Rev. Ellen Alston
A candle wick with dancing flame can focus my sight and thinking. For these few moments, all other reality pales and melts away at the edge of my spirit’s peripheral vision. My senses fill with light, heat, “rainwater” aroma, the pungent taste of struck-match sulphur, and a stillness punctuated by crackles and palpable silence. My breath deepens and slows.
“I’m lighting a candle for you,” a friend says, and these simple words, like a laser beam, pierce and connect layers of memory and meaning:
-Candles I’ve seen burning in the holiest of times and places: sparks that mark a moment or a sense of momentum.
-The primal pull to gather up and circle around a lively flame, singing “rounds” and leaning into syncopating tunes and telling of the Story, while flickering lights and playful shadows prance and glance on each face and being.
-The Advent wreath: devotional center for hearth and home – teaching and reaching for the practice of waiting and watching and trusting God’s life and leading that are well ahead of us, but never apart from us.
-My earliest role of leadership in the church: to process with “the Light of Christ” from the back of the sanctuary to the altar at the front, where burn the pillars of timeless tradition and promise in Christ, reminding us of who we are and how we are sent to bear that Light for the world as we depart to serve.
And my favorite… the transformative, down-to-the-molecular-level chemical reaction and inside-out change wrought in and through the tongues of fire. Hovering, slightly and surely tethered to the earth by a single waxen cord, yet rising and aspiring to stand bright and tall, how like my heart and mind is that attentive flame!
Spirit of the Living God, purify my thoughts and motivations, even my prayers, as I am consumed and forever made new by your Love! AMEN.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
Beckoning the Light
Ellen Blue
As I mentioned in my post on Lauren Winner’s chapter about Sabbath, I was invited to have Sabbath dinner at the home of Barbara and David Kline one Friday while David was rabbi at Temple B’nai Israel in Monroe. David is a reform rabbi, but the Klines chose to keep kosher, a decision that made cooking the meal a spiritual task in itself.
Having taken a graduate-level course in the history of Bible lands and done my paper on women’s role in Judaism, I knew more than the average non-Jew about what to expect. I was nevertheless unprepared for the profound spirituality of the meal and the extent to which its sacredness flowed directly from Barbara.
I had learned that the temple’s destruction caused great change in Jewish religious expression, and that the focus moved from temple/sacrifice to synagogue/law during the Exile. The home’s dining table became the new altar, and though a very different kind of ritual occurred there, it was no less important.
I’d read about the candle lighting that signaled the beginning of Sabbath and knew that the woman whose home the meal took place in performed it. I knew Barbara would reach forward and make a gesture of beckoning, drawing the light toward her. But just as reading about Eucharist is no substitute for having taken communion in a community of beloved companions, the power of this ritual escaped me until I sat at Barbara Kline’s table as she performed it. The creation of sacred space and time requires confidence and spiritual presence – gravitas – and the sacredness of that meal astonished me.
This does not mean that David and their daughter were not eager and involved participants. I believe their meal occurred each week with just as much significance and joy. All three were completely present to the ritual and performed their roles, including the singing of songs, completely unselfconsciously. David also interpreted for my husband and me what the Hebrew meant and what the blessings signified.
Jim and I left Monroe in 1995, and the Klines don’t live there now, either. When I began to think about this post, I googled them. I first encountered an article about their daughter. Shira is their youngest child and the one who still lived at home when we were guests. What David did impressed me; what Barbara did, preparing the meal and presiding at the table, impressed me more. But what impressed me most was how their daughter, then in her early teens, was so comfortable and happy with the ritual that she had no reservations at all about participating, even singing, in front of strangers.
In fact, Shira became a professional musician. She moved to New York and worked in theatre for a while. In April 2010, she told Julie Wiener of _The Jewish Week_ that “the only problem with theater was it canceled Shabbat completely. There was a show every Friday night.” I can see why she would find it such a loss. The richness of the experience, the opportunity to disengage, not in a negative turning away from the world but in a positive turning inward toward the sacred, made that meal one of the most meaningful spiritual events of my life. I am grateful still.
As I mentioned in my post on Lauren Winner’s chapter about Sabbath, I was invited to have Sabbath dinner at the home of Barbara and David Kline one Friday while David was rabbi at Temple B’nai Israel in Monroe. David is a reform rabbi, but the Klines chose to keep kosher, a decision that made cooking the meal a spiritual task in itself.
Having taken a graduate-level course in the history of Bible lands and done my paper on women’s role in Judaism, I knew more than the average non-Jew about what to expect. I was nevertheless unprepared for the profound spirituality of the meal and the extent to which its sacredness flowed directly from Barbara.
I had learned that the temple’s destruction caused great change in Jewish religious expression, and that the focus moved from temple/sacrifice to synagogue/law during the Exile. The home’s dining table became the new altar, and though a very different kind of ritual occurred there, it was no less important.
I’d read about the candle lighting that signaled the beginning of Sabbath and knew that the woman whose home the meal took place in performed it. I knew Barbara would reach forward and make a gesture of beckoning, drawing the light toward her. But just as reading about Eucharist is no substitute for having taken communion in a community of beloved companions, the power of this ritual escaped me until I sat at Barbara Kline’s table as she performed it. The creation of sacred space and time requires confidence and spiritual presence – gravitas – and the sacredness of that meal astonished me.
This does not mean that David and their daughter were not eager and involved participants. I believe their meal occurred each week with just as much significance and joy. All three were completely present to the ritual and performed their roles, including the singing of songs, completely unselfconsciously. David also interpreted for my husband and me what the Hebrew meant and what the blessings signified.
Jim and I left Monroe in 1995, and the Klines don’t live there now, either. When I began to think about this post, I googled them. I first encountered an article about their daughter. Shira is their youngest child and the one who still lived at home when we were guests. What David did impressed me; what Barbara did, preparing the meal and presiding at the table, impressed me more. But what impressed me most was how their daughter, then in her early teens, was so comfortable and happy with the ritual that she had no reservations at all about participating, even singing, in front of strangers.
In fact, Shira became a professional musician. She moved to New York and worked in theatre for a while. In April 2010, she told Julie Wiener of _The Jewish Week_ that “the only problem with theater was it canceled Shabbat completely. There was a show every Friday night.” I can see why she would find it such a loss. The richness of the experience, the opportunity to disengage, not in a negative turning away from the world but in a positive turning inward toward the sacred, made that meal one of the most meaningful spiritual events of my life. I am grateful still.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Let There Be Light
Rabbi Dr. Jana L. De Benedetti
At the end of each description of each day of the first Creation story in Genesis it says, “There was evening and there was morning.” This teaches us that God defines a day as starting in the evening and continuing in the morning. Throughout the Torah (Five Books of Moses) God commands us to make certain days holy, including Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Passover, and Shavuot. In order to set those days apart from the ordinary days, we light candles before the sun sets, to welcome and sanctify the Holy Day.
Traditionally the candles are blessed at home, with the family gathered around. In many synagogues candles are blessed at the beginning of the evening worship service for the Holy Day. At home after the blessing for the candles is finished, the children are blessed – and often the spouses also are praised. The tradition of lighting two candles is thought to come from the fact that the two versions of the Decalogue (one in Exodus and one in Deuteronomy) command us about Shabbat in slightly different ways: one says, “keep” and one says, “remember.” We light two candles in order to do both. In some families instead of two separate candlesticks, a menorah is used. Some families have a tradition to use a menorah that has as many people as are in the immediate family. When I was growing up, we used a five-branch menorah until my sister was born, and then we switched to a seven-branch menorah.
The word “menorah” is mentioned many times in Torah when God is instructing how to make the seven branch menorah for the Tabernacle. This menorah later became the menorah in the Temple in Jerusalem which experienced the miracle of the oil at the Chanukah (dedication) of the Temple that inspired the lighting of the Chanukah menorah. A Chanukah menorah has eight branches, representing the eight days of the miracle, and of the holiday, plus one branch used for lighting the rest. It is obvious from the biblical explanations of lighting a menorah that for thousands of years, they were burning oil lights, and only recently wax candles became more common.
