn from. Some, like Tiara, are fellow Unitarian Universalists. Some, like Valerie, are close to my age. Some, like Clayton, are opposites in many ways but still feel like kindred spirits.
There was a delightful moment, speaking with Ruth Tonkiss Cameron, the Burke Library archivist: she shared the story of going through a professor’s papers and books – someone who taught in the first half of the last century. On the general list of contents was a note “book, Spanish”…when she got to it, she discovered it was one of the original accounts from the Spanish Inquisition. And yes, she too had that uniquely Monty Python moment: “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!”
There was a moment that moved me to tears – when, during a dinner, Dean Yvette Wilson came up to me, hugged me, and said “I am SO glad you are here – I remember fondly our conversation last fall.” She remembered some salient details from it…that conversation that convinced me that Union was where I should go. That she remembered me and welcomed me personally…wow.
There is, admittedly, some growing sense of “what the hell have I gotten myself into”… the workload will be heavy, and I do carry some fears about my ability to get through it all. And yet, I am comforted by the fact that I was chosen out of hundreds of people who applied, that something about my application made them say ‘this woman will fit in here’. I’m sure most of my fellow classmates are wondering the same thing – what have we gotten into – and yet we will be there for each other.
There are so many more moments from last week that I can’t even remember right now. Much of the week was a blur, with so much information and sharing and feeling brought into the fold. And this coming week will be filled with so much more – advisement, meeting faculty, and the opening day of classes. But I feel blessed, and happy to be on this journey. Not sure where the next stepping stone will be, but I have faith that I’ll find it – or at least be able to call out for help if I can’t.
I am in awe of the new friends I have met, who have such wisdom and insight to share.
I am in awe of the technology that allows me to connect to these new friends – to find people all over the world who have a variety of perspectives that help feed and shape my own.
I am in awe that I have been given the space to experifail – to truly step out in faith, not certain whether I will fail or succeed.
I am in awe of the natural world – the power of storms, the constancy of life, the ever-present regeneration.
I am in awe of God’s call to all of us, to be co-creators in a world we can only imagine in concert with one another.
I am in awe of God’s call to me, to take the step out in faith, to embrace my gifts, to life in fullness.
I am in awe of the expansiveness and limitlessness of divinity, of how far people can stretch toward the light when they feel deeply, think openly, act courageously.
I stand in awe today.
May I always stand in awe and wonder at the great mysteries.
Join me (with my lovely colleague Naomi King) on Wednesday, August 24 at 8pm EDT for a tweetchat on Generations in the Church – Experifailing!
Use the hashtag #genchurch to follow. I recommending using TweetChat.com to isolate and better follow the chat.
IMPORTANT: When you are chatting, please do BOTH of the following:
Use #genchurch in your tweet so it is part of the TweetChat.
Identify your generation by initial:
GI Generation – GI
Silent – S
Boomer – B
GenX – X
Millennial – M
Some background you’ll find helpful:
For the purposes of this chat, we’ll be using the Strauss & Howe/Eeman delineations for generations. Keep this chart handy for reference during the chat:
Name of Current Generation
Generational Type
Current Ages (born between)
GI
Civic
86+ (1901-1925)
Silent
Adaptive
69-85 (1925-1942)
Boomer
Idealist
51-68 (1943-1960)
GenX
Nomad
29-50 (1961-1982)
Millennial
Civic
7-28 (1983-2004)
Homeland (?)
Adaptive
up to age 6 (2005-2026?)
Some of the things we’ll talk about:
What does ‘experifail’ – failing faithfully – mean to you? Do you think your definition is generational in approach?
What are the barriers to experifailing?
How does your (personal and generational) approach to experimenting, failure, success, and new initiatives fit in your congregation/religious community?
What do you need to begin experifailing in order to affect change?
Some ground rules:
Please be kind! Generational differences can be amplified when we’re talking about generational differences.
Please stay on topic – jokes and related topics are okay, and are part of the ebb and flow of a conversation, but let’s keep it to Experifailing and Generations in the Church.
Please indicate irony, snark, rhetorical questions… sadly, we still don’t have emotive fonts!
