Egypt, the Pyramid,me, and the Kindness of Strangers

Egypt. Land of tombs and pyramids and Tutankhamen. The place where Joseph was sold into slavery, where he became a very important person, where the Israelites were eventually all enslaved, and from which the Exodus began. The place that sheltered the Holy Family when they fled from Herod.

A place of history. A place that contains the only remaining structure of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. A place, clearly, that ONE SHOULD SEE.

So we went, my husband and I, to Egypt.

And we went to the Wonder, the Great Pyramid of Giza. Having seen photos of it all my life, I expected a drive to the desert, and a sighting that would leave a lasting impression.

Got that. The drive, though, is through the streets of Giza (now a part of Cairo). As our driver goes down the ramp to the freeway, I am startled to see a donkey cart entering with us. This is my first, and lasting, impression of the contradictions that define Egypt.

"Look, the pyramid" our driver, Mohammed5 (I started the trip trying to keep the Mohammeds that I met straight in my mind. However, a number system became necessary. I even thought about a spreadsheet)

Yes. There it was. Across the Street. From the Pizza Hut. One side of the street filled with fast food, small stores, tourist places, reminiscent of New York streets around Times Square. The other side, the Great Pyramid.

It was lunchtime, and I thought that looking at the Wonder of the Ancient World standing with a slice in the Pizza Hut was just, somehow, wrong. So we went to a large hotel, and asked for a pyramid view table, and a lunch that consisted of local specialties. It seemed a bit more respectful.

After we walked over to the Great Pyramid, where, we were told, we could ACTUALLY GO INSIDE. We could climb through the passage that led to the burial chamber.

Now, we all have our fears and phobias. Mine is a fear of dark, small, enclosed spaces. Like, probably, the inside of a pyramid.

But would I ever have this chance again? Would I ever be in Egypt again? Would I ever have the opportunity to experience the inside of a Wonder? Could I face my fears and overcome them, for this once -in -a -lifetime adventure? I took a deep breath; of course I could. There was a whole line of tourists entering. If they could do it, I could do it.

And, besides, the ticket seller assured me that I could go in "just a little way" and I could always turn back. Upon that assurance, I went in. You could stand, though the walls were close. And then they narrowed. And the tunnel began to slope. And the ceiling became lower. I was in the midst of a line of people, all bent over, all walking in the same direction, with no room to turn around, and no line of retreat. It kept getting smaller. Soon, we were duck-walking. My heart was beating faster and faster. My breathing became shorter, more labored. I could feel the panic just surging up all through my body.

"What's ahead?" I kept asking my husband, "More of the same" was the reply, until finally he said, "There is a platform. and it looks like its smaller- after that-probably hands and knees". That was when the panic won. "I don't think I can do that". Well, actually, what I said was more like a scream--"I Can't Do That!!"

"It's OK" he said--"I can see that there is a place to cross over to the going down route. Do you want to try that?"

OF COURSE I WANT TO DO THAT. But, I ask myself, do I let my fears control me? Especially irrational fears? Clearly, people do this all day, every day, and they are fine. I should be able to do that. I. Am. Not. A. Quitter.

And so I go on. My heart is pounding, I am bathed in sweat, every basic instinct in me says "Flee this place". The last part is sheer hell. And then, we get to the burial chamber, almost at the top of the Pyramid. I have made it! And what is there? An empty room!! A smallish, totally empty space. For this, I climbed on my hands and knees in a dark, horrible, scary place? Not worth it. Definitely, not worth it.

A group of young Americans about to descend notice my quivering, shaking form, and ask if I want to descend with them. Yes. I do. Definitely. "Come on, some of us will go in front of you, and some of us behind you, and we will all help you down"

And they did. A young woman at the head of the group would call back, encouragingly--"It's beginning to widen" "I can see the platform" "It's just a little ways now" and then, not so encouraging,"Oh, I was wrong, It's further than I thought" I keep fighting the panic that wanted me to shove everyone out of my way, trample over their prone bodies, and escape. I can feel the young man behind me put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, even though I startle at every touch. There are frequent inquiries "Are you doing okay?" "Do you want some of our water?" and comments "You are doing great, now". Finally, we reach the area where we can stand. "Do you want to rest?" No, no, no!! Are you people crazy? Stay in here a second longer than necessary? I need to escape ASAP!!I think, but I force myself to say, "No, thank you, let's just go on". Finally, I see the light at the end of the tunnel. Either I am dead, or we are close to the exit. And then we are out. In the sunlight. In open space. "Thank God," I say. And then I thank that great group of young people who understood the terror of a middle aged woman who tried to face down her fears, and failed.

