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“Take this bread, broken as my body is broken…eat this, in remembrance of me…”

Eat this, in remembrance of Jesus, a teacher, a pastor, a radical, a beloved son whose body was broken by a system that could not bear his truths.

Eat this, in remembrance of Sharon, the coworker whose body was broken one too many times by a violent spouse.

Eat this, in remembrance of Michael, the homeless Desert Storm vet whose body was broken when his staggering body hit the hood of my car, rolled over the roof, and crashed onto the pavement.

Eat this, in remembrance of Tricia, the beloved woman who shared my life and whose body was broken by the ravages of drug addiction, shame, and struggle.

Eat this, in remembrance of Rick, a fellow thespian whose body was broken by the HIV virus before he could create his dramatic masterpiece.

Eat this, in remembrance of my self, whose soul has been broken by grief, and trauma, and depression, and heartache – but whose body still has power and presence and the ability to help the least of these.

 

“This wine is my blood, my life poured out … drink this, in remembrance of me…”

Drink this, in remembrance of Jesus, whose blood drained from his body as he hung on the cross.

Drink this, in remembrance of Sharon, whose blood gathered in bruises that betrayed her best efforts to hide the abuse.

Drink this, in remembrance of Michael, whose blood stained the asphalt as his life left him..

Drink this, in remembrance of Tricia, whose blood was arrested in her body and could no longer pump through her heart.

Drink this, in remembrance of Rick, whose blood was overtaken by a virus that was – at the time – a death sentence.

Drink this, in remembrance of my self, whose blood courses still through my veins, a reminder that my life is called to love and protect and nurture and fight for those who cannot and could not…

 

Amen.

 

 

 

 

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This past Sunday, Unitarian Universalist congregations all over the country celebrated Ingathering/Homecoming. It’s a old tradition from when our elite Boston forebears closed their doors for the summer in favor of cottages on the Cape. But while almost all of our congregations are year round now, we still take the time to welcome everyone back from their summer adventures and officially begin the church year.

watercommunion

The rituals vary (although water is an extremely common element), but there is a sense that on this first Sunday after Labor Day, we start a cycle. It’s akin to the cycle of the school year – whether classes start in August or September, there is something about that cycle – even for adults without school-aged children. And I don’t think it’s just a calendar thing either; I think that when we live our lives according to certain yearly cycles, it affects our thinking, or emotions, and our spiritual practices.

This is on my mind not because I headed to an Ingathering on Sunday, but because I did not. In Key West, many of our congregants are still away: September is generally the slowest month here despite school being in session because many of our congregants are snowbirds or simply have cooler places to go in these dog days of summer. It’s not until later in the fall that things pick up, and it’s not until January that all our snowbirds have arrived.

This is odd for me. Not only am I not starting a school year for the first time in several years, I am not attending any Ingatherings right now. My body says it’s time to start and is looking for a ritual – any ritual. My head is full of songs like Jason Shelton’s “Holy Waters” and Dvořák’s “Going Home” and I can’t help but pause at watery songs as I peruse the hymnals for next week’s singing. My heart is a little sad watching ministerial friends prepare for their Ingatherings and describe the beautiful celebrations they witnessed. And my spirit is feeling out of phase.

Sunday was still a wonderful day at One Island Family – don’t get me wrong. Randy preached a terrific sermon on personal worship and individual altars, and one of our colleagues visiting from the mainland joined us in the pews. I was engaged and enriched.

And when we sang our final hymn, “Blue Boat Home,” all of the things my body, mind, and soul were missing – which I had pushed down in order to be present to our day’s worship – came bubbling to the surface in the form of tears. I had my own private water communion as I felt a deep longing for this deeply-embedded ritual.

I first wrote these ideas down in the form of a Year of Jubilee post on Facebook, but the idea kept haunting me through the afternoon, evening, and into this morning. Why was missing this one yearly ritual so important to me? Why can’t I get it out of my mind?

And then I thought about my mother.

My mother did not want a fuss at her death. She didn’t want a memorial service, a graveside service, nothing. She wanted us to go to dinner and enjoy each other’s company. And she wanted her wedding ring looped into my father’s and buried in the spot waiting for her next to Dad. That was it. And so, when she died in the fall of 2007, that is all the marking we did. Dinner at a nice restaurant a few days after she died, then the general busyness of paperwork, clearing her things, moving on with our lives.