Please remember these are public conversations.
If you have any questions before the chat, please feel free to drop me an email/comment/tweet!
One of the limits of WordPress, I have discovered, is that it hates too many iframes, and thus is unwieldy to edit. So I’ve instead put up this followup post… it includes a link to the audio from August 21, as well as the words of Rev. Linda Hoddy’s blessing.
The audio – click here to listen – picks up at beginning of my formal remarks – right after “Song of the Soul”… it includes Linda’s blessing, closing words, extinguishing the chalice, and the postlude.
Linda’s words of blessing are below:
Spirit of Life,
We give thanks for this beloved community, this congregation,
where a call to ordained ministry can be felt and nurtured.
We give thanks for the one who is now being called to deeper service, and for her Yes,
We ask your blessings for her journey, and grant our own.
May Kim continue to be attuned to things of the spirit,
open to and heedful of the subtle signs and messages by which you will guide her into
the service of humanity and a better world.
May she be accompanied by wise and gentle souls
who will help her discern and refine her ministry.
May her academic preparation be excellent.
But more importantly, may her heart and mind be continually opened to your guidance and will.
May she increasingly know the divinity present in all creation:
in nature, in work, in play, in other human beings,
and herself and her call to service.
May she never doubt her own worth as a child of God, with gifts intended for the blessing of humanity.
May ministry not only be something that she does, but may it
deepen and mingle with the roots of her being, until ministry is the very essence of who she is.
May she find joy in the sacrifice and surrender that ministry requires.
We are grateful for all that she has shared with us in these few years:
Music and theater,
Administrative skill.
Laughter and tears,
Tenacity through conflict and tumult,
Warmth, wisdom, insight and friendship.
These gifts have enhanced our life together.
And now, as we release her to greater service, we wish her well.
May she know in times of doubt and struggle, as well as in times of joy,
that our prayers are with her. We will hold her gently in our hearts, forever.
Sometimes it isn’t enough to just share the text of a sermon. Sometimes it’s important to hear the music and the other words that form the entire service. Thus (and in lieu of recordings that feature the actual musicians from my congregation), I have included links from YouTube and other mp3s. Please take the time to listen to them as you read my story of getting to the yes.
Prelude
Lighting the Chalice
Words for Gathering
by L. Annie Foerster
Come we now out of the darkness of unknowing, out of the dusk of dreaming.
Come we now from far places, from the unsolved mysteries of our beginnings.
Attend our journey!
Come we now into the twilight of awakening, into the reflection of our gathering.
Come we now toward the light that beckons, toward the oasis that summons.
Harken the gathering!
Come we now all together.
We bring, unilluminated, our dark caves of doubting, filled with the rocks of our foreboding.
We seek, unbedazzled, the clear light of understanding, born of the fires of our attending.
May the sparks of our joining kindle our resolve, brighten our spirits, reflect our love, and unshadow our days.
Come we now. Come we together.
Come we now all together to begin.
Let us begin with Amen.
I went to Girl Scout camp for the first time when I was 9 years old – which would make it the summer of ‘74. It was an amazing time – in an amazing place, up at Camp Little Notch in Fort Ann. Our counselors were young women fighting for equal rights, proudly wearing the label ‘feminist.’ Our lessons were of self-reliance, strength, and independence. Our music was a blend of traditional camp songs and new songs from the new world of women’s music – Meg Christian, Margie Adams, Holly Near, and Cris Williamson. We sang “Gentle Angry People” and “Beautiful Soul” and the “Unicorn Song” and “Song of the Soul”… mostly “Song of the Soul.” A hundred little girls singing this song at the top of their lungs, finding harmonies, not knowing how deeply this song would later resonate.
My experiences at camp – the music, the women, the lessons – were in sharp contrast to the more conservative environment of the rest of my life, which was much more enmeshed in knowledge and education – not surprising, as my father was an educator and my parents were both non-practicing Unitarians.
But as a child – with my siblings much older and long gone out of the house, and living in an isolated corner of southern Rensselaer County – I spent many long hours reading and thinking and wondering about God.
