Seven Things

My friend Annie recently listed seven things about herself on her blog, and encouraged her blogging friends to do the same. Here are my seven things...

1. I have a few strange eating habits that even I cannot explain: I cannot finish an apple unless it is sliced. If I bite into it whole, I’ll get a few bites in and lose interest. I cannot normally finish a coke if it’s in the can—it needs to be in a glass (not a plastic cup, but a glass).
2. If my life were a movie, I’d most want it to be a musical—where everyone would spontaneously break into the same song and choreographed movements. How fun would that be?
3. Mouth noises: I can’t stand them. I actively avoid people who eat with their mouths open or talk with food in their mouths.
4. My big fear is throwing up. Although Jon dying is a close second. Okay, I’d put Jon’s death in the number one spot, but throwing up is pretty high on my list of fears.
5. The act of peeling carrots makes me happy. There is just something satisfying about shedding the dirty top layer to reveal the bright, clean orange flesh of the carrot.
6. My dreams are significantly more exciting than my life…and I often wake in the night thinking that my dreams are real, convinced that there are mice crawling on the ceiling, an old lady standing at the foot of my bed, a stranger in bed beside me, or an army of snakes crawling on me.
7. One big thing I’d like to accomplish in my life: write a really good book.

These things always happen to me

So, it's Sunday morning. I had just finished preaching at a church where I have never been before. I stand at the back door, greeting church members as they exit. I smile as they say things like, "That was a very well organized sermon" or "That was lovely." Organized and lovely--what more could I hope for?

And then a woman asks if I could email her a copy of my sermon. Of course I could! I happen to have a piece of paper in my hand that would work perfectly for her to write her email address on. So, I hand her this envelope, and she says she'll just step to the side and write it down. Great. I thought the envelope would be perfect because it was an important envelope--it contained the check they had just given me for preaching--so I knew I wouldn't misplace her address. She stepped aside to write it down. I continued to greet people.

And I never saw her again. When people ask me to describe her, I can't remember a single detail.

Grandfather

It wasn’t what I was expecting to hear when I picked up the phone and heard my dad’s voice on the other end. It was Thanksgiving weekend, and my parents and brother and sister-in-law had been celebrating together. A few phone calls had already been exchanged between us, in Canada, and them, in Boston. I thought it a little odd that my dad was calling again so soon. And when he said the words “Grandfather passed away,” I registered it the way one might register news of a war starting in a country you’ve never heard of.

It wasn’t until the next day that I began to feel an enveloping sadness. It was less than five months ago that my grandmother died. It seems too soon for that same group of people to gather at the church again and express how sorry they are.

In the midst of sadness, though, I am glad for him. I am glad that he doesn't have to live in pain and confusion any more.

O Little Toyota

Our car is almost 10 years old. It's held up pretty well...other than a few dents here and there...and a large piece of plastic molding that detached from the inside that we screwed in after crazy glue didn't work...and a new battery here and there...for the most part though, for ten years old, it's in pretty good shape.

But last week it officially crossed over into "ghetto car". We had just arrived at the theatre to see Moving Out (the musical with Billy Joel's music). Jon went to open his door...and the handle broke off in his hand. So now we have to roll down the window on the driver's side and open the door from the outside in order to get out of the car.

First Communion

About a month ago, I led communion for the first time. My first living out of the sacrament part of being ordained as a minister of Word and sacrament. Other than forgetting a key part ("this is my body, which is for you"), it went well.

We had people come forward to receive communion, and I got to hold the elements, and, over and over, say the words "The body and blood of Christ, given for you." To look into the eyes of students and co-workers as they took communion, to hear in the background people singing "Eat This Bread," to offer these gifts to both friends and strangers...it was beautiful and profoundly moving.

I don't know if this goes away over time...if after years of being in ordained ministry, offering the gift of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper becomes less powerful. I hope not. I hope that I don't lose sight of the significance of those moments.

p.s. Does anyone other than Annie read this blog?

Four Little Letters

There are days and even seasons when most of life feels a little out of whack. When my very identity feels like it its being called into question. When those things I usually consider my strengths look like nothing but inadequate scraps being offered where others offer feasts.

