Faith Thoughts

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

2010-08-30T13:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-04-07T13:25:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-01-14T11:26:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-30T10:47:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-30T10:42:00.000-08:00

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?

2009-08-26T16:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-29T14:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Galilee. The Sea

2009-06-01T10:39:00.000-07:00

it is just plain beautiful. Not as large as one might think, but nestled in the hills, with the Jordan coming in one end, and going out through another.
No wonder Jesus hung out here. It's gorgeous. And now, its clearly a resort area. A place where people come to relax, to get away, to swim, to eat, to fish.
Understandable.
So, in Israel, land of many cultural contradictions, we go to a kibbutz. There we will embark on a boat trip to Tiberias. Down to the dock--and there, anchored, are replicas of first century boats. They are dubbed "the Jesus boats". OK. The first one is almost full, but we don't try to board it,, because its just going on a tourist view trip around the lake. We will wait for the next boat--the boat to Tiberius. We get on that one--so far, the only passengers. We wait. And wait. Evidentally the kibbutz boat system does not operate on a time schedule, but on capacity. The tour boat fills. We remain, a lonely three travelers to Tiberias. I am succumbing to the power of the water, and dozing on the bow of the boat, when the tour boat leaves the dock, loudly blasting "The Star Spangled Banner". I sit up, and watch the boat sail out into Galilee, hoisting the American Flag, and broadcasting the national anthem.
I soon find out that this is not an exhibition of solidarity with our country, because a large bus shows up with other travelers to Tiberias. This is a British group, and we soon set sail to the tune of "God Save the Queen" and the Union Jack--followed, for three of their members by the Irish flag and anthem.a Then, two people from the Isle of Man performed their patriotic duty. Curious, I walked up front to find, beneath the captain's wheel, a large segmented bin with the flags of every possible nation, and a rack of CD's with presumably enough national anthems to serve the Olympics.
In the middle of the lake (sea is really an exaggeration!) the Vicar accompanying the tour group asks for the motor to stop, and for us to silently contemplate as he has two people read appropriate scripture. In the middle of the reading, a loud vroooom, vrooom, comes and a launch approaches, ready to aid us--or find out why we've stopped. One is never sure in this age of uber-security.
Its much like life--take a few moments for prayer or contemplation, and people want to know "what's wrong?"
It seems to have broken the mood for the Brits, too. They discuss the snow on Mount Hebron, a couple get on the prow to re-enact the "Titanic--King of the World" pose, and they start to laugh and argue over the flags--whose is bigger.
We disembark, and walk past the resort amenities to check in at the hotel. Its too cold--but if i were here later, would I try water skiing, or banana boating?
Riding a banana on the Sea of Galilee. A strange concept. One I can't quite get past in my mind.
And then I think--The sea was probably used for a great many things--food, drink, washing--and children playing. Even adults might have enjoyed a cooling splash .
Maybe banana boats aren't so strange, after all.

Nazareth

2009-04-08T11:28:00.000-07:00

We head out to Nazareth, which is located high in the hills. Its a large, crowded city. I ask--they estimate a population of about 60,000. Traffic--difficult, no impossible. There's one road in, one road out. At the Church of the Annunciation, we see the "family home". It's plausible, a grotto of sorts, where the carpenter shop appears to be a cave. You view it through a hole in the floor of the current, modern church. The Church of the Annunciation is indeed modern, but built over the ruins of a Crusader church, which was built over a Byzantine church. Our guide tells me that there are images of Mary sent to this, the current church, from all over the world. Without a hint of irony, he tells us we can find "Miss America" on the second floor. We do. She's quite modern, quite metallic, quite shiny. She's not at all shy.
We venture on, navigating the single road. Cars dodge around each other, cut each other off, double park, park in the center strip, stop . . .whatever. But there's no choice of route. This is the way to Nazareth. Crowded, threatened, inconvenienced, frustrated. Nothing to be done about it, because-- this is the way to Nazareth. There is the city, set in the ancient site, and a new Israeli city above Nazareth--I think of it as Nazareth Heights, but I think it may really be "Upper Nazareth". Development covers so much of the hills--why would I have ever thought that Nazareth, or any other place in Israel, for that matter, would be exempt from it? Later in the day, we visit Cana. The Roman Catholic church there, Franciscan, has an Italianate exterior, and what I think of as a typical Roman Catholic interior. The dome, interestingly, in view of the high proportion of Arab/Palestinian residents, has blood red Crusader crosses in its stained glass. It too is built on Byzantine ruins--but only the foundation of the fourth century building remains. In the basement (crypt? Lower level?) there is a large crude hollowed out stone said to date from Jesus' time. I think that means it might be like the storage jars for the wine at the wedding.
There's a more modern side chapel, which has on one wall a photographic tryptich of wine jars. It reminds me that we are always trying to "update" our message, to make our images "friendly and relateable" or to use a "trendy" communication device (like a blog)--and yet underneath me is the Byzantine ruins, the earlier foundation stones, etc. etc.