At age 12, I read a book describing meditation, and it suggested creating a picture in your mind of a place to go, a sanctuary. In my mind, I built a beautiful stone cloister – several stories high, with a beautiful courtyard in the middle, and arched windows along the inside where you could look out into the courtyard. That image – that sanctuary – has been with me ever since, and has provided a place of safety.
These are some of the earliest signposts that I remember seeing on this long journey that brings me here today. As I began preparing to tell you about my journey to the Yes, I realized that it wasn’t something that happened in a short, defined period of time, but rather a journey I’ve been on since my childhood. And that journey hasn’t been on a straight, paved, well maintained road… it has taken some concentration to stay ON the road, and it’s in the retelling here today that I can begin to map it out.
At the very center of the road – whether I recognized it at the time or not – is my spiritual path.
Through my childhood as a Unitarian in a Methodist Sunday school, and through my young adulthood immersed in a full gospel Pentecostal community, and long afterward, even into my agnostic phase, I still talked to God. I thought of myself as “spiritual but not religious” and felt I had a pretty decent relationship with the Divine. I found a place of expression in the pagan community, and I liked the connection to the earth and the ancient mythologies. But as connected as I was to the ideas and the people, I grew further and further disconnected from God.
And then I lost my partner to a needless death.
And then I had a major financial crisis.
And then I had a nervous breakdown.
And then a pedestrian ran in front of my moving car and was killed.
And then my back went out and I required several surgeries.
And then my mother passed away.
At every turn, God was missing. I continued to talk ABOUT God, and to help others find their voice and nurture their spirits. But I was angry. And hurt. And lonely. And I had long since stopped talking to God. I was certain – absolutely certain – that I was God’s punching bag.
Linda Hoddy talks about the time after her brother’s death, arguing with “the god in whom she did not believe”. I don’t know that I ever stopped believing in a god of some form, but I know that I got tired of arguing, and declared a schism. I decided Nietzsche was wrong: that which does not kill us does NOT make us stronger, it makes us angrier. I needed to be away from that conflict. God didn’t like me, so I didn’t like God.
And I felt even lonelier.
The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard said that “Life is to be understood backwards, but it is lived forwards.” I’m not sure of the source now, but in one of his books, Kierkegaard expanded on this idea: he said that we are all walking toward the light of God, but that because it is blinding, we walk backward. We look at where we have been, and gently nudge others so as not to trip on a root and avoid the rocks, all the while feeling gentle nudges from behind us making sure we don’t trip or stumble.
I like this idea – I like the idea that we’re all on a journey, that we see in retrospect the lessons and messages we encounter. David Roche, in his book The Church of 80% Sincerity, calls it the Principle of Delayed Understanding.
But whatever you call it, it is only in looking back that I can understand the messages that God, and my fellow travelers, had been sending. In preparing for today, I have remembered many friends from former covens, guilds, and congregations – hundreds of moments that have led me to this place. But of course it wasn’t until recently that I realized that they WERE messages.
Looking back, I see hints I left for myself, in journals, in letters, and in sermons. I look back at my talks on waiting, and faith, and being open to possibilities, and I now can see that while I was sharing some ideas that I hoped would help you, I was also leaving myself messages about my relationship with God and a possible future path.
Looking back, I recognize the metaphors – from the idea that my life was a tapestry, waiting to be woven so others could see the story, or that I was a wounded healer, telling the stories of my own woundings in order to help others heal.
Looking back, I understand the dreams I dreamed in significant places – at a women’s spirituality retreat in San Francisco, at my first UU Musician’s conference in Denver, and a notable one, in upper Michigan on Midsummer. I dreamed of being in a spa of some sort, where I was being nurtured and pampered. As my nails were being manicured and my feet being rubbed – I told you it was a dream – a handsome man came behind me as though to kiss me on the cheek, but instead whispered in my ear “not yet.”
Looking back, I learned that some messages came via Eeman’s Law, which states that half of life is figuring out what NOT to do. In my case, I had some false starts, seeking some greater way to serve, which never panned out. In the late 90s, I had an opportunity to take an intensive priestess training, but somehow the money never appeared. In 2006, I began the program to achieve a Credential in Music Leadership through the UUA, but this was cut short because of my back. About a year ago, I pursued some positions within the UUA – none of which panned out.