Four little letters seek to define me. To explain who I am. To dictate how I must behave. In the past, I have been proud to be an INFJ. But in the space in which I find myself today, those letters feel stifling and undesirable. In the past, these four letters have been a helpful label—a way to explain myself. But today I find myself reacting harshly against the idea that someone can pretend to know me based on my personality type.

The letters seem too polarizing. As if I am only one or the other. I am either an N or an S, not both. And the tyrant of “if onlys” seems to be pounding on my door. If only you were an extrovert, you’d be better at this job. If only you had more “J,” you’d get more things done. I try to ignore them, but sometimes they shout, and I give into their luring lies. But, the truth is, I am a little of them all. I have a little E in this I body, and I have lots of P in between the lines of my J to do list. I am a both/and, not an either/or, kind of girl.

In the words of Over the Rhine, my favourite group, I am “bundles of contradictions, my heart full of loose connections…it’s always the same old question, who am I? and whose invention?”

I thought I’d have a better answer to the question of who I am by now. But I find I am still just trying to figure it out.

Clay Goats

Ever since I first watched the movie Ghost, I have wanted to learn to throw pots. Finally, my dream is becoming a reality. Two weeks ago I began a pottery class. For three hours once a week I get my hands dirty as I play with clay. The first class was all that I hoped it would be. There I sat with my very own block of clay, and I formed and shaped three bowls. I am an artist.
I went to the second class a few days ago. I got out one of my bowls to paint it...and it began to crumble apart in my hands. Hmmm. So I began to paint another bowl and soon realized that there are others in the class who seem to be able to make their bowls look like something you would want to buy....while mine looks like something only a mother could love. hmmm. We moved onto our new project--making slabs and forming them into cylinder shapes. The teacher made it look so easy. So, I did as she had shown us...only instead of becoming a flat square, my clay became a lumpy, cracked blob. Hmmm. I decided that it's in the second class that we begin to separate the proverbial sheep from the goats. I think I'm a goat.
But I still love those three hours of my week. Three hours where my only concern is the shape of my clay. Three hours where no one can call me. Three hours where, even as I try to create, I don't have to produce. There can be beauty in being a goat, even if I'd rather be a sheep.

Here Comes the Storm

The summer is officially over in my life. Students have begun coming back to school. There is no longer time at work to ponder what we might do in the fall...the fall is upon us. True, it's still August, but I'm already wearing jeans and jackets. Apparently Edmonton has never heard of an Indian Summer...wait, am I allowed to say that any more? Is it now called a Native American Summer? Anyway, the weather is getting cooler, the days are getting shorter, and, most significantly, the students are on their way.

I should be panicking. Two weeks ago I was. But right now, I'm feeling pretty calm. Maybe this is what drowning feels like?

A few days after my grandmother's funeral, Jon and I made our way to Colorado, carting our very own trip tick (as new members of CAA) and reading the last Harry Potter book. The road trip was fun, but not as fun as the three days we spent in Colorado for my ordination. I hope to post some pictures here soon...but, let's be honest, the storm is on its way, so when I say soon, I likely mean in about a month or two. The ordination service was amazing. And a bit surreal. Okay, a lot surreal. And it was a beautiful reunion of some wonderful friends.

And now we are back, heading full force into the fall.

Grandmother

Last weekend I went home for my grandmother's memorial service. It wasn't an unexpected passing: cancer had been eating away at her body for months. But that doesn't make it any easier. In fact, I think because it was cancer (and not old age), I have moments of being angry, of feeling like she was stolen from us too soon. And yet, I know that she lived a wonderful 85 years and came to a point where she was ready to die. 85 sounds old, but to me, she was always young. She had a young spirit to her, a youthful smile.

I spoke at her funeral, a new experience for me. Here are a few highlights of what I said...
My grandmother was a classy lady. She always looked nice, had great taste, and was so graceful. And yet, she was also down to earth. The same woman who dined at the country club also picked up snakes in her garden. Once she saw a large snake slither down her hallway and into her bedroom closet, not to be found. When asked how she could go to sleep that night, knowing the snake was there somewhere, she responded with "I just pretend I'm camping."