The Holy Land, Continued

2009-03-05T13:24:00.000-08:00

Well, since I am now posting notes about my trip to the Holy Land a full year AFTER the trip (possibly a new mark in procrastination, even for me), I've decided to stop trying to record my day to day impressions--heck, I could hardly remember them a month later, let alone a year later--and just go for the highlights that I find in the notes I kept at the time.

Masada: An extremely cool site. The photo of me on this blog was taken on top of Masada. One can climb to the top, or take the tram. I did not even consider the climb! One of the things that I liked most
about the site was the way that archeologists, and reconstruction experts, worked together and drew large black lines at the point where the walls were excavated, and the portions that had been reconstructed. From the top, the outline of the Roman encampments is clearly visible. There are some historic sites that one visits that are difficult to imagine; others that are quite clear; Yes, you say, this can and did happen here. I can see it, I can feel it. Masada is one of those places.

Ein Gadi: An oasis, with a waterfall. Quite lovely. Kassim, the guide, tells me that this is the site of the cave where David, in hiding, was able to creep up behind Saul, and cut off a piece of his clothing,proving that he had the ability to kill him, but refrained from doing so. Maybe, I think. We've climbed back into the hills, past a series of small waterfalls, until we reach a much larger one, flowing in front of a sort of a cave--though it seems to me to be more of a large hollowed out space behind the waterfall. Can't see how David could have hidden from, or snuck up on, anyone. Admittedly, I didn't venture behind the waterfall, and so there could be a better hiding place that I'm just not seeing . . .but it doesn't really matter. Chuck takes a lot of photos, but I just sit and put my feet in the water. Its peaceful--except for the parties of tourists.I wish they weren't here-- but, really, why should I be the only person touring these lovely spots?

Qumrun: Desert. Museum. A few ruins. The Romans did a pretty good job destroying this area post-Masada. Good exhibition. Good gift shop,

Jericho: Jericho is one of my most vivid memories of this trip. I never realized it, but Jericho is, essentially, a very large oasis. You come through the dry land, alongside the Dead Sea. We take a turnoff, and see green,a large hotel, and palm trees, lots of palm trees, ahead. Beautiful. But Jericho is in Palestinian territory. To get there, you need to clear an Israeli security checkpoint. The line of traffic is long--but when we finally inch up to the checkpoint the magic word, "tourists" and the even better American passports, get us waved on rapidly.
Jericho is much much much less prosperous than the Israeli areas we have been travelling through. The buildings are unkempt. People and dogs wander the streets. The traffic lights do not work.

We go to Tell Jericho, the site of the original city. Kassim says that it has not been heavily excavated, though one shaft dug to bedrock showed 22 layers of civilization dating back to the Bronze Age. I believe it. This greenland, surrounded by the brown, lying between mountains and the Jordan River--a logical place for human habitation, no matter what era. Later, in Jordan, on the opposite side of the river, I stand on Mount Nebo, where Moses theoretically stood, looking across at Jericho, and I see, I see, how it could indeed have been the Promised Land, the land of milk and honey, the square of green, with water, and palm trees distinct against the brown of the surrounding desert. Jericho. I will always remember it.

And then--the "tile factory" . A place where all my suspicions regarding tourist souvenirs appears to be confirmed. As well as producing some beautiful mosaic tile pieces--and we dutifully buy some--the factory is making leather, and wood, and plates, and other items I've seen in the gift shops everywhere. Souvenir central at last!
I buy stuff to take home for everyone.

Another day, another site; Bethlehem. Getting there, from Jerusalem, should be easy, but it isn't. Bethlehem, like Jericho, is in Palestinian hands. Because it is, in our terms, quite close to Jerusalem, Israeli security is difficult. We pass through in the car, with relative ease, the "tourist" and "American passports" being the key. Kassim, who is Palestinian, Christian, and a resident of Bethlehem, must get out, and walk though a buiding where additional security checks are made. We wait for him on the other side. This is one of the places where Israel has erected its security wall. It is very intimidating. Its path is not straight--for example, it veers to incorporate the site of Rachel's Tomb on the Israeli side. The weather is bad--sleeting and raining--manger Square is deserted, and the Church of the Nativity has few visitors. St. Catherine's. and the adjacent Church of the Nativity, are churches with "custody" issues, as well as layers of church history. The Byzantine, the Crusader, the 18th century restorations, all are layered here. I try to feel something at the place of the Nativity, but it isn't easy. I try to pray, and there is more "connection" than I've had at other sites. Perhaps it is more closely aligned with what, in my mind's eye, it should be. You can imagine Christ born in one spot, laid in a manger in another . . .Chuck finds it more touching than I do.