The candle lighting “ceremony” is a beautiful, spiritual way to usher in and sanctify the Holy Day that is about to begin. Since God forbade work on every one of the Holy Days, we need to be sure to light the candles before sunset. We also light them before we say the blessing. Every other blessing we say comes before we do the thing we bless – we bless the particular food before we eat it, we say a blessing for doing a commandment before we do the commandment. However, since we are forbidden to light a fire on Holy Days (and especially Shabbat), we are careful to light the fire before the sun goes down. The procedure is to light the candles, then block the light of the candles from your view by either covering your eyes or having your hands block the light of the candle from your view, then say the blessing that reminds us that God is the Ruler of the Universe and commanded us to light the Holy Day / Shabbat lights, and then finally move our hands away so that we can see the lights – as if for the first time. There is a common tradition to add another few meaningful steps… one is that after lighting the candles, and before saying the blessing, we move our hands as if to bring the light closer to us – to physically welcome and invite the Holy day into our lives. Often people say a silent, personal blessing after the candle blessing is said and before we look at the candles – it is another powerful way to recognize how close we are to God and God is to us as the Holy Day begins. Most often the candle lighting and blessing is done by the woman of the home. If there is no woman, a man should do it, and as described above, the whole family should participate. It is a powerful thing to acknowledge that most often in the home, the woman is responsible for the spiritual light of the family.
Light is often used as a symbol for the spiritual – and even for the spirit. There is a tradition among many Jews to light a candle as a reminder of the spirit of a deceased loved one. A tall candle is lit immediately after a funeral – and the candle will burn continuously for 7 days. As this candle slowly burns down it becomes an almost physical way of releasing the spirit of the loved one, and helping us to move on. Then on each anniversary of the loved one’s death, a candle is lit in the evening of the anniversary – this candle burns at least 24 hours. It serves as a reminder for the entire day of the anniversary of the death. The Holy Days also incorporate special prayers and readings to honor and remember those we loved who are gone.
Light is a powerful symbol of the divine spark that makes us human. A wonderful aspect of candlelight is that when we share it, the world becomes even brighter. Usually when something is shared, each person gets a part of what is shared. When sharing light, each person gets to let their own light shine, which significantly increases the light in the world. By lighting candles as the sun sets, we are reminded that even a small light dispels the darkness. We pray that we can bring awareness of the enlightenment of God’s spirit into the world.
At the end of each description of each day of the first Creation story in Genesis it says, “There was evening and there was morning.” This teaches us that God defines a day as starting in the evening and continuing in the morning. Throughout the Torah (Five Books of Moses) God commands us to make certain days holy, including Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Passover, and Shavuot. In order to set those days apart from the ordinary days, we light candles before the sun sets, to welcome and sanctify the Holy Day.
Traditionally the candles are blessed at home, with the family gathered around. In many synagogues candles are blessed at the beginning of the evening worship service for the Holy Day. At home after the blessing for the candles is finished, the children are blessed – and often the spouses also are praised. The tradition of lighting two candles is thought to come from the fact that the two versions of the Decalogue (one in Exodus and one in Deuteronomy) command us about Shabbat in slightly different ways: one says, “keep” and one says, “remember.” We light two candles in order to do both. In some families instead of two separate candlesticks, a menorah is used. Some families have a tradition to use a menorah that has as many people as are in the immediate family. When I was growing up, we used a five-branch menorah until my sister was born, and then we switched to a seven-branch menorah.
The word “menorah” is mentioned many times in Torah when God is instructing how to make the seven branch menorah for the Tabernacle. This menorah later became the menorah in the Temple in Jerusalem which experienced the miracle of the oil at the Chanukah (dedication) of the Temple that inspired the lighting of the Chanukah menorah. A Chanukah menorah has eight branches, representing the eight days of the miracle, and of the holiday, plus one branch used for lighting the rest. It is obvious from the biblical explanations of lighting a menorah that for thousands of years, they were burning oil lights, and only recently wax candles became more common.
The candle lighting “ceremony” is a beautiful, spiritual way to usher in and sanctify the Holy Day that is about to begin. Since God forbade work on every one of the Holy Days, we need to be sure to light the candles before sunset. We also light them before we say the blessing. Every other blessing we say comes before we do the thing we bless – we bless the particular food before we eat it, we say a blessing for doing a commandment before we do the commandment. However, since we are forbidden to light a fire on Holy Days (and especially Shabbat), we are careful to light the fire before the sun goes down. The procedure is to light the candles, then block the light of the candles from your view by either covering your eyes or having your hands block the light of the candle from your view, then say the blessing that reminds us that God is the Ruler of the Universe and commanded us to light the Holy Day / Shabbat lights, and then finally move our hands away so that we can see the lights – as if for the first time. There is a common tradition to add another few meaningful steps… one is that after lighting the candles, and before saying the blessing, we move our hands as if to bring the light closer to us – to physically welcome and invite the Holy day into our lives. Often people say a silent, personal blessing after the candle blessing is said and before we look at the candles – it is another powerful way to recognize how close we are to God and God is to us as the Holy Day begins. Most often the candle lighting and blessing is done by the woman of the home. If there is no woman, a man should do it, and as described above, the whole family should participate. It is a powerful thing to acknowledge that most often in the home, the woman is responsible for the spiritual light of the family.
Light is often used as a symbol for the spiritual – and even for the spirit. There is a tradition among many Jews to light a candle as a reminder of the spirit of a deceased loved one. A tall candle is lit immediately after a funeral – and the candle will burn continuously for 7 days. As this candle slowly burns down it becomes an almost physical way of releasing the spirit of the loved one, and helping us to move on. Then on each anniversary of the loved one’s death, a candle is lit in the evening of the anniversary – this candle burns at least 24 hours. It serves as a reminder for the entire day of the anniversary of the death. The Holy Days also incorporate special prayers and readings to honor and remember those we loved who are gone.
Light is a powerful symbol of the divine spark that makes us human. A wonderful aspect of candlelight is that when we share it, the world becomes even brighter. Usually when something is shared, each person gets a part of what is shared. When sharing light, each person gets to let their own light shine, which significantly increases the light in the world. By lighting candles as the sun sets, we are reminded that even a small light dispels the darkness. We pray that we can bring awareness of the enlightenment of God’s spirit into the world.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Never Grow Old?
Rev. Joseph Awotwi
As I blog on aging an old song comes to mind. I do not recall who sang it. The words are, “Growing old, growing old, I wish I’ll never grow old.” A struggle for me that I have not shared is about aging and how we treat the body. It is a struggle for me because I see people who are making every effort to hide the fact that they are aging. This is done through manipulation of the body. They color the hair black to hide all traces of graying – a sign of growing old. My own dad at the age of hundred had “black hair.” I had never known him not to have black hair. I am not against looking young or beautiful but to what extent do we give credit to the God that created us when we choose to make our gray hair black? Or re-shape our eyebrows to make them look as Hollywood tells us they should look? What does that say about God’s creativity? Should we encourage breast augmentation? Or surgery to remove the wrinkles that tell that I am getting older? What do these practices say about our God’s creativity? If I really believe that God made me, and God’s creation is good, and God is proud of God’s creation why would I indulge in any such practice? It is an ongoing struggle – looking young and giving honor to God for God’s beautiful creation without the implied action that God did not do a good enough job. I love the Rabbinic story in Lauren Winner’s book about Abraham and his son and old age. I wish it were in the Bible!