The grandkids all remember riding around town with her in her little red convertible, easter egg hunts in her yard, choosing our own pumpkins from her garden, and countless Christmases and family dinners at her house.

My personal favorite memories...
She and I used to get up early when we were on vacation at the beach. Before the rest of the family woke up, we would go for walks on the beach, looking for sand dollars.

When I was 16 and learning to drive, she arrived at my house one day and had me drive her around to do her errands so that I could practice driving.

In college when I got a tattoo, she told me that she had one, too. After a month or two of me not knowing if I should believe her or not, one day she came to my house. She lifted her skirt to reveal a rose tattoo on her outer thigh. Then she said, "I showed you mine, now you show me yours." I did, and she made a few comments about how nice it was. Then, with a sly smile on her face, she said, "Mine comes off with soap and water, how are you going to get yours off?"
(I didn't tell that story at her funeral)

That's a bit of who my grandmother was.

Now I am coming to terms with the finality of death. Yes, I know that as Christians, death does not get the final word. For that, I am deeply grateful. But for now, in this world, death is final. I can't call her or send her a note. I won't see her at Christmas. I can't ask her questions about that picture of her playing pool surrounded by soldiers. I can't have her tell me the story of how she and grandfather first met. She can't teach me how to make a quilt (although she did help me start one when I was in college). I don't know if it's fully sunk in yet. At her funeral, I kept expecting to see her--her family and friends were all gathered, surely she should have been there.

Many of her friends approached me afterwards and told me that they'd heard so much about me and that she was so proud of me. I wanted to ask them to tell me everything she'd said, as if I could get one last word from her, one last message. Instead, I just smiled.

I asked my mom if it was wrong for me to think I was Grandmother's favorite, because sometimes I do. But then, I started thinking about each of my cousins, and how I've seen them each interact with her. And I could imagine them each thinking the same thing. And I guess that's another gift that she gave each of us--that feeling that we are each loved deeply and are so special to her.

This post is long, and significantly more meaningful for me than for anyone else who might read it, so I suppose I should end.

Here's to my grandmother, a woman I hope to emulate as I grow older.

Reserved Parking

Maybe you have noticed that many parking lots now not only have parking reserved for those with disabilities, but also for new or expectant parents. This is nice, although it doesn't affect me.

But, the other day I pulled into the parking lot of our neighborhood grocery store and saw a spot reserved for "Those who floss daily." I passed it by because, well, I don't. But then there was another one: "Those who eat their vegetables." And then an even better one: "Those with a sweet tooth." Finally, parking reserved for me.

The Art of Camping

In my family, there is a right way and a wrong way to do pretty much everything. And when I say "pretty much everything," I would point to the fact that in the not too distant past, I was told I cut my toast wrong. I have tried to throw off many of these stifling expectations...because, really, I don't think it really matters if I fill up the left side of the sink or the right side of the sink to wash my dishes.

But there is at least one area in which I hold on to the rules with all my might: Camping. There really are rules for camping. And, because I happened to be camping next to a number of people this past weekend who seem not to have been taught these rules, I'd like to share a few.

First, a definition. I know this one is hotly debated, and you are free to disagree. But, really, camping involves a tent (or perhaps no form of shelter). Sleeping in an RV or a trailer just isn't camping. You are welcome to sleep in such vehicles, but don't pretend that you are camping.

Now, onto the rules...

1. Respect others who are camping nearby. So, if you are in a campground, realize that there are other people also camping near you. They probably don't want to hear your favorite music all day. Actually, if they are true campers, they don't want to hear your music at all. And, really, why did you even bring your stereo to begin with? If you just want to sit in a lawn chair, listen to the radio, and drink beer...stay in your own backyard. If you can't stand to be without noise for a whole day, then maybe you're not quite ready for camping. And, really, fireworks at midnight? People are trying to sleep...or at least enjoy their own campfire. Oh, and I, personally, don't want to hear you belch as loud as you can as you're walking by my campsite.

2. If you need to drink alcohol, that's fine...just don't get drunk. Again, if you need to get wasted while you're camping, you probably just aren't ready to camp. Stay home and drink your heart out.

3. Leave your campsite cleaner than when you arrived. This includes picking up your beer bottle lids and taking that bag of dirty diapers down out of the tree.