And I think that, by thanking the young people, I am indeed thanking God--who does not necessarily show up erasing our fears, or miraculously removing their cause, but in the hearts and compassion of others. In the kindness of strangers.

So--Easter, it's over. We had two Sunday services. Lots of people. Our regular visitors, some with extended family, some "Easter and Christmas" worshippers, and quite a few out of towners. (being located a block from the beach, within walking distance of most of the big Santa Monica hotels, makes us readily accessible to tourists).

Our coffee hour food was ramped up a bit--bagels and croissants, yogurt fruit parfaits joined our normal cheese, crackers and cakes. Oh, and there were the 200 cupcakes provided by our women's group, the Vawters' Daughters. (It occurs to me that I should post something about the Vawters", but that's a long, and completely different story!) We hand decorated the cupcakes, and they pretty much disappeared, except for the few that somehow were a sickly green or purple icing, more reminiscent of things grown old than of Easter eggs and joy.

The Easter Egg hunts after each service went well. Separating the toddlers from the bigger kids prevented mayhem, tears, and possible bodily injury. They were all able to trade the tickets in their eggs for "prizes" that were chosen more for their attraction for children than for theological relevance. The girls chose tiaras, rings, stuffed animals. The boys were a more, well, in a word, boys in their tastes.

Dr. Wood gave an enthusiastic sermon, highlighted by an aria from Bach's St. John's Passion , and even our rock and roll contemporary crowd appreciated the soloist's beautiful voice.

Later, one member of the congregation said "The minister said hell in the sermon, the acclimation Christ is Risen was greeted in the contemporary service by various responses, including Rock on, Dude, and the kids went home with whoopie cushions. My kind of church!"

Of course, the Traditional Service was filled with the liturgy, the organ, the hymns, and wonderful choral offerings. The traditional response of "he is Risen Indeed" greeted the acclimation.A beautiful service, people said, as they enjoyed the coffee hour.

However, hell was still in the sermon, and the kids still went home with whoopie cushions.

It was a great Easter. Christ is Risen! He is Risen Indeed. Rock on, dude!

Finding my note.

As a child, I loved to sing. Really loved it. I knew all the words, to almost every song on radio or television, all the verses of the hymns at church. Songs were lovely; songs expressed feeling in ways I couldn't. I loved to sing.

Problem was, no one, and I mean no one, loved to listen. In fact, no one even liked to listen. Because, and it took me years to accept this, I was terrible.

Not just American Idol reject terrible. Not just, "she doesn't sing well"--more in the line of She. Can't. Sing.

In second grade, as the school prepared it's winter program, I sang with enthusiasm, and gusto. They asked me to "be a little quieter." So I dampened my enthusiasm.

On the day of the program, the teacher gave me the "special assignment" of ushering and handing out programs.

But I never gave up. I truly believed in that "duckling into swan" tale, or "if at first you don't succeed, try try again."

But I was never in the chorus. Finally, in eighth grade, when it was becoming apparent that once again, I would not be part of the singing crowd, it overwhelmed me. I cried as the teacher tried to work with me. "I just want to sing" I said, and, being a kind and generous soul, as well as an excellent music teacher, he let me join.

That was a mistake. First, it led my eleven year old self to believe that maybe I could sing, after all. That emboldened me to join the junior choir at church.

The result: I then was a member of two choruses that told me "just mouth the words, Shelby".

And I did. I still wanted to be part of the eighth grade chorus, even though when I tried to sing, my fellow choir members would give me pained glances, as I threw them off key .

But the church choir director had no qualms. He spoke with the voice of God. And he gave me an assessment of my ability that has stayed with me all my life. "Shelby," he said, "has three notes--but she favors one of them".

I realized that was pretty accurate. And this year, for the first time, I know that my note is "F".

The iphone has an app that if you sing into it, it displays the notes for you. So I sang it several songs.

And every note I sang came back as an "F". With an occasional "C". But mostly "F's".

I loved it. After all these years, after all the times I've been told that I'm a monotone, tone deaf, or that I favor one note, I now know that note is. "F" . I now have a relationship with songs. True, it's a limited one. And true, I can't trot it out in public, because me and my constant "F" would certainly annoying to anyone with ears.

So its a fairly solitary relationship.

Would I like to have more notes? Of course I would. I'd love to open my mouth, and have a whole range of notes, a couple of octaves worth, come pouring out. But that's not what I have.

I have "F"

God gave me a love of music.

He also gave me "F"

We were never promised that we could have everything we loved or wanted. We certainly were not promised that refusing to acknowledge our limitations would somehow magically negate them. In fact, I've come to realize that not just acknowledging our limits, but embracing them, frees us to stop worrying about them, and to use our other gifts effectively.