Now of course, in my state of schism, I saw each of these failures as further proof that God was not on my side.
But something happened in the spring of 2009. I met a former Lutheran minister who would later become my boyfriend. In our conversations, I told Carl about my schism with God, and he brought up the book of Job. Now I’ve heard all about Job, how God tests him by causing all manner of tragedy. I was pretty unimpressed – ‘cause if people aren’t quoting Nietzsche, they’re talking Job, as though they think that’ll help.
Hah.
But Carl brought up something I had not heard before. “After all of the tragedy in the first three chapters,” he said, “Job spends the next 39 complaining to God. Loudly. Forcefully.” Hmmm. “It’s okay to complain,” he continued. “In fact, it’s what you are supposed to do.”
Now this is something I’d not considered before. So, I started complaining. I began to argue, and yell, and list in painstaking detail the many grievances I had.
But it was not until later that summer that I got the feeling that God was talking back. Carl and I were driving through New England, and while I navigated the rolling turns of Route 7, Carl viewed the beauty of the Green Mountains through his eyelids. In the quiet, I began humming some of my favorite spirituals: “Over My Head, I hear music in the air” … “there is more love somewhere.” I got to a piece from our teal hymnal, called “Comfort Me.” Now the way Mary Neumann wrote the song, the third verse goes “speak for me, speak for me oh my soul.” But that day, I began to sing “speak TO me”…. And God said “I have been. I never stopped.”
Yeah, okay, I know many of you are skeptical of spiritual experiences, or of God, but I have no other way to describe it except ‘God said.’
And God said, “I never stopped talking to you. You are the one who stopped.’ And so I asked her, “I haven’t heard you. How have you been speaking to me?”
The answer came immediately, as the napping Carl let out a loud, forceful snore.
Which made me realize that God had been speaking to me, through the divinity in each of us. Through the long conversations with Carl, and Linda Hoddy, and Brent Wilkes, and Nikki Ferguson, and Aaron Broadwell, and others… through the poetry and music that has made me weep from their beauty… through the many quotations from books and movies that I’ve collected… through the little moments of grace I’ve witnessed and been blessed with. All of them, messages from the Divine, all of them hoping that in the spirit of Kierkegaard, I would recognize them in retrospect.
Looking back on the road I traveled, with its broken pavement when there’s been pavement at all, with its twists and turns and steep hills and narrow bridges, I realize that the long and winding road has led me to the door of ministry.
And its road signs all say “Yes.”
“Yes” echoed first during a service where I served as worship associate. Linda asked me to read a poem by Edward Hays as the meditation. The poem, about being open to the divine, is based on a Sufi saying that reads “don’t invite an elephant trainer into your living room unless you have room for an elephant.” As I read the poem, in front of you all, I heard “yes” so loudly that I barely got through the reading.
“Yes” echoed when Linda invited me to join the Wellspring spiritual deepening group, although I believe I only expressed my interest in passing. And, “yes” echoed over and over again during the year of sessions with other seekers on the journey.
“Yes” echoed in the words of Jim Mihuta, who told me I had a knack for saying the right thing at the right time… in the words of Joe and Sally Russo, who said they never wanted to miss a chance to hear me speak… in the words of Barbara Freund, who said I had the kind of presence, even just singing in the choir, that suggested I should become a minister… in the words of Ashley Friedman, who said she remembered my 80% sermon and that it still resonates with her as she makes her way through her first years at college.
“Yes” echoed the day I went to visit Union Theological Seminary in NYC…. I walked into a large stone building, and after our little tour group gathered, our guide took us into the courtyard. It was the courtyard of my sanctuary… the same arched windows, the same shape, same stone. “Yes” reverberated through the place as I enjoyed an informative tour, an amazing lecture, and a wild and welcoming service led by the Queer Caucus.