It wasn’t until the next spring, when the ground was soft again, that we went up to the cemetery where Dad is buried, to bury the rings. I don’t know what anyone else was thinking that day; we all trudged up the mountain and up the hill to the spot – my brother and nephew pulled out some tools to dig a hole, which proved difficult, as the soil is very rocky. There was general chatter and conversation. But I was overwhelmed with grief, realizing that Mom’s request had actually robbed us of an important moment in the cycle of life: an organized container for mourning and remembrance, a marker for our grief. I sobbed a bit, and my step-nephew held me. In the silence of my quiet tears I thought a prayer of remembrance, and I think I internally quoted the Christina Rossetti poem. The rest of my family may – or may not – have understood that moment, but it was the moment I needed in the cycle.

 

We live our lives in cycles – the cycle a lifetime, the cycle of a year. When we don’t mark the moments of our cycles with rituals, celebrations, and memorials, we lose track. We need these markers to help us make sense of our lives.

Now I don’t know if Randy instinctively knew at least one of us would need some connection to Ingathering yesterday, but ending with “Blue Boat Home” helped me, at least for a moment, connect to the cycle of the year that means so much to me. May we always find ways to mark our lives and feel connected to ourselves and each other and we move through our days. 

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On Sunday morning, someone in one of my Facebook groups exclaimed the awesomeness of “so many pics of red shoes” in her newsfeed. I then looked through mine; no red shoes and no other mention of them. So I went back to the group and asked what it was about, and I got a one-word response: “PENTECOST!!!”

And I was still baffled.

The respondent had to show me the liturgical colors explanation from the United Church of Christ for me to even come close to understanding that not only is red the color of this Christian holy day, but that women (and maybe men too?) wear red shoes. I’m still not sure I get the shoe thing…but what I do know is that I felt out of the loop.

It feels strange to not understand Christian practices, as someone who grew up in late 20th century America. It’s one thing to not understand Muslim practices, or Hindu practices, for example, as I didn’t grow up in communities where those religions surrounded me. But I know – or thought I knew – at least the basics of Christianity. In order to get a good religious education in a town too far from a Unitarian Universalist congregation, our folks sent us to the local Methodist church. Studies of English and American history and literature requires a knowledge of Christianity. And heck, our own denomination springs from two Christian denominations.

So why don’t I understand red shoes on Pentecost? Or why Protestants get all into the Lent/Holy week thing, when they didn’t when I was a kid? Or any number of other things that everyone else seems to know and considers basic, but I don’t?

I feel out of the loop – but also that I’m missing something. Other people are off singing and dancing in their new red shoes, and I’m sitting here surrounded by flower communions and final services and just random everyday UU services, filled with people who have no clue this is a special day in the religion from whence we sprang.

And honestly, it makes me sad. Not because I think we should be like other Christians – one look at Channing’s Baltimore Sermon scratches that off the list. And not  because we should adopt the Christian liturgical calendar and do all the things they do. We have too many other sources whose wisdom and traditions we also want to celebrate.

But are we missing something by only celebrating our Christian sources on Easter and Christmas? Or are we honoring what we have become? Is it really okay that we have our own liturgical calendar, with special holy days that are just ours (flower communion, ingathering, etc.) with just hints of Christian, Jewish, Muslim, pagan, and other holy days? Is it okay to feel out of the loop?

I admit to feeling a bit heartsick that I don’t have a tradition of wearing red shoes on Pentecost or feeling the agony and ecstasy of Holy Week, or observing the fullness of Passover, or marking all the sabbats with glorious circles and spiral dances.

And so I sit, longing for a kind of belonging I will never have as long as Unitarian Universalism is what makes my heart sing. It’s not a bad thing… just something to ponder.

 

 

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As a Unitarian Universalist, “Holy Week” doesn’t hold anywhere near the significance, meaning, or panic as it does for my Christian colleagues. In many of our congregations, a Seder may be held, but otherwise our only big event is an Easter service largely centered around the metaphor of resurrection and its placement during spring and fertility festivals. A few of our congregations are primarily Christian and do other services, but the majority are much more mixed, and thus much less focus is on the many stops along the way of Holy Week.