But for sheer excessive kitsch, the Field of the Angels--with "Gloria" in writing everywhere. One cave looked as if it were set for an angelic tea party--table, chair--I'm not sure why. Perhaps the cave could have been used to shelter the sheep, I certainly can't discount it. But oh, the "Glorias" that surround it. My notes say that "somehow, a neon arrow would seem tame" in this environment.

As we leave, to return to Israeli territory, and Jerusalem, I am moved to say that whatever the security issues are, whatever the political issues, the right and the wrong of both sides, it seems that this is a place that has always been, and perhaps will always be, steeped in conflict. On the human level, though, I think that power is always a difficult issue for those who have it. Sometimes it seems that all of us use our power, whether expressed in the official status of the Israeli soldiers, the AK 47s that you see on men accompanying school groups, and even the status of our "American passports" ---we use it because we can, because others can't, and all too often without thought, or without empathy.

This is not an easy place to be. Not now, not 2000 years ago.

so this is where it happened? Day 3

2009-01-22T16:46:00.000-08:00

Snow in Jerusalem.

When I wrote the letter I always include with my Christmas cards, I was sure this happened in the second day of our arrival. Looking at my notes, though, I find realize that it was, in fact, the third day. This probably has no real significance, except that either my jet lag was worse than I thought, or that the snow made a huge impression on me. In either event, it's clear that events are filtered through both mind and memory, so what I write here is subject to the vagaries of memory, the influence of emotions, and a relatively reliable but not guaranteed practice of note taking. Hey, its a blog, not a dissertation!

And so now, remembered and reconstructed, Day Three.

In the night, the snow fell. By five a.m., there's probably 2" of snow covering Jerusalem. My husband, Chuck, in full Photographer mode, thinks that there will be a great location on the Mount of Olives, looking back towards the city.

We ask the hotel doorman to get us a cab. The doorman clearly believes that we are insane, but calls the cab.
The cab driver clearly agrees with the doorman, but agrees to take us. We start off; the snow worsens; the driver's cell phone rings; it is his wife, asking why he is out, when he is coming home; he translates for us. What I
suspect he is not translating is "why are you out with those crazy tourists". He tells her not to worry, and go back to bed. She does not take his advice. I know, because she calls again. And again. And again. His decision to stay out in the snow with crazy tourists becomes more understandable. When we reach a lookout spot on the Mount of Olives, the Photographer sets up his equipment but the snow and wind increase. Visibility is dreadful. The photographic expedition is a failure. We return to a very welcome hotel breakfast.

After breakfast, we meet Kassim, our guide, and Eli, the driver, and venture out, though snow and sleet continue unabated. First, we go to the Church of St. Anne, which is located by the pool at Bethesda. This is not on our original plan, but I really wanted to see the pool. The church is a lovely old stone crusader church, probably the best preserved crusader church in Jerusalem. There is a small Asian tour group inside, singing. Its about 15 or 20 people, but the sound like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. What a lovely moment of worship. What a lovely church.

Our next stop is at the purported "Upper Chamber", which is, for reasons I never determined in my entire visit, located on top of the Tomb of David, which is also conveniently located directly next to the Church of St. Peter Gallicanta, which may be where the cock crowed, but also is built over the "dungeon" where Christ was imprisoned. It's certainly convenient for single stop tourism, but . . .(there's that pesky "reason" part of my mind again) And, as if to confirm my thoughts there are multitudes of tour buses crowded into the parking lot. They jostle each other, blocking one way, threading through another, looking for places to park, each with a little sign in front identifying their group. The Tarrytown Synagogue squeezes in next to the Sacramento Bible Church, while the Ethiopian Pilgrimage continues to circle. Brother John's (location not divulged) Pilgrimage tries to edge into the fray, but is met with resistance from a bus merely labelled "Atlanta". All of the "sites", one on top of each other, are like children shouting for attention. In fact, it seems to me that most of the "sites" we have seen, at this location or elsewhere in the city, could be equated with children, all saying "Look at me, Father", or "Love me best, Father", "Pay attention to me, make me more successful," each of them polishing, if not outright embellishing their legends, making themselves, more and more ornate . . .which is why, perhaps, I loved that little, out of the way, not on the tour route, plain stone crusader Church of St. Anne.

Chuck remarks that wherever ANYTHING happened, or may have happened, or might have happened, there's a church, or a Jewish site, or a mosque. Pretty much true. How to find the faith, the sanctity, the spirit in all of this? Why can't I feel that yes, this is Holy Ground?

We walk the "Holy Steps", dating from the 1st century, connecting the City of David with the Kidron Valley. . .which would make it the route to and from this Upper Room to Gethsemane. If the locations were correct, if the route was right, this could be, could be, a place where indeed Jesus walked during that dark night. The steps were covered in slush. There was freezing rain falling. And out of all those buses, all those people, we were the only ones on the steps. There were no other footprints in the snow.