Hello, "F" I love you!

The Baby, a message in poetry by Rev. Shelby Larsen

The Baby

by the Rev. Shelby Larsen

At our 5;00 Family Service, usually attended by around 200 people, with high proportion of children, I write my sermon as a poem, in the style of Dr. Seuss. (so this is my work, and is protected by copyright)

For 2008, I wrote the following thoughts, and read the same poem again on Christmas Eve, 2009.

The Baby

Do you know what I heard?

I heard it today.

There's a baby that's coming!

It's coming our way.

A baby! A baby! A baby! Oh No!

A baby! A baby! Oh, say it's not so!

"Cause a baby, it's awful, a baby, it's drear!

A baby, a baby, it's the thing I most fear.

A baby--they fuss, and they cry and they cry.

They cry and they fuss, sometimes hours go by.

They make noise, they make problems,

They make smells--sometimes bad!

They squirm and they holler. They just make me mad!

So why do we want one? Why should we care?

Why have a baby? It just isn't fair.

Why should a baby come near us tonight?

All the noise, all the fuss, well, it just isn't right.

I MEAN. . .

I've got presents to open, I've got cookies to eat.

I've stockings to hang up, I've people to greet.

And Santa is coming with goodies galore.

Santa and presents--that's what I'm waiting for/

So what's with this baby? What's all the fuss?

Why is this baby important to us?

He doesn't bring cookies, no gifts, not a tree.

he doesn't bring toys, so what's it to me?

Why should I care if a baby is born?

Why should I care if he's here in the morn?

You see I've got Christmas, I've been to the store

And yet, something tells me, there's possibly more.

That Christmas is not just all about me.

That Christmas has meaning--something elementary.

Something for everyone, something God's done.

Something so special, so consequential

That goodness for all will be self-evidential.

And you know in this night--

In the dark, without light,

I wonder, I wonder, they just may be right.

For I feel that there's something that's just out of sight.

Something that's special, that's not just for me.

Oh what, do I wonder, O what can it be?

I've heard talk of miracles, of God breaking through--

Coming into our lives-do you think that is true?

Does Christmas have miracles for me and for you?

BECAUSE . . . .

How will I know if a miracle I see?

"Cuz all that I know is that little baby--

That baby that's coming! That baby--Oh no!

That baby's the miracle--say it's not so!

A miracle is something, large, something bit!

It shouldn't be something that squeals like apig!

But I guess it won't hurt if I just go and see--

You know, take a peek at the little baby.

How can I find him? Is he near or far?

What's that? To find him, I follow a star?

Are you sure? I'm sorry, that seems very odd.

A strange way to locate a gift from God.

But what do you know? As I look to the east,

And I check all the stars from the greatest to least.

There's one over there, there's one that is new,

A star that is different, a star that shines through.

And under that star--a baby, so dear . . .

I suddenly realize --it all becomes clear.

The baby's the miracle, the baby, this child.

The baby's the miracle, isn't that wild?

This baby, so little, so tiny, so new,

This baby's the way for God to break through.

And now I don't care about the mess and the fuss,

Because this baby--well, he's God with us.

This baby, you see him, and then you can tell

That he is the savior: He's Emman-u-el.

It's just amazing that someone so small

Is really the great one, the I AM, the All.

This little child, now with animals sleeping

Has already taken my cares in his keeping.

And now that I see him, it's now I know more,

Christmas, it just can't be bought in a store.

Christmas is this one, the child God has given.

Christmas is Jesus, he's our gift from heaven.

Jesus, the baby who gives us new life

in the long hoped for kingdom of no war and strife.

To find the miracle, we need to see.

We need to look further than games and TV

Beyond what we think of, beyond what we know,

To look for the special gifts God can bestow.

To look beyond crying and fussing and sighing

All of the little things we find so trying,

To see the baby, in the manger lying.

AND SO . . .

If we look and we listen,

See stars as they glisten

We'll find hope and find love

In the child from above.

And just as that baby brings all that is true

All that is possible, all that is new,

We can see that reflected around us tonight.

It's here in our children, in their smiles so bright.

Our gifts are here, they are found in this church

It's not very far that we have to search.

They're all around us, they're with us tonight

The gifts are our children, with their smiles so bright.

And so with only a slight trepidation--

I give you our future--The First Pres Nation!

This was followed by a video slideshow presentation of all of our activities throughout the year , emphasizing our families and children.

Sample Sermons

This is a little difficult, because I have, this year, given up manuscripting my sermons, and have been speaking without notes, making it difficult to reproduce, in writing, exactly what I've said.