4. Enjoy being outside. Enjoy the fire. Enjoy the food. Read good books. Have good conversations. Take a hike. Be willing to jump in the cold lake. Be helpful and friendly to those you pass in the camp ground.

There are, I'm sure, other rules--like what to use or not use when starting a fire, putting out a fire before you go to bed, and things along the lines of how to not get hypothermia or poison ivy, and how to respond to wild life--but let's just start with these 4 easy rules.

Bugged

Things that bug me...

• Paying $4.50 to try a new drink at a coffee shop and having it be seriously disgusting...and then paying another $1.50 (all that's left in my wallet) for a peppermint tea that I don't really want, because I want something hot to drink. GRRR.

• The use of the phrase "lady friend." Seriously, can we please stop using this phrase unless we are talking about people in their 70's? Especially when talking about someone in his 20's, as in "Well, now that he's got himself this lady friend..." (actual quote)...because it makes me think of leisure suits and cougars.

Funny, those are the only two things I can think of right now that bug me. Bad expensive drinks and lady friends. (And drinking bad expensive drinks with your lady friend). But apparently, they really bug me, because I just had to write about them.

I have been negligent in writing lately. Many thoughts and ideas have competed for their chance to make it onto my blog, but only when I am nowhere near my computer.

So, a few updates...

We have moved! Last Sunday we officially ended our two years of living on campus. With the help of some very generous friends (and a stranger or two), we packed up, loaded up, cleaned out, and moved in. Our new place is a cute little two bedroom house with hardwood floors and tiny closets (at least, compared to the giant space I had for clothes in our old place). There's a bit of a retro mirror in the kitchen--right in the corner of the cabinets. Jon's comment on this was: "That's convenient--I know you'll want to make sure you look good while you're making my dinner." Relax, my feminist friends, Jon does a good portion of our cooking. So far, we are enjoying our new abode. Visitors are welcome...as long as you're not a creepy internet stalker.

A recent adventure of mine was to attend a conference in Grand Rapids for a worship grant the school had received last year. It was such a refreshing and life-giving few days. One thing that really struck me was everyone's eagerness to connect with each other. Usually at these types of conferences, people are given name tags and tend to wear them for the first day. At this conference, everyone wore their name tag until the bitter end. When I'd sit down next to someone, there was instant conversation about real issues surrounding worship and ministry. Have you ever networked at a conference in your swim suit? Yeah, well, I did. The first night there was a poolside reception...which I thought would mean standing around the pool talking...oh no, it meant taking turns on the water slide! Slightly a strange experience to meet people at a conference and talk shop while you're swimming. "Hi, nice to meet you, I'm in my swim suit." It was a great conference. I came home with lots of ideas and things to think about...and lots of new books. I'll be spending the next month reading as much as I can about worship because I am teaching a course on the theology of worship this year.

Other than that, I am planning my upcoming ordination service, trying to figure out why we own so much random stuff (and why Jon has all of his bank statements dating back to 1994), and enjoying the warm weather (summer had FINALLY arrived here).

A time to move and a time to stay put

It's 9:30 p.m., though it feels more like 4 p.m. because of the summer sun that blesses us after hiding for too long all winter. I'm trying to get air moving through our apartment to compensate for our non-working a.c.

I'm also beginning to pack for our move. A move, to be honest, that I am not looking forward to. Yes, there will be some definite benefits to living off campus (like not worrying as I fall asleep about what catastrophe might show up in the middle of the night). But I really like our apartment. I like being able to just walk downstairs to work. I like the amount of space we have here. I like the view of the city, and the big windows through which we look at it. I like that weird "this used to be a hotel" feel, like having two dispensers for toilet paper and a tissue holder built into the wall by the bathroom mirror. I like the excess of cupboards in the kitchen. I like walking into the hall and seeing a bunch of students sitting on the floor talking. This has been a good place for us.

Maybe it's the not knowing what comes next that's making moving a little harder. Maybe if I knew we were moving into a cute little house with a great little yard and just enough garden space for me to grow cucumbers and tomatoes, maybe then it wouldn't feel hard to move. As it is, we are moving our stuff into storage and house sitting while we look for something else.