At the lower entrance to the Upper Room, the sign said "never closed". But there was snow in Jerusalem. When we got up the steps to the Upper Room, the door was locked. There was no one there. Closed.

Getting Back on Line Redux

2009-01-14T12:34:00.000-08:00

So, in June 2008, I wrote about how I intended to be much more diligent in keeping up this blog. The problem is, that like many writers, I really avoid writing. I will get up, walk around, eat, check the internet, eat, check my emails, tidy up the room, eat, reorganize my files, eat, talk on the phone, eat . . .all of which results in extra pounds, constantly re-arranged desks and environments, and very little writing.
And now its January, and I made it my New Year's resolution to keep up the blog. And, like most decisions made at the first of the year, its a resolution that's coated all over with "good intentions". (note: the date is the 15th, already. not a good start)
Yep, good intentions I've got. What I wonder about is good material. I've never been sure that my life or thoughts are of interest to anyone else. In fact, I think of my life as everyday boring. Nothing to write home about, let alone, writing to the world at large. Most of the time I'm quite sure that everyone is leading more interesting lives than I am, and that nothing I think/do is worth commenting on . . .
But now--now--now--I've found FACEBOOK.
As a church, we have put up a Facebook page; that meant I needed to create a Facebook page; that led to the discovery of how Facebook works; which led to a quick tutorial by my daughter, and a just "check it out, Mom";--and that is quickly, I think, becoming an addiction. On Facebook, I can read which people I know are getting ready for dinner, which people I know are going shopping, which people I know are planning to take in a movie.
This has led to two things: One, an epiphany--my life is pretty much like everyone else's--we're all, in most ways on most days "everyday boring". And Two: Its the accumulation of those things--the places we go to, the people we talk to, the friends--old and new--that pop up on Facebook, that make up the totality of our society, and that have molded our individual souls. It's an almost forgotten name from high school, my daughter's friends in their fourth grade picture, a glimpse of my nephew "tagged" from someone else's album, these are the things that not only define my my life now as it is, but also have created the person I am.
And maybe there's a third thing--I can pick and choose from the many many things I read on Facebook, and on the web--and you--whoever the you is out there--can choose to read my musings, or not. If you find me boring, just move along to the next blogger --there's no end to the number of things that may be of more interest to you.
So perhaps I don't need to be famous, or powerful, or influential to write this blog. Perhaps I don't have to wait for something especially unusual, or humorous to happen to me before I make an entry (especially since those things don't happen all that often).
So, once again, the road of good intentions lies before me. And I'm going to try to make a few entries to finish up my Holy Land observations--hey, they're a year late, but perhaps reflection makes them better.
Look for me tomorrow. Or next week. Or next June.

Getting back on Line

2008-06-26T16:07:00.000-07:00

So, okay, I really wanted to set up this blog, so I could do day and date posts.
Didn't happen.
And I took my computer to Israel with me, so I could send my impressions from the Holy Land immediately.
Didn't happen.
And then I started posting notes from my journal, in March, so that at least I could share some of my impressions, more or less in chronological order, and pretty much as I remembered them.
Didn't happen.
It's now the end of June--three months after my last entry--and I have completely neglected this blog that I was so insistent upon having.
In a group discussion a few days ago, one of our congregants said that we needed to give the website more ability--streaming video, podcasts, etc;, even blogs. "Wait!" I said, "I blog".
"Yes," he replied, "but not enough"
Man, he is so right! I had this great--perhaps grandiose would be a better word--of my sitting down, every day or two, and pouring out my thoughts--which would naturally be incisive and insightful--to anyone who cared to read them. And, of course, there would be many, many people who would want to read them.
Didn't happen.
So for me, perhaps, blogging seems to have turned out to be like most of my exercise plans--a good thought, a planned regimen, a few days of carrying out that regimen, followed by a slow period, and then, a time I put it off--which leads to another time I put it off--which leads to thinking that it can wait . . .and it waits . . .and it waits.
Til, like now, I do nothing.
So, just like my exercise programs, I'm promising to start over, and be a little more faithful . I'm not going to promise to do this every day--I'm not going to expect myself to have some brilliant insight every day--I'm going to start slower. I'm going to go back to attempting to record some of my experiences in Israel. I'll try to let you know some of what's happening in our church--and, knowing myself, I may just sound off about things in general . . .we'll see.