When does aging begin? How can Christians grow old or age gracefully? As I thought about Christians aging I realized that I cannot recollect one time that I heard a sermon [or personally preached one!] that spoke directly to aging. Magazines and studies about aging are marketed to “mature citizens” instead of all Christians. How can our faith communities embrace and speak about aging when collectively we have not seen it as important enough to speak to it in an arena of all Christians? Alas! We have once again allowed the un-Christian culture to set the pace for us Christians to follow.
I happen to have a young-ish appearance. I recall when in the mid-seventies I grew a beard only because I wanted to look older. A supervisor about twenty years my senior said to me that she knew why I was growing a beard. Then added, “You think it makes you look old. It really does not.” Having burst my bubble, I considered dying my beard gray! When we are young we want to be old; when we are old we want to be young. How can we grow up and not sing, “I wish I’ll never grow old?” Is it because we are afraid of what happens to us in old age that someone sang those words?
When I look over my life I realize that what we do to the body and our concern (or is it fear?) about growing old are but symptoms of a deeper issue. That deeper issue is lack of gratitude to God for God’s creation – me. Tied to that is lack of thankfulness to God for how God has made me. In view of this awareness I wish all would join me this Lenten season in a new way of praying.
PRAYER: I thank you God for my kinky hair, now part black and part white. I thank you God for my eyebrows that you made in your wisdom and not by Hollywood standard. I thank you God for my nose that some think is too big and others think it is too small. I thank you for my lips that are not thick enough for some people who can’t even draw a lip, and too thick for others that cannot make a lip out of clay. Please Lord, double my love for you and my wisdom for each evidence of aging seen in me. Amen.
As I blog on aging an old song comes to mind. I do not recall who sang it. The words are, “Growing old, growing old, I wish I’ll never grow old.” A struggle for me that I have not shared is about aging and how we treat the body. It is a struggle for me because I see people who are making every effort to hide the fact that they are aging. This is done through manipulation of the body. They color the hair black to hide all traces of graying – a sign of growing old. My own dad at the age of hundred had “black hair.” I had never known him not to have black hair. I am not against looking young or beautiful but to what extent do we give credit to the God that created us when we choose to make our gray hair black? Or re-shape our eyebrows to make them look as Hollywood tells us they should look? What does that say about God’s creativity? Should we encourage breast augmentation? Or surgery to remove the wrinkles that tell that I am getting older? What do these practices say about our God’s creativity? If I really believe that God made me, and God’s creation is good, and God is proud of God’s creation why would I indulge in any such practice? It is an ongoing struggle – looking young and giving honor to God for God’s beautiful creation without the implied action that God did not do a good enough job. I love the Rabbinic story in Lauren Winner’s book about Abraham and his son and old age. I wish it were in the Bible!
When does aging begin? How can Christians grow old or age gracefully? As I thought about Christians aging I realized that I cannot recollect one time that I heard a sermon [or personally preached one!] that spoke directly to aging. Magazines and studies about aging are marketed to “mature citizens” instead of all Christians. How can our faith communities embrace and speak about aging when collectively we have not seen it as important enough to speak to it in an arena of all Christians? Alas! We have once again allowed the un-Christian culture to set the pace for us Christians to follow.
I happen to have a young-ish appearance. I recall when in the mid-seventies I grew a beard only because I wanted to look older. A supervisor about twenty years my senior said to me that she knew why I was growing a beard. Then added, “You think it makes you look old. It really does not.” Having burst my bubble, I considered dying my beard gray! When we are young we want to be old; when we are old we want to be young. How can we grow up and not sing, “I wish I’ll never grow old?” Is it because we are afraid of what happens to us in old age that someone sang those words?
When I look over my life I realize that what we do to the body and our concern (or is it fear?) about growing old are but symptoms of a deeper issue. That deeper issue is lack of gratitude to God for God’s creation – me. Tied to that is lack of thankfulness to God for how God has made me. In view of this awareness I wish all would join me this Lenten season in a new way of praying.
PRAYER: I thank you God for my kinky hair, now part black and part white. I thank you God for my eyebrows that you made in your wisdom and not by Hollywood standard. I thank you God for my nose that some think is too big and others think it is too small. I thank you for my lips that are not thick enough for some people who can’t even draw a lip, and too thick for others that cannot make a lip out of clay. Please Lord, double my love for you and my wisdom for each evidence of aging seen in me. Amen.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
The Gray Hairs I Covet
Rev. Valerie Robideaux
“Hi! Welcome to Centenary! You can find a seat over there. Are your parents here?” The Centenary student-admissions ambassador was very welcoming. She had a lovely smile that could put any first-year student at ease on their summer visit to enroll in classes. I smiled back at her and thanked her for her warm display of hospitality and responded, “Oh, thanks but I work here.” That’s right. I was 28 and mistaken for 18. I have several other stories like this, such as being carded at a movie theatre because the PG-13 movie was going to let out past state curfew for minors 16 and under. I was 24 and married.
Many adults tell me I will one day be thankful for my youthful appearance; however, as a young professional on a college campus, I find this cultural crown of blessing a bit thorny. Because I often am mistaken for a minor, and quite possibly a pre-pubescent boy when I have really short hair, I admire my elders. I must confess that I look forward to salt and pepper hair, wrinkles on my face, and the wisdom gained through life experiences.
Lauren Winner states, “The Hebrew word sayvah, gray –as in gray hair –is etymologically connected to the word for repentance, teshuva: The process of aging, then, is the process of setting wrong things right” (99). I long for the time and space to set wrong things right. I often live in constant fear of failure, getting in trouble, and disappointing others. I don’t know about you, but I am very grateful for the gift of time, maturity, and reflection.
Is the season of Lent really a gift of time and reflection, a process of setting wrong things right? Perhaps this is a season for aging—for spiritually maturing. When I allow myself time to slow down and breathe and space for the Holy Spirit to move, God’s eternal perspective begins to invade my fears. I don’t know about you, but I am very grateful for that gift.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; enjoying one moment at a time; accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His will; that I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him forever in the next. Amen. (Serenity Prayer, Reinhold Niebuhr)
“Hi! Welcome to Centenary! You can find a seat over there. Are your parents here?” The Centenary student-admissions ambassador was very welcoming. She had a lovely smile that could put any first-year student at ease on their summer visit to enroll in classes. I smiled back at her and thanked her for her warm display of hospitality and responded, “Oh, thanks but I work here.” That’s right. I was 28 and mistaken for 18. I have several other stories like this, such as being carded at a movie theatre because the PG-13 movie was going to let out past state curfew for minors 16 and under. I was 24 and married.
Many adults tell me I will one day be thankful for my youthful appearance; however, as a young professional on a college campus, I find this cultural crown of blessing a bit thorny. Because I often am mistaken for a minor, and quite possibly a pre-pubescent boy when I have really short hair, I admire my elders. I must confess that I look forward to salt and pepper hair, wrinkles on my face, and the wisdom gained through life experiences.
Lauren Winner states, “The Hebrew word sayvah, gray –as in gray hair –is etymologically connected to the word for repentance, teshuva: The process of aging, then, is the process of setting wrong things right” (99). I long for the time and space to set wrong things right. I often live in constant fear of failure, getting in trouble, and disappointing others. I don’t know about you, but I am very grateful for the gift of time, maturity, and reflection.
Is the season of Lent really a gift of time and reflection, a process of setting wrong things right? Perhaps this is a season for aging—for spiritually maturing. When I allow myself time to slow down and breathe and space for the Holy Spirit to move, God’s eternal perspective begins to invade my fears. I don’t know about you, but I am very grateful for that gift.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; enjoying one moment at a time; accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His will; that I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him forever in the next. Amen. (Serenity Prayer, Reinhold Niebuhr)
Friday, March 23, 2012
A Holy Obligation
Rev. Mimi McDowell
When I grow up, I want to be like Sally. Sally turned 91 a few months ago. I visited her recently in her new home. She just moved to a small one-bedroom apartment at a retirement community, leaving the townhome where she had lived for many years. She wasn’t forced to move though. Sally made the decision herself because she knew the time had come.