However, I certainly write out the two sermons I do in rhyme, one on Christmas Eve, and one on our Celebrate Children's Sundays.

And I can definitely post those. They (and others) may also be available via podcast, on our website, though we don't seem to have, so far, been able to keep those current very easily.

At any rate, I shall try, under this heading, to include some of the messages people have asked about.

Who Am I?

I've been giving some thought, lately, to our perceptions of ourselves--and how different they can be from how others perceive us.

You see, one member of my high school class began to find, through Facebook and other social networking sites, other members of the class--people I knew long ago, most of whom I haven't thought of in years.

In fact, I was one of those "lost" members that lurk in every alumni association. I had walked out after graduation, determined to get out of town, to do something different, to be someone else--someone that wasn't the despised, insecure high school dweeb. And I thought that was original, when really, it's the story of almost every teenager, everywhere. So I didn't think about high school, or about the people there, for many years. Until a couple of things happened--first, I got an alumni newsletter addressed to Chris Larsen, someone from some other class, some other year. (I suspect that the search abilities of the internet at that time were not quite at the level they are now) However, in an act of kindness--I mean, perhaps the unknown Chris Larsen really needed the information in that newsletter--I returned it with an explanation, and of course, then I entered the data banks of the "found". Secondly, I had entered into my lengthy debate with God over who I was, and what I was supposed to be doing with my life. Ministry was definitely not part of the way I perceived myself. This necessitated a review of who I was, where I had come from, where I was going. I checked the web for Classmates, found a few people I had known, contacted a couple, engaged one night in a glass-well, really more of a bottle of wine--and made a fool of myself trying to reconcile the life that I lived, the person I had become, with where I had been. To anyone reading this who received one of those emails, I sincerely, sincerely, sincerely apologize.

Obviously, God won the argument, and, against all my own perceptions of myself and my gifts, I became the Reverend Shelby Larsen. Then came Facebook, and contact with so many people from my teenage years.

What I discovered was that they had memories of high school, and of me, and of events where our lives crossed that were certainly different from my own memories and interpretations. Where I saw a weakling, one friend saw a "gentle personality". (Incidentally, everyone I've related that to has the same reaction--did they know you? because no one who knows me now would use the word gentle) And yet, I was very sensitive. I've heard that all my life--Shelby, you're too sensitive. And this particular friend saw that part of me. Others recalled "confidence". I remember having absolutely none. One even said "intimidating". Me? I felt like I was the most picked upon person in the class.

And I wonder how many people have similar experiences? How many feel unconfident, picked upon, ignored, dismissed? If popular culture is any guide, it's not an uncommon condition among teens.Despite my self centeredness, I was undoubtedly not the only one in my class who had that view of self.

So am I sorry that I may have misread some of my high school years? Do I feel I lost opportunities?

No, and no, and no. In the first place, I'm fairly sure that I was not sensitive, confident, or intimidating all the time. I know that there was a lot of dweeb, or geek, or dork, or just plain stupidness in my behavior. And secondly, I have come to accept what seems at time to be a platitude: that we are the sum of all of our experiences. I have not come to where I am easily, or lightly. And I still have many failings in my dealings with others, and with myself. But I'm not as hard on myself, because, frankly, we're all in the same boat. So who am I? Not who I thought I was, and probably not who I think I am, and not who I eventually will be. Just who God made me.

Monday, June 29

I just got back from vacation on Saturday night, and so when I showed up for church on Sunday, I was somewhat out of the loop. We were trying a new concept in our first, contemporary service--a Twitter service. The idea is that it will become inter-active--that people can tweet in their thoughts as the service goes along, and  thus join in as we worship and praise God.  It worked. sort of. Kind of. Well, somewhat.  We had technical difficulties. It had become a complex task to get wireless into the Sanctuary . . .and I'm glad, from the description , that I wasn't here for most of that work. Then, because my husband, The Gadget Guy, was the designated techie to use his presentation computer for the live feed, and The Gadget Guy and I had been on vacation, creating a lack of, shall we say, practice, with the equipment, the live feed stopped about half way through. Some people--including some of the staff--are challenged by new methods of communications, and so there was some fumbling with PDAs throughout.  So perhaps I should say that it didn't work at all.  But it seems to me that though some of the congregation were dismissive of the Twitter aspect, and some were frustrated by our very basic multi-media attempts, many were looking at this experience with open minds. We were trying something new; we were communicating; we were focused on bringing God's word into our lives and into the technological equipment that demands so much attention from so many of us these days.  I don't know how often we'll have a Twitter service; I just hope that our first is not our last.