So this is where it happened? Day 2

2008-03-20T16:00:00.000-07:00

And as I wait for the Maundy Thursday service:

Aha! Today, a guide! We meet Kasim, a Palestinian Christian, who is going to be our guide through Israel. After yesterday, we are quite sure we need one.
So, after being introduced to Eli, who will serve as driver (and, as it turns out,on local culture commentator par excellence) we start off, going first to the Mount of Olives.
This is, and will remain, one of my most enduring memories of Israel. As I stood there, looking across the Kidron Valley to Jerusalem, things began to fall into place. The valley was much steeper than I imagined; the Temple Mount more prominent; the oldest part, the city of David, more limited. And yet, despite the modern veneer, I could see how things must have happened, back then--they would have come from Bethany on Palm Sunday, this way. And then, Kasim points out the traditional location of the Upper Room--and the Garden of Gethsemane. And, frankly, that's when I lose the vision. It's a lot farther from one to the other than I imagined. I can envision Jesus leaving the city to pray; I can't envision the hike from the supposed Upper Room to the area identified as the Garden. Too far, I think. Too far. Why walk so far?
This is the reality that I deal with throughout the trip. Most, if not all, of the Christian "holy sites" were identified in the fourth century, or later. The Empress Helena, mother of Constantine, and to all appearances a more devout Christian than her son, visited the Holy Land, and more or less decided where certain events happened. She built three churches--the Church of the Nativity, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the Church of the Ascension. At least I think it's those three. I know one is the Church of the Sepulcher, because she also set out the Via Dolorosa, the Stations of the Cross, with the last several Stations (ok, I'm not Catholic, so I don't know all the Stations that well!) inside the Church. At any rate, my rational mind keeps saying "yes, it probably happened somewhere around here--this general vicinity--but exactly here? Just because the Empress said so over three hundred years later?"
So, this is the Mount of Olives,and over there is Jerusalem, and down the path a ways is Gethsemane. We stop very briefly at Gethsemane--which is now a rather attractive formal garden, The olive trees there are clearly old, and Kasim tells us that they are considered to be third generation from those of Jesus' time. I feel at least a small stirring of spirit here, but it quickly disappears as we are told that we must hurry, because the Temple Mount closes admission at 10:00 a.m.(I still don't know why) My visit to Gethsemane seems to be of the "we've seen it, let's go" variety. No lingering.
After our visit to the Mount--more on that another time--we walk the Via Dolorosa, at least the route laid out by Empress H. It twists and winds and at least once makes what seems to me to be a u-turn that would be tough to make with a cross, but who am I to question Empress H.? I'm 1700 years further away from the event than she is.
And so, here we are, again, in the Church of the Sepulcher. This time with a guide. Kasim explains that the Church is shared by six denominations--and clearly, not all equally. For example, the Ethiopians seem to have huts on a flat part of the roof to live in, and a small chapel featuring, appropriately, the Queen of Sheba. We go into the main part of the Church, and up a small staircase to the area that is, purportedly, Golgotha. Though now well within the city walls (Crusader era walls, to be sure) we are told that at the time of the Crucifixion, it was indeed a hill outside the city. Okay by me, but today, it's part of a very ornate Church. The Roman Catholics have a small chapel area where "He was nailed to the cross". Next to it is an area, which my notes say is Greek Orthodox, where the cross stood. It is quite ornate, in the Eastern style, and a little disconcerting to my Presbyterian sensibilities.
There is an altar over the 'site of the cross". You must kneel, crawl under the altar, and then you can put your hand into a hole in the bedrock, to feel the place where the foot of the cross rested. I kneel. I crawl. I put my hand in the hole. I feel nothing. Not emotionally, not literally. There is just space. I wave my hand back and forth, conscious of other tourist/pilgrims behind me, waiting their turn. Nothing. Finally I feel the rock at the side of the opening. I back my way out (Holy Sites turn out to be like Royalty--you can't turn your back on them). The guide takes a photograph, which will never be seen by anyone, of my rear end backing out under the altar. We proceed downstairs, where the "tomb of Joseph of Arimathea" sits in an adjoining part of the church. The area is surrounded by ornate walls, and by a large, open church. It is explained that the original hill, in which the tomb sat, was leveled in order to build the church around it. I can see the need, but it does lose some authenticity of atmosphere.
There is a long line of tourist/pilgrims circling the tomb. Kasim says that since we are just two, he will speak to the monk guarding the entrance, his friend, and we can perhaps be allowed into line ahead of some of the large groups. This is strongly reminiscent, unfortunately, of our visit to Moscow in 1986, when we got to cut in line at Lenin's tomb. Lenin was, when viewed "in situ" more than somewhat waxy. This is not a good thought to entertain when visiting the tomb of Christ.
We are allowed in during a gap between groups. We walk into the inner chamber with another small group of three. Five at a time is the rule. We stand by the wall, and look at the small ledge. I take out the two Jerusalem crosses I have bought in one of the many Via Dolorosa shops. I am, I was told, supposed to put them on the ledge so they are blessed. I do. I say a small prayer. I look at the ledge. I think that, even given the differences in diet and health from 2000 years ago, Joseph of Arimathea and Jesus must have been VERY small people, because it is a very small ledge. I think that I am supposed to be thinking more spiritual thoughts. I want to. I am, after all, a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the Presbyterian Church (USA). I want to feel the emotion that I see evidenced in other pilgrim/tourists. I back out. I want to, in some way, share in the experience of what happened here 2000 years ago. But I didn't. And so, here at my first encounters, here at the sites--or at least in the general area--where Jesus walked, and suffered, and died, I'm thinking about Lenin, and about size, and about everything except the reality of what happened. Faith and Reason. Emotion and Intellect. Nowhere in my life have they been brought into such a clear separation as here, in the Holy Land. The thing is, I believe wholeheartedly in God, in Christ, in the Spirit. I believe that those things that happened here, so long ago, profoundly changed our lives and our world, and continue to do so. To see these places is, definitely, interesting. Educational. Informative. But I was expecting Awe. I want Awe. And at least so far, Awe hasn't shown up. God has not appeared, the Spirit has not spoken on schedule.
And then I think--the Holy Land is not a theme park. There's no pre-programmed voice of God, no motion sensor shining light, no inspiring music to set the mood and stir my emotions. God doesn't follow a schedule. God isn't always where you expect him to be. God, perhaps, is more about what you are than where you are.