Unlike many people, who minimalize or deny the effects of aging, Sally is very honest about it. When I visited with her at a church function a few months ago, Sally said to me, “I am fine, but I have had a few falls lately. I haven’t been hurt, but it has begun to concern me. When the time comes that I don’t need to live alone, I am going to move to an assisted living facility. I don’t want to put that burden on my family. They have been so good to me, but they should not have to be forced to make that decision for me.” Sally didn’t want her family to feel obligated to take care of her; so when the time came, she made the decision for herself.
Lauren Winner tells us that Jewish tradition holds that “the aged are not to be dismissed or ignored, but honored.” (Mudhouse Sabbath, p. 94) And with that comes an obligation to care for our elders. An obligation that is, at times, simple and joyous; and at its most difficult it is often exhausting and burdensome. We don’t often like to think in terms of obligation. It seems to me to carry a tone of legalism, and there is some truth in that. An obligation is a binding promise, a contract, a sense of duty. It requires our faithful attention to the person or task at hand. But it isn’t an empty, meaningless contract. In fact, as Winner points out, obligations are the bedrock of our relationship with God and they govern many of our relationships with others.
Let’s face it, we are all aging. I am now 54 years-old and, almost daily, I notice something new about this aging body – a new ache or pain, increasing difficulty in reading the small print, a new wrinkle here or there, or the way the fat seems to shift to new places in my body. But, if I am lucky, I will live to age as gracefully as Sally. Yet no matter how I age, I won’t live forever. As the saying goes, “None of us are getting out of here alive.”
So today I met with an attorney to discuss my Last Will and Testament. I made decisions about how my assets and possessions will be disbursed after my death. Not a particularly cheery thing to think about, but a necessary one. I also executed a Durable Power of Attorney that gives another person the authority and, dare I say, the obligation to care for me if/when I am no longer able to do it myself. I chose a person whom I love and trust implicitly and one who I know will take this obligation very seriously. Because, in the end, what more sacred and holy obligation can there be than to care for ones we love? Seems like I remember Jesus saying something about that …
“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” (John 15:12)
When I grow up, I want to be like Sally. Sally turned 91 a few months ago. I visited her recently in her new home. She just moved to a small one-bedroom apartment at a retirement community, leaving the townhome where she had lived for many years. She wasn’t forced to move though. Sally made the decision herself because she knew the time had come.
Unlike many people, who minimalize or deny the effects of aging, Sally is very honest about it. When I visited with her at a church function a few months ago, Sally said to me, “I am fine, but I have had a few falls lately. I haven’t been hurt, but it has begun to concern me. When the time comes that I don’t need to live alone, I am going to move to an assisted living facility. I don’t want to put that burden on my family. They have been so good to me, but they should not have to be forced to make that decision for me.” Sally didn’t want her family to feel obligated to take care of her; so when the time came, she made the decision for herself.
Lauren Winner tells us that Jewish tradition holds that “the aged are not to be dismissed or ignored, but honored.” (Mudhouse Sabbath, p. 94) And with that comes an obligation to care for our elders. An obligation that is, at times, simple and joyous; and at its most difficult it is often exhausting and burdensome. We don’t often like to think in terms of obligation. It seems to me to carry a tone of legalism, and there is some truth in that. An obligation is a binding promise, a contract, a sense of duty. It requires our faithful attention to the person or task at hand. But it isn’t an empty, meaningless contract. In fact, as Winner points out, obligations are the bedrock of our relationship with God and they govern many of our relationships with others.
Let’s face it, we are all aging. I am now 54 years-old and, almost daily, I notice something new about this aging body – a new ache or pain, increasing difficulty in reading the small print, a new wrinkle here or there, or the way the fat seems to shift to new places in my body. But, if I am lucky, I will live to age as gracefully as Sally. Yet no matter how I age, I won’t live forever. As the saying goes, “None of us are getting out of here alive.”
So today I met with an attorney to discuss my Last Will and Testament. I made decisions about how my assets and possessions will be disbursed after my death. Not a particularly cheery thing to think about, but a necessary one. I also executed a Durable Power of Attorney that gives another person the authority and, dare I say, the obligation to care for me if/when I am no longer able to do it myself. I chose a person whom I love and trust implicitly and one who I know will take this obligation very seriously. Because, in the end, what more sacred and holy obligation can there be than to care for ones we love? Seems like I remember Jesus saying something about that …
“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” (John 15:12)
Thursday, March 22, 2012
God says it...that settles it
Rabbi Dr. Jana L. De Benedetti
Hebrew Scriptures often mention looking to elders for advice, for leadership, for good judgment. We are taught in many ways to honor and respect our elders. There are also wonderful lessons about aging gracefully. I will share one timely lesson with you.
Passover is coming soon. In the Hebrew Scriptures we find a few places that list almost identical details about how we are to observe the holy day. Scholars have wondered why there needs to be a repetition. When God commands, once should be enough. In the Talmud it teaches that we need the repetition because we forget. If we weren’t created to be creatures that forget some things, then studying the Scriptures would become unnecessary after the first time. We would read it once, and know it. By describing the same thing more than once, God is gently teaching us that it is ok to forget, and it is great to re-examine something. Each time we look at the same thing as we age we see it differently. Another story in the Talmud teaches that it is not the text that changes each time we look at it – we change, we are different each time we look at the text. It is a blessing to gain years and experience and get to see things again. In my congregation, as we get older, we like being reminded that it is ok to forget.
Hebrew Scriptures often mention looking to elders for advice, for leadership, for good judgment. We are taught in many ways to honor and respect our elders. There are also wonderful lessons about aging gracefully. I will share one timely lesson with you.
Passover is coming soon. In the Hebrew Scriptures we find a few places that list almost identical details about how we are to observe the holy day. Scholars have wondered why there needs to be a repetition. When God commands, once should be enough. In the Talmud it teaches that we need the repetition because we forget. If we weren’t created to be creatures that forget some things, then studying the Scriptures would become unnecessary after the first time. We would read it once, and know it. By describing the same thing more than once, God is gently teaching us that it is ok to forget, and it is great to re-examine something. Each time we look at the same thing as we age we see it differently. Another story in the Talmud teaches that it is not the text that changes each time we look at it – we change, we are different each time we look at the text. It is a blessing to gain years and experience and get to see things again. In my congregation, as we get older, we like being reminded that it is ok to forget.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Fasting as seriousness of the spirit ... no really
Rev. Tom Dolph
“At the heart of [fasting] is a desire to shift our attention away from our immediate needs and to focus more on spiritual concerns.” So says Lauren Winner as she unintentionally sums up my problem with the practice of fasting. You cannot imagine the number of jokes I have told about “giving up” broccoli, or board meetings, as my preferred form of fasting. I readily admit that fasting is not high on my priority list.
Unfortunately, I don’t think the reason fasting ranks so lowly in my preferences is just because I love food so much that I don’t want to go without. I have long understood that fasting is about more than just not eating. Though there is a “sacrificial” component to it, fasting has almost always been connected in my mind with the idea that its purpose was to tune our attention, in a more acute way, toward God. Here John Wesley’s words ricochet frequently through my brain: a “more weighty reason for fasting is, that it is a help to prayer.” He goes on to say that the profit of fasting is “seriousness of the spirit, earnestness, sensibility and tenderness of conscience, deadness to the world, and consequently the love of God.” As I’ve said, in my head I know this to be true. So why don’t I fast? If the problem doesn’t really lie with my love of food or my understanding of the practice, what is holding me back? Enter Winner’s highly convicting words “At the heart … is a DESIRE to shift our attention…”
I have to face the reality that my own desires may, in fact, be holding me back from gaining ground in “seriousness of the spirit and the Love of God.” Oh how I wish I could abstain from owning that claim, but I cannot. My desires, what I want -- to do, to be, to have, deeply distract my focus, my attention. As long as my attention is turned elsewhere I will be missing what God wants me to do, to be, to have. Crap, now I may have to give fasting a shot…
“At the heart of [fasting] is a desire to shift our attention away from our immediate needs and to focus more on spiritual concerns.” So says Lauren Winner as she unintentionally sums up my problem with the practice of fasting. You cannot imagine the number of jokes I have told about “giving up” broccoli, or board meetings, as my preferred form of fasting. I readily admit that fasting is not high on my priority list.