I tend to be a worrier (gasp, I know, you are shocked). So I worry about if we'll find something that we can afford that is big enough to fit the little bit of furniture we own, and is close enough to one of our jobs that we still will only need one car. We moved into this apartment from a tiny little basement suite in Vancouver. And when I say tiny, I mean, really, it was small...and we loved it. But since moving here we have stretched out, acquiring bits and pieces to fill our apartment...they are just bits and pieces (except for the bedroom set, which I don't think we'll ever fit into any other bedroom), but they are more than a tiny basement suite could contain.

So, I think part of why I am not looking forward to moving is because I don't know what I'm looking forward to. But I also think it's because we've been here for two years...and while that is a short amount of time, it's the longest I've stayed at one address for a long while. And I am craving stability (even while I dream about adventures, like teaching English in Thailand). I know...or, at least, I hope...that one day we will be settled somewhere. I won't have to continually send out emails letting people know our new contact information. Until then, I have to trust that in the midst of transition, God is constant.

Vacation

I just returned home after spending time in Colorado and Boston.

In Colorado I was examined and approved for ordination. The ordination service will happen in August. About 7 years ago I was sitting in a coffee shop talking to one of my friends who had been through this process. I remember him telling me that the final step was this oral examination, where they could ask you anything about theology. I remember at that point thinking "I will never do that--it sounds way too hard." And yet, here I am, having come through it. And, to be honest, it really wasn't that bad. The written exams (which I took two years ago) were intense and required lots of study. But this part, though I was nervous, wasn't crazy hard, like I'd expected it to be. In fact, through the whole process, I felt like the people involved were very supportive of me and my call to ministry.

I have another memory of being in high school, sitting on a bench in the middle of a mall with my youth pastor, who had recently moved away to go to seminary. I remember him talking about how much he loved his classes and all that he was learning. He told me he thought I would really enjoy seminary. And I remember thinking that I would never go to seminary because...it sounded too hard. But I did go to seminary. And yes, there were times when it was hard, but I loved it and have been changed by it.

So, I am wondering...is this a theme in my life? In these two cases, I ended up doing the things that, when I first thought about them, I believed were too difficult for me. But are there other things that I don't try because I don't believe I can do them? I don't want to live that way--because to live that way means to live a mediocre life. And I want to live, to drink in the deep experiences that life offers. I want to face the challenges that seem too hard. And sometimes I will fail...but I think that's okay.

I was intending to write about our trip to Boston on this post, but maybe this is enough for now.

Meant to Be

An example of why I know Jon and I are supposed to be together...

Today I was sitting in our living room when a rubber band flew past me. I looked up to see Jon running across the room where he picked up the rubber band. He ran back to the kitchen where he launched it again. I looked at him with that raised eyebrow look that says "um...what are you doing?" He replied "I'm playing elastic tag with Lance." Right. Elastic tag with Lance.

Lance is a house plant.

hmmm.

Celebrating Easter

One of the ways that we celebrated Easter this past weekend was to go to an Easter Vigil at a Catholic church. Two of our friends were being confirmed in the Catholic Church and invited us to come.

The service was on Saturday night, beginning at about 8:30 or 9:00 and lasting for about 2 or 2 1/2 hours. We began outside by a fire, then walked into the dark church. Slowly, the building filled with light as people lit their candles from the Christ candle and passed this light to those behind them. The beginning of the service in the church was then done by candlelight.
One thing I really appreciated about the service was the way they located the Easter story in the rest of the Story of God and his people. They read bits of scripture that told the Story of creation, Moses, the crossing of the Red Sea, the prophets, Jesus' death and resurrection, and the anticipation of Jesus' return. I think we often approach days like Easter as if they are isolated from the rest of the Story. It was good to be reminded that we cannot compartmentalize the Christian Story.

Not wanting to miss the celebration of the resurrection on Sunday, we also participated in an Easter service on Sunday morning. Because our congregation is small, we decided to join the congregation whose building we use. It was refreshing to be in a multi-generational worship service. True, there weren't many people our age there, but probably every other age group was represented. Sometimes I miss being connected to tradition. It was good to worship with people who have been on this journey longer than I have been. There is wisdom in being connected to people who are older that we miss in a single-generation church. It was good to sing the words written by people who went before us. There is depth in the words of hymns that I often find lacking in contemporary praise songs.