It's almost time for the Maundy Thursday service, when we re-enact and remember those last few days of Jesus of Nazareth, preparing for the glorious day of Easter Resurrrection. I was privileged to see where they might have occurred, long ago. I need to go now, and open myself to what they mean, tonight, March 20th, in the Year of Our Lord 2008.

So this is where it happened? Day 1

2008-03-20T15:12:00.000-07:00

It's Thursday, March 20th--Maundy Thursday, and we will have our traditional service with communion and tenebrae in a few hours.

Just a month ago I was in Jerusalem. On our first full day there, my husband and I, recovering from jet lag, and with everything closed for Shabbos, had ventured from our hotel into the Old City on our own; it was apparent from our reception that we were representatives of a very rare species--tourists, without group or guide. We were constantly surrounded by offers of "help you find where going" or "look in my shop, two minutes, two minutes" we wandered helplessly through the-- streets? alleys? passages?--anyway, through the places of foot traffic. Once, finding ourselves in a dead end, residential courtyard, we did accept the offer of a boy of about 8 or 9 to "find where going?" "Church" we said, thinking if we could work our way back to the Christian quarter, Chuck could use his map to get us out the Jaffa gate. Our young guide led us through a maze of winding streets, all seemingly fronted by the same tourist shops, all seemingly offering the same goods.Moreover, the all seem to offer the same or similar goods as other places we've visited-chess sets, roughly carved statues, inexpensive brass, wood, tiles, local (?)--all those seem to abound in Istanbul, in Mexico, in Peru, in Hong Kong, in Equador, in the Carribean Islands..The globes I thought beautiful in France years ago now crowd the markets of Jerusalem. There has to be a tourist central somewhere (China, maybe?) that provides slightly customized goods to tourist markets everywhere.
Just as Jesus found moneylenders in the temple, we find tourist stalls throughout Jerusalem.
And so, we found ourselves at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. We venture in. Its big. it has lots of levels. Its dark. There are lots of people. There are no signs. There is no booklet. We have jet lag. We retreat to the hotel and nap, deferring our "experiencing" the site until we have a guide who can at least tell us what we are seeing.

Arrival

2008-03-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

My husband, Chuck, and I are off to visit Israel and Jordan. It starts at the airport, with the El Al security. They are, rightfully, known for their more thorough approach to questioning passengers.

"Why are you going?"
"Tourism"
"What tour are you with?"
"None. We're on our own"
"Who do you know in Israel?"
"No one"
"Why do you wish to visit Israel?"
"To see the Holy sights"
"There is another group going on a pilgrimage. Are you with them?"
"No"
"Why are you not with a group for pilgrimage?"

You know, that's a hard question to answer in terms of airport security. The answer, basically, is that we did not want to be with a group. I wanted to visit the land where our faith began and was nurtured--the land of Abraham and David, as well as of Jesus of Nazareth--at my own pace, on my own schedule, and without entering into religous, theological or political debates. I like courteous and respectful exchanges of viewpoints. Unfortunately, religion, theology and politics are subjects in which courtesy and respect in discussion is often lacking. So I thought it best to experience Israel in my own way. Also, I admit, I had heard stories of the commercial activities surrounding some of the holy sites. . .and I admit that I wanted to be free to be skeptical, or to laugh, if I found something improbable, or amusing, without fear of offending someone else, who might be deeply moved. (As it turned out, that was a good judgment call) So we were going alone.

But the next question caught me out, as well.

"You are going on pilgrimage alone?"

I'd never thought of this as a pilgrimage. That had such a "church" sound. "Pilgrimage" meant, to me a journey needed to be taken as an act of faith; I thought of this as more of an act of seeing, of learning, of history--and just plain curiosity. I wanted a visual context in which to set the Scriptures,that's all.