Unfortunately, I don’t think the reason fasting ranks so lowly in my preferences is just because I love food so much that I don’t want to go without. I have long understood that fasting is about more than just not eating. Though there is a “sacrificial” component to it, fasting has almost always been connected in my mind with the idea that its purpose was to tune our attention, in a more acute way, toward God. Here John Wesley’s words ricochet frequently through my brain: a “more weighty reason for fasting is, that it is a help to prayer.” He goes on to say that the profit of fasting is “seriousness of the spirit, earnestness, sensibility and tenderness of conscience, deadness to the world, and consequently the love of God.” As I’ve said, in my head I know this to be true. So why don’t I fast? If the problem doesn’t really lie with my love of food or my understanding of the practice, what is holding me back? Enter Winner’s highly convicting words “At the heart … is a DESIRE to shift our attention…”
I have to face the reality that my own desires may, in fact, be holding me back from gaining ground in “seriousness of the spirit and the Love of God.” Oh how I wish I could abstain from owning that claim, but I cannot. My desires, what I want -- to do, to be, to have, deeply distract my focus, my attention. As long as my attention is turned elsewhere I will be missing what God wants me to do, to be, to have. Crap, now I may have to give fasting a shot…
Saturday, March 17, 2012
A slow fast
Rabbi Dr. Jana L. De Benedetti
When I think of fasting, I think of Yom Kippur. The fast begins before sundown, and continues for about 27 hours, since it doesn’t end until there are three stars in the sky the following night. There are five fasts: no food, no drink, no bathing/anointing, no sex, and no leather. We debate at my house whether no bathing includes not brushing teeth. We debate about whether no anointing includes no deodorant. There are no debates about drinking or eating. My students always giggle when we say “no sex.” That is obviously because any mention of sex makes students giggle. I usually tease them and say, “It is just one day – you can do without for just one day.” I have been known to be one of those people who wear my loveliest white dressy outfit (white is the color of purity and is traditionally worn on holy days), and even my white robe for conducting services – with cloth sneakers. In fact, I feel weird when I wear artificial leather shoes, in case someone may think that if the Rabbi is wearing “leather” shoes, they should be able to as well.
I do not think about the fast as a punishment – or even a hardship. Everyone has had at least one occasion when they have been so engrossed by whatever they were doing – reading a book, playing a game, spending time with friends, etc. – that they lost track of time, and kept going straight through meal time. I feel that on Yom Kippur my attention is on spiritual things – and I am so engrossed in the spiritual that I am not thinking about the physical needs.
There is also a different interpretation that says, given that our focus is on the spiritual, we are in some way “practicing” for death. We wear white as if we are wearing a shroud. We have no need to eat, or bathe, or put makeup on. We refrain from wearing leather so that we are not exploiting living creatures for our own sake. In fact, not having leather soles, makes us literally more “grounded” because we can feel the ground better – making us more aware of “dust to dust, returning to the ground.”
To be honest, I don’t like thinking about practicing for death. It is a symbolic way to remind us that we are guided to repent one day before we die. Yom Kippur is a day of Atonement, a day of Repentance. It is arguably the holiest day of the year (it is in a neck-and-neck battle with Shabbat/Sabbath for most important holy day). By the end of the day of fasting, praying and repenting, we hear the Shofar call, and feel that we are starting with a clean slate – like a white piece of paper (to match our white clothes). Fasting makes the feeling complete. Once we are done, we are starting over in many ways.
I do often wonder why we use the word “fast” for something that is so slow. Once it is over, most people feel like it went by quickly, and they could keep fasting – it’s not so difficult. Thankfully, we are commanded to break the fast at the end of the day – just like we are commanded to eat sufficiently well beforehand to be able to survive the fast. It is not about physical suffering. Fasts are about getting an opportunity to focus on the spiritual, and then taking what we have learned and going forward with life.
When I think of fasting, I think of Yom Kippur. The fast begins before sundown, and continues for about 27 hours, since it doesn’t end until there are three stars in the sky the following night. There are five fasts: no food, no drink, no bathing/anointing, no sex, and no leather. We debate at my house whether no bathing includes not brushing teeth. We debate about whether no anointing includes no deodorant. There are no debates about drinking or eating. My students always giggle when we say “no sex.” That is obviously because any mention of sex makes students giggle. I usually tease them and say, “It is just one day – you can do without for just one day.” I have been known to be one of those people who wear my loveliest white dressy outfit (white is the color of purity and is traditionally worn on holy days), and even my white robe for conducting services – with cloth sneakers. In fact, I feel weird when I wear artificial leather shoes, in case someone may think that if the Rabbi is wearing “leather” shoes, they should be able to as well.
I do not think about the fast as a punishment – or even a hardship. Everyone has had at least one occasion when they have been so engrossed by whatever they were doing – reading a book, playing a game, spending time with friends, etc. – that they lost track of time, and kept going straight through meal time. I feel that on Yom Kippur my attention is on spiritual things – and I am so engrossed in the spiritual that I am not thinking about the physical needs.
There is also a different interpretation that says, given that our focus is on the spiritual, we are in some way “practicing” for death. We wear white as if we are wearing a shroud. We have no need to eat, or bathe, or put makeup on. We refrain from wearing leather so that we are not exploiting living creatures for our own sake. In fact, not having leather soles, makes us literally more “grounded” because we can feel the ground better – making us more aware of “dust to dust, returning to the ground.”
To be honest, I don’t like thinking about practicing for death. It is a symbolic way to remind us that we are guided to repent one day before we die. Yom Kippur is a day of Atonement, a day of Repentance. It is arguably the holiest day of the year (it is in a neck-and-neck battle with Shabbat/Sabbath for most important holy day). By the end of the day of fasting, praying and repenting, we hear the Shofar call, and feel that we are starting with a clean slate – like a white piece of paper (to match our white clothes). Fasting makes the feeling complete. Once we are done, we are starting over in many ways.
I do often wonder why we use the word “fast” for something that is so slow. Once it is over, most people feel like it went by quickly, and they could keep fasting – it’s not so difficult. Thankfully, we are commanded to break the fast at the end of the day – just like we are commanded to eat sufficiently well beforehand to be able to survive the fast. It is not about physical suffering. Fasts are about getting an opportunity to focus on the spiritual, and then taking what we have learned and going forward with life.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Straight up honest
Rev. Matt Rawle
This is a difficult post for me. I know that the body is to be a temple, but it’s a temple in which I’ve never been fully comfortable. It started in my formative years of middle school. My “friends” nicknamed me “The Manatee.” I thought it was because I was a nice guy who rarely got upset about anything, but it was because on a field trip we went to the beach and I looked like a manatee swimming through the waves. Since then I’ve always been self-conscious of my weight. I never wear t-shirts. I rarely wear shorts. I would have fit right in with the Puritan dress code of the early colonies. I joke about how I love winter because my clothes are finally in season.
Humor is often the way in which I cope with my unhappiness, especially about the skin I’m in. I have more chins and less hair than I want. I order salads in public to hide my sinful eating habits at home. Now, I will say that I went to Weight Watchers two years ago and lost 68 pounds. It was the best I’ve felt in years, but slowly I’m reverting back to bad habits. I’ve gained 25 pounds since I left the accountability of a public scale, and it’s straight-up depressing.