“Yes” echoed the evening I ended my meditation with a sudden need to flip through an old Methodist hymnal I own. I opened the book and began singing the hymn in front of me… Open my eyes that I may see…
“Yes” resounded in the song that I had known since my youth, a song I have sung over and over again as the introduction to “Song of the Soul.” “Yes” further echoed as I read the third verse:
Open my mouth, and let me bear,
Gladly the warm truth everywhere;
Open my heart and let me prepare
Love with Thy children thus to share.
And finally, “Yes” echoed in early January, when I awoke from a dream… in which a handsome man hugged me and whispered in my ear “now.”
At that final “yes,” I completed my application, and Linda and Murray Penney were among those who wrote recommendations for me. They must have said some nice things, for in April, I was accepted.
I’m five days away from orientation now… five days away from setting foot on this new road – most assuredly, as Robert Frost puts it, “the one less traveled by.” Not surprisingly, I keep finding myself singing “Woyaya”… we are going, heaven knows where we are going, but we know we will…” and I invite you to stand as you are able and join me in singing it now.
The road isn’t completely uncharted, however, and yes, I already know there will be bumps and rocks and uneven pavement just as on the road I’ve already traveled. But I do have some sense of where I want my ministry to go. I joke with Linda that I am keeping a list of reasons not to go into congregational ministry… but I think, at this point, my path is heading in other directions. On the other hand, as the rabbis in the Talmud say: “Do you want to make God laugh? Tell him YOUR plans for the future.” So who knows? I do know that there are some fascinating things happening in our denomination – a resurgence of universalism, a call to spiritual deepening, a sense that now that we’ve reached our 50 year mark, it’s time we figure out who we are now and where we are going.
I feel called to share our religion with a world that I think is absolutely ACHING for a meaningful, active, useful, nurturing faith such as ours. I believe I’m called to help people nurture their souls – to help more people find a home in what our president Reverend Peter Morales calls “a religion for our time.” I am inspired by his words, and those of Scott Alexander…and Kaaren Anderson… and William Shultz… and Deane Perkins…and many more Unitarian Universalists of vision. Their words are calling all of us to make a better world through our faith and actions.
And I know there’s so much to understand, to explore, and to share. My gifts in music and theatre… along with my desire to know and to heal… seem to make for a potent combination in ministry. Will I work with congregations, clusters, and districts? Write and lecture? Do community ministry? Or land in a congregation after all? I don’t know… as my friend Alan Rudnick says, “when working in the business of faith, faith is needed.” I do know that I once I began hearing “yes,” I could not say no… and the continued yesses from friends and acquaintances and newfound colleagues tells me others may be interested in what I may eventually have to say.
As I enter Union – a place brimming with diversity of race, gender, religion, age, talent, and ability – I bring with me the experience I have with love, community, and support that I have found here, from you.
This congregation – you together and individually – you have listened to me and watched me grow. You have nurtured and comforted me through some difficult times, providing not just emotional support, but rides, and meals, and help when I needed it.
When I came here in October of 2004, I was emotionally shattered, in need of spirit, connection, comfort, and community. And you provided – in spades. I never felt so welcomed in all my life; through the many congregations I’ve been part of, I never felt home before. I often find myself thinking of a song from The Wiz, which begins “when I think of home, I think of a place where there’s love overflowing.” This place – this group of people who love each other and work together and drive each other nuts– this place is home.
And yes, I feel a little like the bird being pushed out of the nest… or the teenager being shipped off to college. And I will be back many Sundays, but only as a congregant, sitting in the pews, maybe singing on occasion. And of course, my role here will change… I won’t be doing chores anymore, but I will be bringing home my dirty laundry and looking for a good hot meal. What I bring of you to Union is far greater than what I’ll bring home. And even at school, I will have some of you with me, as member Nan Asher has graciously allowed me to stay in her home in Queens, which helps me extend an already very tight budget. But most of all, what I bring is the knowledge that where there is room for growth, space for possibilities, a firm foundation of love and respect, anything IS possible.
A conversation on Twitter just reminded me of the hymn “It Is Well With My Soul”… and I remembered that I rewrote the lyrics a couple of years ago.
We had held a “check your theology at the door” hymn sing at the church, and we had a blast singing “Just As I Am” and “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”…songs of our pasts, which stir up our souls in old and sometimes meaningfulways. We sang and told stories and laughed and cried that night… blessed to share this with each other.