There it is--that tension that we see all around us. People talk of Faith v. Reason, as if it has to be one or the other. Why was I going--faith, or reason? Learning or experiencing? Was I on a pilgrimage, or a field trip?

I thought about that during the fourteen hour plane trip--at least until I fell asleep. And I set foot in Israel without an answer.

Introduction and Disclaimer

2008-03-06T13:32:00.000-08:00

I've just come back from a "study leave". That's what we call a time when ministers can get away from the issues that we deal with on a daily or weekly basis, and have some time to reflect, to read, to pray, and to refresh ourselves spiritually so that we can better serve our congregations.
At least, that's the idea.
I've just taken two weeks of study leave. And, I confess, I didn't study. At least, not formally. My husband and I took a trip to Israel--just the two of us. We--well, I--wanted to see the Holy Land, the religious "sights", and we wanted to do it on our own, with flexibility regarding schedule, but with local expertise. The two of us, with a guide. Experiencing. Learning. Incorporating. Gaining Insight.
At least, that was the idea.
I was going to post notes to this blog as we went, sharing my days, entering my impressions, imparting information, all in real time.
At least, that was the idea.
And like a lot of ideas, it quickly became one whose time had not come. As we travelled, I experienced such a profusion of sights, reactions, experiences that they all started to blur. The best I could do was to jot down notes in a journal as we went, hoping to be able to connect them with memories later. I bought books at different places, thinking that I would afterwards read them, look at the photos, and "all would become clear".
Not really.
But I'm still going to post some of what I saw, and some of what I thought about.
And, SPOILER ALERT, some of this material will undoubtedly work its way into future sermons--so if you attend worship here at FIRST PRES, someday, sometime, this material may resurface. But perhaps somehow there may be value, even if its re-cycled ruminations.
At least, that's the idea.

Important Relationships

2008-01-24T14:59:00.000-08:00

I really have very little to do with our Children's Ministry, other than to enjoy them. How is it then, that so much oof what I post here has to do with the kids? Some might talk about the innocence of youth (not me---I've raised three kids!) and how little children often show us the way. Maybe. But maybe also its just because they are so darned cute.
So last week, Rebecca, our lovely, talented and incredibly patient Director of Children's Ministries came back from her after her Wednesday afternoon class laughing. She's been having the primary grade children re-enacting biblical stories--in this instance, the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan river. Rebecca encourages them to "express themselves". Like true Los Angeles kids, they immerse themselves in character. Backstories, motivation, all of the tools of the actor's craft seem to be second nature to them. While all of the parts are always up for grabs--on any given day Jesus can be portrayed by a boy, a girl, a six year old, a nine year old, sometimes changing over in the middle of the scene-- the role of John the Baptist is highly coveted by the boys. Why? Because
John lived in the desert, had wild hair, wore a camel skin, and, best of all, he ATE BUGS! Clearly, a scene stealing role!
And so, the dialogue went something like this:
"I'm John. Come and repent and be baptised!" (cue the extras to crowd forward at this time) "Oh, here comes my cousin, Jesus. He's really important. He's The SON OF GOD!" (Flourishes, dramatic arm waving as a shy girl portraying Jesus comes forward)
Rebecca then coaches John on his next line:
"Don't come to me for baptism. I should not baptise you, you should baptise me," explaining that John, though he had come first, must now give way to Jesus. Our young John the Baptist dutifully said his line, but then, indignantly, added: "I"M JESUS' COUSIN. I'M IMPORTANT, TOO".
Its a tricky thing, that relationship with Jesus. On the one hand, we are all important in that we too are children of God, and each and every one of us has value. But do we sometimes fall into the trap of thinking that our relationship with Jesus, with God, with the Holy Spirit--and our interpretation of that relationship--make us important in a way that others aren't? Of course not, we say--and we know that's the "correct" answer. Sometimes, though, I think that my actions may not reflect the "correct" answer. As we struggle with many issues of faith and practice, of culture, of church and society, I find it far too easy to think that I have the "right relationship" and that makes me "important".
Micah tells us to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. Like our young John the Baptist, that "humbly" part can be really, really hard.