What am I supposed to say about the body, other than it matters. The body matters. It matters what we put into it. It matters what comes out of it. The body is so powerful that a single touch of another human being can bring healing, or create a damaging scar which lingers for a life time. Our bodies are so important that God chose one as the vehicle through which we find salvation.
If we pause for a moment and reflect on the incarnation, we may take issue with Paul’s strict dichotomy of works of the flesh and fruit of the Spirit. Matter matters. The Church is the body of Christ. Yes we are to have the mind of Christ. It is mind-blowing that the spirit of Christ lives within us, yet we are one body. Being a communal body means that we are to care for our personal bodies, but also the bodies of others. We are called to intervene when we see bodies being objectified. We are to feed the bodies that lack nourishment due to economic hardship. We are to care for the bodies which are ravaged with illness.
But who am I to preach about the body? It seems I’m more comfortable in the body of Christ than I am in my own. So, if anything, this is a post for my own eyes to read, that my daily struggle with health will bleed over into my concern for the health of the body of Christ.
This is a difficult post for me. I know that the body is to be a temple, but it’s a temple in which I’ve never been fully comfortable. It started in my formative years of middle school. My “friends” nicknamed me “The Manatee.” I thought it was because I was a nice guy who rarely got upset about anything, but it was because on a field trip we went to the beach and I looked like a manatee swimming through the waves. Since then I’ve always been self-conscious of my weight. I never wear t-shirts. I rarely wear shorts. I would have fit right in with the Puritan dress code of the early colonies. I joke about how I love winter because my clothes are finally in season.
Humor is often the way in which I cope with my unhappiness, especially about the skin I’m in. I have more chins and less hair than I want. I order salads in public to hide my sinful eating habits at home. Now, I will say that I went to Weight Watchers two years ago and lost 68 pounds. It was the best I’ve felt in years, but slowly I’m reverting back to bad habits. I’ve gained 25 pounds since I left the accountability of a public scale, and it’s straight-up depressing.
What am I supposed to say about the body, other than it matters. The body matters. It matters what we put into it. It matters what comes out of it. The body is so powerful that a single touch of another human being can bring healing, or create a damaging scar which lingers for a life time. Our bodies are so important that God chose one as the vehicle through which we find salvation.
If we pause for a moment and reflect on the incarnation, we may take issue with Paul’s strict dichotomy of works of the flesh and fruit of the Spirit. Matter matters. The Church is the body of Christ. Yes we are to have the mind of Christ. It is mind-blowing that the spirit of Christ lives within us, yet we are one body. Being a communal body means that we are to care for our personal bodies, but also the bodies of others. We are called to intervene when we see bodies being objectified. We are to feed the bodies that lack nourishment due to economic hardship. We are to care for the bodies which are ravaged with illness.
But who am I to preach about the body? It seems I’m more comfortable in the body of Christ than I am in my own. So, if anything, this is a post for my own eyes to read, that my daily struggle with health will bleed over into my concern for the health of the body of Christ.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Let’s Get Physical – and Spiritual
Rabbi Dr. Jana L. De Benedetti
When I saw that this chapter was called, “Guf” (which is pronounced like “goof” in the Hebrew), I was sure that it was going to discuss a mystical notion, which quite frankly, is (forgive the pun) “over my head.” I was glad to see that we are actually thinking about our bodies and how they are reflected in our faith – or how our faith is reflected in our bodies.
In some ways it is very true to say that faith is expressed with our whole bodies. There is a choreography to prayer, for example. Every B’rachah (“blessing” in Hebrew) begins with the word “Baruch.” It can be translated as “Blessed” or “Praised.” Rabbi Chaim Stern (of blessed memory) used to teach that the verb is used when we do it to God, and when God does it to us – but it can’t really be the same action. He liked to say “Praised” when we are doing it to God, and “Blessed” when God is doing it to us. The same Hebrew root letters are used for the word, “Berech” which means “knee.” In many faiths we bend our knees as part of a physical way of showing humility before and praising God.
It is also true that every physical act can be acknowledged with a blessing, thanking and praising God that our bodies function the way they do. Traditionally every morning our prayers include everything from removing sleep from the eyes, to helping the blind to see; making firm our steps and even having our organs and systems working to appreciate successful bathroom experiences.
As we have already discussed, consideration of our bodies includes what kinds of foods we eat, and even what kinds of clothes we wear. We are taught to take care of our body, because it is a gift from God.
We are also taught: “Do not look at the container, rather look at what is in it.” There was a story about an ugly rabbi who was a brilliant man – so smart that the king consulted with him often to get advice. One day the king’s daughter asked the rabbi how God could put such a smart brain into such an ugly man. The rabbi said he did not know. He then asked the daughter if she would like to do something to help her father. The father was preparing a banquet for many dignitaries that night. He asked the girl if the father was planning to serve wine to the guests. The daughter said that she was sure he would. The rabbi said that it looked like the wine was going to be served in clay pitchers, and perhaps she could pick the finest, loveliest pitchers for the wine, so that the father could impress his guests. The daughter put the wine in silver pitchers. Unfortunately, when the guests drank the wine that was in the silver pitchers, it tasted terrible. The silver had reacted with the silver and the wine had spoiled. He explained to her that the loveliest vessel on the outside may not be the best way to store precious things. The focus should have been on the wine, and not the pitcher. Of course, a lovely ceramic pitcher could have been chosen to impress the guests and also be better for serving the wine. We can acknowledge what looks good too.
Although much of the chapter about Guf in Mudhouse Sabbath was trying to make a point about body image, I realized something else as a result of reading her discussions. I felt that there are lessons to be learned about finding spirituality in the physical. It seemed that “Guf” was a way of representing the physical aspect of the human experience. I realized that most often in the lessons from the Scriptural writings, people became aware of God’s spirit through physical experiences. At Sinai, God’s presence was so palpable that we could “see” the words. For example, as we are in a period when we are step by step “reliving” the sequence of events that led to freedom, as represented by Passover, I started to realize how many times God’s spirit was understood only because of physical things happening around us: the burning bush, plagues, parting seas, manna, water from a rock, pillar of smoke or fire – even the fact that we needed a Tabernacle with an Ark in the Holy of Holies – these were all ways that we, as physical beings could relate to the spiritual.
Acknowledging with awe the body that God has given us is another way for us to find God’s spirit. The spirit of God is in each of us. Often when we look for God we may try to find it in physical signs. Often the answer is within ourselves. We can learn to see our bodies as a spiritual gift and see our spirits as manifested in our bodies.
When I saw that this chapter was called, “Guf” (which is pronounced like “goof” in the Hebrew), I was sure that it was going to discuss a mystical notion, which quite frankly, is (forgive the pun) “over my head.” I was glad to see that we are actually thinking about our bodies and how they are reflected in our faith – or how our faith is reflected in our bodies.
In some ways it is very true to say that faith is expressed with our whole bodies. There is a choreography to prayer, for example. Every B’rachah (“blessing” in Hebrew) begins with the word “Baruch.” It can be translated as “Blessed” or “Praised.” Rabbi Chaim Stern (of blessed memory) used to teach that the verb is used when we do it to God, and when God does it to us – but it can’t really be the same action. He liked to say “Praised” when we are doing it to God, and “Blessed” when God is doing it to us. The same Hebrew root letters are used for the word, “Berech” which means “knee.” In many faiths we bend our knees as part of a physical way of showing humility before and praising God.
It is also true that every physical act can be acknowledged with a blessing, thanking and praising God that our bodies function the way they do. Traditionally every morning our prayers include everything from removing sleep from the eyes, to helping the blind to see; making firm our steps and even having our organs and systems working to appreciate successful bathroom experiences.
As we have already discussed, consideration of our bodies includes what kinds of foods we eat, and even what kinds of clothes we wear. We are taught to take care of our body, because it is a gift from God.