“It Is Well” was my trigger. THe words spoke deeply to me – to a point. Theoriginal lyrics by Horace Spafford are deeply tied to ‘washed in the blood” theology, and I found someof them to be too out of line with what I believe. And yet the song moved me. My minister, Linda Hoddy, suggested I rewrite the lyrics, which I did. Our music director, Michael Harrison, arranged the song for a quartet, and we sang it the first time at a service on Faith, Hope, and Charity.
For some of us, the fear is about rejection. For others, it’s about embarassment. Others fear that failing means they have let someone down – and sometimes that person is long deceased. Still others struggle so hard that they don’t feel there’s any wiggle room for failure. And in this internet culture, we fear that someone will put our mistakes on FailBlog, stamped indelibly with the word “FAIL” – or worse, “EPIC FAIL.”
And it’s even worse when we’re talking about failing not just on our own, but on behalf or with a group of people… a congregation, for instance. Oh, the things we risk if we fail! We will lose members. Our pledges will be smaller. Our volunteers will quit.
And yet we fail all the time – students don’t pass exams. Suitors get rejected. A member decides we aren’t fulfilling his spiritual needs. Only three people show up to a fellowship event. We don’t raise enough money. As a result, we have let people down, including ourselves. And we even seem to have lost the gradations; things are no longer moderate or limited successes – everything is pass/fail.
It sounds pretty depressing, and certainly unsuccessful. So why are we celebrating this experifail/failing faithfully business?
“Experifail” was first coined during a TweetChat about the Faith Formation 2020 report… we were talking about some new approaches in our congregations, and someone remarked that there was a good chance a particular initiative might fail.
That’s when Rev. Phillip Lund spoke up and said we should experiment anyway… we should be willing to “experifail” (he also offered faileriment, but that wasn’t as graceful, nor do I think it conveys the same meaning – “faileriment” puts the failure up front, whereas “experifail” puts the experimentation first).
Needless to say, the idea stuck, and it reappeared in a chat about Generational dynamics in our congregations – again, the question came up about trying some new things, and we agreed that we needed to find the courage to risk.
And that’s all experifail is about: being willing to, and strong enough, to take some risks. To experiment, knowing that the result is not a sure thing, being willing to own the failures and learn from them, and not letting the failures keep us from trying again.
Experifail can be scary – the “what if” list grows longer and longer the more you risk. But experifail carries with it a vitally important element: Faith. Experifail isn’t just charging ahead and trying something risky. Experifail is stepping out in faith, knowing that we’re putting our best selves forward, doing what we believe to be the next right thing. Experifail also has room for success – when we’re willing to fail, we are less likely to second guess…and thus we might actually succeed.
We can employ experifail in our personal lives and in our congregations. There are so many things we can do, if we are willing to take the Risk that it’ll fail. This is when the costs/benefits analysis should be set aside…maybe you WILL lose something… but what you may learn will be worth much more than what you lost. And, maybe you’ll win too.
Shamless Promotion
Now I put this under the Generational Theory heading because Experifail is the topic for our next #GenChurch TweetChat on August 26th. (8pm EDT) As Rev. Naomi King and I were discussing the topic for the chat, she pointed out that in order to better deal with generational transitions in leadership, worship, fellowship, education, and faith formation, we need to be willing to experifail – and prepare our congregations for some faithful failing. I’m going to think (and consult my friendly, neighborhood generational expert) about what barriers and support we might get from the different generations as we approach some of these shifts… and hopfully have some ideas to share when we chat again.
Or I might not. I could walk into the chat the very model of experifail!
Tuesday morning at 10am, Dr. James Cone walked into the classroom with a huge pile of books, which he carefully arranged on the table behind him. He began his lecture on black liberation theology. Now for the uninitiated among my readers, Cone is considered the father of black liberation theology, which sees Jesus not just as redeemer but as liberator and comfort to the oppressed and suffering. It is a theology that is inextricably woven with socio-economic and political movements, as well as the lived culture – both sacred and secular.
THE ART OF MEANING 