Christmas Eve

2007-12-24T18:59:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas Eve, and I am in my office, having finished our family service and waiting for our candlelight service.
My family--all thirteen of them--have gone home. They're going to watch a movie while waiting for me.
When I get there, we'll begin our Christmas celebration. That's really strange.
You see, I've only been in ministry for a few years--but I've been a mother, and grandmother, for much longer.
I'm not used to "working" on Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve, like Christmas itself, is about tradition. And for me, I think, like almost everyone, that means family traditions. It's the Christmas Eve meal I made every year. It's the "you can open one present tonight" speech. It's hanging the stockings. It's putting out cookies for Santa, and food for the reindeer. It's watching my husband, and sons in law, assemble complicated toys.
It's going to a Christmas Eve service--not officiating at one.
There's a part of me that really, really, really wanted to go home with them. There's a part of me that says "my family shouldn't be watching a movie tonight. They should be doing Christmas things. They should be doing the things that we always do."
And then I realize. They're probably just fine. It's me who is feeling strange. My daughters made the dinner I used to make. We ate it mid-day, just not at night. And I'm here, in my office, and not at home. I'm the one who's out of my comfort zone. And, like most times of sadness, it's really, when I think about it, all about me. What I want. Not what--like a worship experience--I can give other people.
When I think about it, perhaps Christmas isn't a time to be "stuck in tradition". After all, the birth of the Christ child was hardly traditional. It was, instead, an unprecedented event, an event that changed everything. From that moment on, nothing was ever quite the same.
I'm not giving up on tradition, of course. The eight and nine year olds will still be awake when I get home. The stockings will still have to be tended to. But I will have shared, in ways I never have before, the Christmas Eve experience. I hope that in my life, now, every Christmas Eve will have something just a little bit different, something it's never had before.
Merry Christmas. And many more.

The Pageant!

2007-12-13T09:49:00.000-08:00

People are running down the hall bearing mounds of fluffy fabric, leaving behind trails of white fuzz.
That can only mean one thing--sheep costumes! Lots and lots of sheep costumes. And cows. Lots of cows.
Because in the best tradition of the children's Christmas pageant, the smallest kids are the animals that crowd around the manger.And we have lots of small children.
They're unbearably cute. However, getting them up onto the chancel, where they can be seen, all at one time, all in more or less one place, all singing more or less the same words--well, during practice, chaos is the word that comes into my mind as one takes off down the aisle, a couple of more explore the piano, our little cow princess takes a twirl in the center of the floor. I think I'll take a moment here to explain about our cow princess. The princess, a lovely and very bright pre-schooler, insisted that she play the part of a princess in the production. Rebecca, our gifted and incredibly patient director of Children's ministry, told her that there weren't princesses in this story. "Well", said the little one, "there are kings. If there are kings, there must be princesses!"
Its hard to disagree with that. Suddenly envisioning a plethora of princesses, Rebecca responded nobly. "The cows have a secret princess. You must not tell anyone that you are, under this cow pancho, a princess!" Which I think is working, but we'll see.
Chaos. However, I think it probably was chaotic two thousand years ago. We're used to seeing the lovely representations of the Nativity, Joseph and Mary beaming down at the sparkling babe, animals standing around reverently, shepherds bowing.
Except Bethlehem, that night, was full to overflowing. People were everywhere, trying to find a place to sleep. I suspect that Joseph and Mary weren't the only people who couldn't find room at the inn. Many of those travellers must have come on donkeys--creating a animal gridlock and stabling problem. Children were probably running around, with parents trying to keep them close. The sheep, I am sure, weren't lined up neatly. Sheep never line up neatly.
Which brings me back to our little animals. They probably won't line up neatly on the 16th, for the pageant.
Cows and sheep may be wandering off, or dancing to the music in their heads. And that's going to be great. Because Christmas isn't, to me, about perfection. It's about a child being born. He was welcomed then in confusion and chaos. We will do that too, this year. We will, in confusion and chaos, once again welcome the Christ child in our midst.

Hello, God

2007-12-05T14:07:00.001-08:00

Since this is the first post, I suppose I need to do let you get to know me--at least a bit. You can read my bio elsewhere on the site--so I won't repeat it.
But I think I should say that I am as surprised as anyone else that I am now a pastor in the Presbyterian Church.
Looking back, I can see lots of signs that I had an interest in, an affinity for, things spiritual. Hindsight is easy.
And of course I ignored it all. I can make the excuse--and its true--that there were few role models in the religious world if you weren't Catholic and didn't want to be a nun. In my Protestant world, men were ministers, preachers, and women did Sunday School. Not interested. But that wasn't really the issue. The issue was that I ignored everything about me that felt connected to something greater. Until I just couldn't do it anymore.
I spent most of my life treating God as a telemarketer--you know, "God calling? Sorry, I already have religion. I gave at the church. Thank you, and have a nice day."
However, it seems that no matter how many times I hung up, God kept on calling. Until I finally listened. And so here I am. Not without faults, not without doubts, not without false starts, and not at all sure of what I am doing, most of the time. If you read this blog in the future, I feel sure the faults, the doubts, the by-ways of my journey will be amply demonstrated.
But I have learned that God exists, and has purpose, and that we, if we choose, can be a part of that purpose, that we can live lives that have meaning beyond our immediate joys and sorrows. And most of all, that although a faith journey is highly personal, and for many of us somewhat private, it is not something to be taken alone. We are in this together. And I hope that some of you, reading this, will take me along for your journey, and join me in mine.