We are also taught: “Do not look at the container, rather look at what is in it.” There was a story about an ugly rabbi who was a brilliant man – so smart that the king consulted with him often to get advice. One day the king’s daughter asked the rabbi how God could put such a smart brain into such an ugly man. The rabbi said he did not know. He then asked the daughter if she would like to do something to help her father. The father was preparing a banquet for many dignitaries that night. He asked the girl if the father was planning to serve wine to the guests. The daughter said that she was sure he would. The rabbi said that it looked like the wine was going to be served in clay pitchers, and perhaps she could pick the finest, loveliest pitchers for the wine, so that the father could impress his guests. The daughter put the wine in silver pitchers. Unfortunately, when the guests drank the wine that was in the silver pitchers, it tasted terrible. The silver had reacted with the silver and the wine had spoiled. He explained to her that the loveliest vessel on the outside may not be the best way to store precious things. The focus should have been on the wine, and not the pitcher. Of course, a lovely ceramic pitcher could have been chosen to impress the guests and also be better for serving the wine. We can acknowledge what looks good too.
Although much of the chapter about Guf in Mudhouse Sabbath was trying to make a point about body image, I realized something else as a result of reading her discussions. I felt that there are lessons to be learned about finding spirituality in the physical. It seemed that “Guf” was a way of representing the physical aspect of the human experience. I realized that most often in the lessons from the Scriptural writings, people became aware of God’s spirit through physical experiences. At Sinai, God’s presence was so palpable that we could “see” the words. For example, as we are in a period when we are step by step “reliving” the sequence of events that led to freedom, as represented by Passover, I started to realize how many times God’s spirit was understood only because of physical things happening around us: the burning bush, plagues, parting seas, manna, water from a rock, pillar of smoke or fire – even the fact that we needed a Tabernacle with an Ark in the Holy of Holies – these were all ways that we, as physical beings could relate to the spiritual.
Acknowledging with awe the body that God has given us is another way for us to find God’s spirit. The spirit of God is in each of us. Often when we look for God we may try to find it in physical signs. Often the answer is within ourselves. We can learn to see our bodies as a spiritual gift and see our spirits as manifested in our bodies.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Praying???
Rev. Tom Dolph
When I was in high school I had a friend who never said Amen at the end of prayers. Her reasoning was that if she never said amen then her prayer would never be over and she would always be connected to God. She was, of course, a bit misguided but at the same time quite prophetic. There is something about prayer that connects us to God in ways that other things cannot, especially when we see prayer as a discipline and not just another golden opportunity to whine. I find my own prayer life full of that very same paradox, misguided but powerful.
Again, when I was in high school, I developed a reputation for being a good pray-er. At first I thought it was because my speech was so much more elegant and intelligent than that of my peers, then reality poked its ugly head in. The truth was, people liked my prayers because they seemed to resonate with what they were feeling. My words quite often gave expression to feelings others were having but didn’t know how to relate to God. My recitation of their feelings allowed them to simply be in the presence of God, not having to stumble over what words to use. “When you don’t have to think all the time about what words you are going to say next, you are free to fully enter in the act of praying.” (Mudhouse, 60) How often do we fall into the trap of believing that WHAT we say in prayer is more important than acknowledging that we are, in fact, actually spending time with God? I find my own prayer life paradoxically misguided but powerful.
It is a difficult thing to notice the subtle changes in us when we shift from seeing prayer as the words we say to God to prayer being about the time we spend with God. In some way it’s the difference between the phrases “the magic of prayer” and the “power of prayer.” When we see prayer as words and incantations we offer to entice God to give us what we want, prayer seems all too magical, and misguided. The power of prayer is different; it is not about what God can do for us but what can happen to us through the discipline of spending time with God. The truth is the biggest thing that changes when we encounter the power of prayer is ourselves. I find my own prayer life full of a seemingly inescapable paradox, my prayer time is misguided but powerful.
Let us pray …
Amen?
When I was in high school I had a friend who never said Amen at the end of prayers. Her reasoning was that if she never said amen then her prayer would never be over and she would always be connected to God. She was, of course, a bit misguided but at the same time quite prophetic. There is something about prayer that connects us to God in ways that other things cannot, especially when we see prayer as a discipline and not just another golden opportunity to whine. I find my own prayer life full of that very same paradox, misguided but powerful.
Again, when I was in high school, I developed a reputation for being a good pray-er. At first I thought it was because my speech was so much more elegant and intelligent than that of my peers, then reality poked its ugly head in. The truth was, people liked my prayers because they seemed to resonate with what they were feeling. My words quite often gave expression to feelings others were having but didn’t know how to relate to God. My recitation of their feelings allowed them to simply be in the presence of God, not having to stumble over what words to use. “When you don’t have to think all the time about what words you are going to say next, you are free to fully enter in the act of praying.” (Mudhouse, 60) How often do we fall into the trap of believing that WHAT we say in prayer is more important than acknowledging that we are, in fact, actually spending time with God? I find my own prayer life paradoxically misguided but powerful.
It is a difficult thing to notice the subtle changes in us when we shift from seeing prayer as the words we say to God to prayer being about the time we spend with God. In some way it’s the difference between the phrases “the magic of prayer” and the “power of prayer.” When we see prayer as words and incantations we offer to entice God to give us what we want, prayer seems all too magical, and misguided. The power of prayer is different; it is not about what God can do for us but what can happen to us through the discipline of spending time with God. The truth is the biggest thing that changes when we encounter the power of prayer is ourselves. I find my own prayer life full of a seemingly inescapable paradox, my prayer time is misguided but powerful.
Let us pray …
Amen?
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Which Style of Prayer Is Better?
Rev. Joseph Awtowi
We all know that many books have been written about prayer. I wonder why! Is it because it is such a difficult thing to do? Or is it because it is so complicated? I dare say that perhaps so much has been written about prayer because we do not really know what prayer is and we surely do not know how to pray aright. Lauren points out that there are many styles of prayer, and she has dabbled in almost all [page 53]. Why would she dabble in all? Is it because she did not find any style as satisfying as the one with which she had grown up? Is it because she did not find any style fulfilling an inner need? How can we pray aright?
Having learned as a young Christian that prayer is “conversation with God,” I bought into the idea that the better prayer is spontaneous prayer. Lauren gives an example of her friend Meg who commented on non-spontaneous prayer that, “Instead of expressing my innermost feelings to God I was just reciting a bunch of old prayers by rote.” In support of spontaneous prayer one may ask, who writes down their conversation with their parent or friend prior to the time of conversation? In “my old age” I am doing more of “liturgical prayer” than I did in my younger years. I pray that is not perceived as having lost my zeal. It seems that the Jew Jesus who said that, “You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know” followed the traditional Jewish style of praying - reciting the prayers of the hours. We know the disciples did. Two of them encountered a paralyzed man at the Temple gate as they were going in for the three o’clock afternoon prayer. I, like Lauren and many Christians, find that there are times that my mouth is uttering words but my brain is on something else. I like to think that the prayers of liturgy act like the soil or fertilizer in which are planted those wayward thoughts as genuine heartfelt prayers. Would it not be true to say that when we are praying the liturgy all that we think is prayer?
I take great comfort in the fact that when people have Alzheimer or for whatever reason are unable to recollect the names of dear ones, they can say the Apostles’ Creed or the Lord’s Prayer without missing a beat. I see that as a rationale for encouraging reciting prayers. At least at those times when I cannot pray with my rational mind I can still pray. An important question is not which style of prayer is better; it is “what is the purpose of prayer?” Is it to tell the all-knowing God what God already knows? The good news is that God “hears” our prayer – spontaneous or by rote; and we are formed (prayerfully TRANSformed) as we pray – by rote or spontaneous; and we can offer all our thoughts to God as prayer.