I feel blessed by our weekend of experiencing worship that crossed denominational traditions, allowed us to rub shoulders with a variety of ages, and reminded us of the rich roots we have from those who have gone before us.

How good it is to be in the Easter season!

Good Friday

Still reading Two Part Invention...
"...any God worth believing in is the God not only of the immensities of the galaxies...but also the God of love who cares about the sufferings of us human beings and is here, with us, for us, in our pain and in our joy."

And then she reflects on these words from Yeats:
But Love has pitched her mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.

"This summer is not the first time I have walked through the place of excrement and found love's mansion there. Indeed, we are more likely to find it in the place of excrement than in sterile places. God comes where there is pain and brokenness, waiting to heal, even if the healing is not the physical one we hope for....It is when things go wrong, when good things do not happen, when our prayers seem to have been lost, that God is most present."

L'Engle's words mingled with Yeats' are so appropriate for Good Friday, the day when we specifically remember Christ's death. The Incarnation. The Word become flesh. Died on a cross. How can we be surprised by Easter without being surprised that God would let his son die like a criminal?

We know that Good Friday doesn't get the final word. And so, too, our heartaches and trials don't get the final word. But that doesn't mean we can ingnore them or avoid them. They are real, just as Jesus' death was real. But in the midst of them, we might just get to glimpse more of who God is, to understand his presence in new ways, to experience an intimacy that we might otherwise miss.

God has built his mansion in the place of excrement. And that is good news.

It's Friday...but Sunday's coming.

White Chocolate Brownie Decisions

Jon and I have a tradition when we need to celebrate and/or make big decisions. We go out for dessert--usually for a white chocolate brownie--and we eat, drink tea, and talk. We talk about the future and the past. We talk about possibilities, fears, expectations, and dreams. These dessert discussions are moments of reconnection for us--moments of sharing the thoughts that haven't had space to be spoken in comings and goings of daily life. They are moments of reflection and questions, understanding and prompting. I am thankful for this tradition. I am glad we have woven it (and other such times) into the rhythm of our marriage.

Tuesday night was such an occasion. What prompted the outing is that I have been offered a new job--a job that much better suits my gifts and passions. The job is at the same school where I currently work, though it means moving out of our apartment (which is both good and bad). And so we shared a white chocolate brownie and talked through it (and many other things).

And we decided I should take the job.

The heart overrides the intellect

I am reading Two Part Invention: The Story of a Marriage by Madeleine L'Engle. It's the beautiful story of her and her husband meeting, marrying, and sharing life together for 40 years. As she writes, her husband is in the hospital battling cancer. I am about half way through the book.

As she reflects on someone else's assertion of how we understand God and how we pray in the midst of pain, she writes:

"He also writes that there are prayers that one is not allowed to pray, such as 'Please, dear God, don't let it be cancer.' Rabbi Kushner says I can't pray that way, because right now either it is cancer or it is not. But I can't live with that. I think we can pray. I think the heart overrides the intellect and insists on praying. If we don't pray according to the needs of the heart, we repress our deepest longings. Our prayers may not be rational, and we may be quite aware of that, but if we repress our needs, then those unsaid prayers will fester."

I think I agree with her. Our view of God shapes how we pray, and yet, there are moments when our hearts cry out our deepest longings, whether or not those prayers match what we claim we believe about who God is and how God acts.

I have often worried when I have prayed in public that my prayers reflect an incorrect theology. So I pray timidly in front of congregations. But why not just pour out our hearts to God? Why this guarded safety net? No, God may not answer the way we wish He would, but there are moments when we just have to free those deep cries from the control we try to keep on them.

On the other hand, there are also times--maybe after we have allowed our yearnings to be poured out to God--that we also have to pray "not my will, but yours be done."

Prayer is a journey.

And then came the snow

After my hope-filled post last night, I woke up this morning and found the ground white again, with more snow falling. Well, it was nice seeing the grass for a few days, anyway.