Normally – and even last year – Holy Week goes largely unnoticed. However, this year, I have watched from a distance the confluence of events. It began for me a few weeks ago when I preached at a Presbyterian church, using the text from John 12:1-8, where Mary washes Jesus’ feet with the expensive perfumes, presumably foreshadowing Jesus’ death. This text made me acutely aware of the ritual time of the season leading up to Easter, and that it’s carefully mapped out so that the entire story, including the Passion, is told in a particular pattern, in time that is both ritual time but aligned with ordinary/calendar time.

I then preached on Palm Sunday; while I didn’t preach anything about the Christian story (I spoke about grounding, using the spring equinox as my jumping-off point), I was aware too that the next night I would attend a Seder for the first night of Passover, knowing that it was a Passover meal that Christians call the “last supper”… and while Passover and Easter were originally separated for somewhat negative reasons, the consequence of ritual time lends itself to a deeper understanding of that part of the Easter story.

And now it’s the final weekend of Holy Week, this time out of time, but strangely in time. The commemoration of the events as told in the Gospels takes Christians out of time and into a long ritual time; from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, Christians essentially hold open sacred space. Yet the days described in the Gospels are the same length as our days, and thus it’s possible to mark the last 40 days of Jesus’ life in actual days, as opposed to a two-hour film.

I find myself in a space of curiosity; twice in my life I’ve held sacred space open for a long stretch of days when doing deep healing work, and it’s both amazing and difficult. It requires focus and intentional action. That Christians who are serious about this time hold this space open every year is remarkable; it inspires a sense of devotion to faith that I admire. And I think it’s something my tradition may be missing. For all its openness and expansiveness, I think we occasionally miss deepening in our eagerness to be spiritual squirrels. It makes me want to instill some sense of longer ritual time for deepening our faith practices. I don’t know what that looks like yet… I think some space was held open during the year I participated in a Wellspring group. But I think we have an opportunity to shape and develop our own “time out of time, in time” to commemorate, honor, and celebrate things that are important to Unitarian Universalists.

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Today, on this national day of Thanksgiving, I am especially thankful for

  • My nephew Tom’s continuing recovery and his now home with the ‘rents.
  • The many hours in the kitchen with Mom learning her methods and recipes – they keep her with me.
  • A growing and focusing sense of purpose.
  • My crazy, devoted, outrageous, loving family – even when we’re separated by miles (or in this case, a terrible infection that has Sandy and I doing Thanksgiving dinner on our own today).
  • Antibiotics (see above).
  • Deep friendships – that hang on despite long gaps between conversations (and as an ancillary, thank God for Facebook, so that those friends are still connected somehow).
  • Pumpkin pie – well, all pie, really. I mean, who doesn’t like pie?
  • Room for the sorrows of the day too – both personal and national. I miss Mom and Dad, as well as friends who have passed… but I am also sad that our European ancestors had no regard for the cultures and peoples they encountered when they landed here.
  • My brilliant, shiny, compassionate, and earnest colleagues at Union Theological Seminary.
  • Laughter; especially at this (h/t Erik Wikstrom): http://youtu.be/lf3mgmEdfwg
  • Music. Always music.
  • The soft, snoring kitty next to me (and the one sacked out on my bed).
  • I and those I love are safe, warm, and dry. And sorrow that is it not so for everyone, when it is in our capacity to make it true for all.
  • My faith. And yours. Many beliefs enrich our world.
  • Challenges – physical, mental, spiritual, emotional.
  • The many teachers in my life – professional and unintentional
  • Memories – even the bad ones.
  • Books.
  • Middle age – I’m old enough to know better but still young enough to do something about it. (Although I’d like a little less of this aching and creaking, thanks.)
  • Opportunities, some of which I know I get because of my place of privilege (white, middle class, American), some of which I have fought tooth and nail for, some of which have been simply gifts of grace.
  • The inspiration of fellow Unitarian Universalists – you keep me focused and hopeful.
  • Peace.
  • Joy.
  • Love.

 

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all.

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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?