The lion of March

I am glad it's finally April.
April promises good things. The snow has finally melted here, and even though today felt as if the sky might still have a few flakes left to send, I think spring might just be on its way.

Holy Week has begun. A week that, like April, promises good things. But those good things don't come cheaply or easily. We only get to Resurrection Sunday by going through Good Friday. We only get to celebrate the empty tomb and the victory over death by first walking through the darkness of Holy Week. But Sunday's coming. And that gives me hope. A tired hope, a weary hope, but hope nonetheless.

March was chaotic and hectic for me. April won't be empty of resposibilities (the end of the academic year always brings a whirl of activity), but I am hopeful that it promises more moments of rest than I saw in March. So, here's to the end of March and the beginning of April! Here's to the hope of Resurrection Sunday, even during Holy Week.

Thanks for that

I still don't know what to do with the comments people offer after I speak/preach. When I hear a sermon I appreciate, I like to thank the person. But when a person thanks me for a sermon, I don't know what to say. "You're welcome," (what we normally say when someone thanks us) sounds so haughty. Any suggestions?

Glory

I am sitting in a coffee shop writing a talk for chapel. The main point is that God's glory is surprising. It's surprising because it shows up in unexpected places, like in a gentle whisper and in a shameful cross. And it's surprising because we get to be a part of it. But I think I live most of my life un-surprised when it comes to God's glory. And yet, I am a person who loves surprises.

Some Highlights from the Symposium

I've had a few days to try to digest some of what I learned at the conference...I can't say that I have completed this task--in some ways I wonder if I have even started. But, regardless, here are a few highlights...

We were "introduced" to a man named Pablo Sosa from Argentina. He led a workshop on "Just Worship" where we asked questions about how to worship in the midst of injustice. I don't know that I have any answers to those questions. I don't know if we can encounter God in worship without also becoming more aware of the depravity of our world, realizing that the gospel message is one about justice and restoration, as well as salvation. Pablo shared with us some of his music, which we also sang in worship throughout the weekend. I have rarely encountered a person so enthusiastic in his worship leading. One song, in particular, moved me to tears. He explained that there are 30,000 people missing in Argentina. He and some other people wanted to walk in protest to the person's house who has played a large role in these people disappearing, but they didn't want to stop there--they wanted to be able to walk on from there with hope. And so, he wrote a song that announces that this is the moment when those stiffled voices will cry out. Powerful music. Powerful truth. If you speak Spanish, you'll really enjoy his music. If you don't speak Spanish, no worries--he prints the English words on the cd covers, too.

Another highlight...
I went to a workshop on "Crafting prayers and other words for worship". One thing the speaker talked about was how we tend to use the same metaphors over and over for God. In so doing, we also use the same verbs. So, she made a list of other names for God in scripture and had us write prayers using those names. She was right--as we used different names for God, we also used different verbs. It makes me wonder if in our corporate worship we limit our perception of God because we limit our language. (Of course, our language is limited when it comes to God, anyway, but maybe we limit ourselves more than we need to?)

Reflections on Reflections on Worship

It's been a while since I have posted anything on this blog. I just returned from a conference on worship. Five of us went from the school at which I work. It was a wonderful time of building relationships as we learned about and discussed worship. The conference itself was overwhelming at times. Between each workshop there were tables of drinks and snacks, and I found myself grabbing a few items and shoving them in my bag, whether I was hungry or not. The workshops at time felt similar to me--as if I was grabbing everything I could, shoving it in my notebook, and then rushing off to the next offering. Don't misundertand--the workshops were, for the most part, interesting and helpful. But I did, at times, feel like a spiritual glutton. There were times when I felt that as soon as we were getting to the meat of the issue, it was time to rush off to our next course.

I attended workshops on collaboration in worship, words for worship, just worship, lament in worship, preaching in a post-modern culture, singing with children (I ended up at that one by mistake), enacted prayer, worship as spiritual formation, and multi-cultural/holistic worship. Now comes the hard work of processing all of my notes and trying to figure out where to go with the information I gleaned.

I have been reading some interesting books lately, and I hope to post my thoughts on some of them. So, if anyone is reading...stay tuned for more.

Julianne