We all know that many books have been written about prayer. I wonder why! Is it because it is such a difficult thing to do? Or is it because it is so complicated? I dare say that perhaps so much has been written about prayer because we do not really know what prayer is and we surely do not know how to pray aright. Lauren points out that there are many styles of prayer, and she has dabbled in almost all [page 53]. Why would she dabble in all? Is it because she did not find any style as satisfying as the one with which she had grown up? Is it because she did not find any style fulfilling an inner need? How can we pray aright?
Having learned as a young Christian that prayer is “conversation with God,” I bought into the idea that the better prayer is spontaneous prayer. Lauren gives an example of her friend Meg who commented on non-spontaneous prayer that, “Instead of expressing my innermost feelings to God I was just reciting a bunch of old prayers by rote.” In support of spontaneous prayer one may ask, who writes down their conversation with their parent or friend prior to the time of conversation? In “my old age” I am doing more of “liturgical prayer” than I did in my younger years. I pray that is not perceived as having lost my zeal. It seems that the Jew Jesus who said that, “You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know” followed the traditional Jewish style of praying - reciting the prayers of the hours. We know the disciples did. Two of them encountered a paralyzed man at the Temple gate as they were going in for the three o’clock afternoon prayer. I, like Lauren and many Christians, find that there are times that my mouth is uttering words but my brain is on something else. I like to think that the prayers of liturgy act like the soil or fertilizer in which are planted those wayward thoughts as genuine heartfelt prayers. Would it not be true to say that when we are praying the liturgy all that we think is prayer?
I take great comfort in the fact that when people have Alzheimer or for whatever reason are unable to recollect the names of dear ones, they can say the Apostles’ Creed or the Lord’s Prayer without missing a beat. I see that as a rationale for encouraging reciting prayers. At least at those times when I cannot pray with my rational mind I can still pray. An important question is not which style of prayer is better; it is “what is the purpose of prayer?” Is it to tell the all-knowing God what God already knows? The good news is that God “hears” our prayer – spontaneous or by rote; and we are formed (prayerfully TRANSformed) as we pray – by rote or spontaneous; and we can offer all our thoughts to God as prayer.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Let Us Pray
Rev Mimi McDowell
I recently attended a Congregational Care Ministers Seminar at the Church of the Resurrection in Leawood, Kansas. One of the items included in the packet of materials we received was a Pastor’s Pocket Edition of The United Methodist Book of Worship to be used as a resource for prayer at the bedside, in a crisis or in a counseling session. The pastors leading the training said that they had found this to be an invaluable resource, especially for lay volunteers who often reported that they felt uncomfortable when they didn’t know how to pray in certain situations. And it is a wonderful resource, with prayers that are rich and deep. There are beautifully written prayers for a variety of circumstances, including persons going through divorce, those suffering from addiction or substance abuse, people with life-threatening illness, and for persons in coma or unable to communicate. There is power and beauty in their liturgy. And they provide the gift of “just the right thing to say” in some very difficult moments of ministry.
In Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner speaks of the importance of liturgical prayers, specifically those prayers that are prayed in the exact same way regularly, perhaps daily or even several times a day – the prayers that have become so ingrained in our being that we know them by heart and can say them without thinking. For most of us Protestants, about the only prayer that we know that well and recite that regularly is the Lord’s Prayer.
Several years ago, our church started a contemporary worship service. In keeping with the contemporary music and worship format, any hint of traditional liturgy was omitted from the service. Rather than scrapping the Lord’s Prayer entirely, the prayer was rewritten with modern, contemporary language. Yet, in time, many began to comment that they missed it. Parents commented that they did not want their children to grow up without knowing the Lord’s Prayer. They realized that there is a sense of relatedness in that liturgy that connects us, regardless of denomination or theology, as the Body of Christ.
And while I love the richness of the liturgy and the power of the connectivity, I also value the depth and honesty of those spontaneous prayers that are not beautifully written but are simple and brutally honest. As I opened my Facebook page this morning, I encountered prayer requests from two friends. One was an unspecified request. So I prayed for that friend, “God, I don’t know what Diane needs, but you do. Please let her feel your loving embrace today.” The other request was for a friend’s dog that had gotten into some poison and was very sick. With all sincerity and compassion, I also prayed for Brenda and Spot.
Whether liturgical and rote or spontaneous and crude, we are all called to prayer. Whether it is frequent prayer at specific times during the day, or spontaneous prayer while working or driving or taking a shower, we are called to pray. In the words of the Apostle Paul to the Thessalonians, we are to “pray without ceasing.” So, let us pray.
I recently attended a Congregational Care Ministers Seminar at the Church of the Resurrection in Leawood, Kansas. One of the items included in the packet of materials we received was a Pastor’s Pocket Edition of The United Methodist Book of Worship to be used as a resource for prayer at the bedside, in a crisis or in a counseling session. The pastors leading the training said that they had found this to be an invaluable resource, especially for lay volunteers who often reported that they felt uncomfortable when they didn’t know how to pray in certain situations. And it is a wonderful resource, with prayers that are rich and deep. There are beautifully written prayers for a variety of circumstances, including persons going through divorce, those suffering from addiction or substance abuse, people with life-threatening illness, and for persons in coma or unable to communicate. There is power and beauty in their liturgy. And they provide the gift of “just the right thing to say” in some very difficult moments of ministry.
In Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner speaks of the importance of liturgical prayers, specifically those prayers that are prayed in the exact same way regularly, perhaps daily or even several times a day – the prayers that have become so ingrained in our being that we know them by heart and can say them without thinking. For most of us Protestants, about the only prayer that we know that well and recite that regularly is the Lord’s Prayer.
Several years ago, our church started a contemporary worship service. In keeping with the contemporary music and worship format, any hint of traditional liturgy was omitted from the service. Rather than scrapping the Lord’s Prayer entirely, the prayer was rewritten with modern, contemporary language. Yet, in time, many began to comment that they missed it. Parents commented that they did not want their children to grow up without knowing the Lord’s Prayer. They realized that there is a sense of relatedness in that liturgy that connects us, regardless of denomination or theology, as the Body of Christ.
And while I love the richness of the liturgy and the power of the connectivity, I also value the depth and honesty of those spontaneous prayers that are not beautifully written but are simple and brutally honest. As I opened my Facebook page this morning, I encountered prayer requests from two friends. One was an unspecified request. So I prayed for that friend, “God, I don’t know what Diane needs, but you do. Please let her feel your loving embrace today.” The other request was for a friend’s dog that had gotten into some poison and was very sick. With all sincerity and compassion, I also prayed for Brenda and Spot.
Whether liturgical and rote or spontaneous and crude, we are all called to prayer. Whether it is frequent prayer at specific times during the day, or spontaneous prayer while working or driving or taking a shower, we are called to pray. In the words of the Apostle Paul to the Thessalonians, we are to “pray without ceasing.” So, let us pray.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Prayers Connect us
Rabbi Dr. Jana L. De Benedetti
Our prayer book is called a “siddur,” which you may recognize is close to the word “seder.” At a Passover seder our story and rituals always unfold in the same order. In a worship service or in daily rituals our prayers follow a specific order. A siddur includes mostly prayers for public situations: Sabbath, Holy Day and weekday services. Usually the siddur also includes words that help for private moments as well, such as how to bless the food, things to say before going to sleep at night – and when waking in the morning, expressions of joy for happy occasions and words to help during difficult times. There are prayers for every day miracles, like thanking God for removing sleep from the eyes, for making firm our steps, and even for recognizing moments in our day when our bodies are functioning appropriately.
Sometimes I am bothered by using someone else’s words when I pray. I find myself concentrating on how something is said or that a concept is uncomfortable to me, or that the words do not match my needs at the moment. At times like that I try to open my mind to other ways of thinking, but I also appreciate that I have the freedom to use my own words whenever I speak to God.
There are, however, many reasons why it is wonderful to have words already available for prayer. It helps us to focus. It reminds us of many ways that God is in our lives – not just the few things that we happen to be thinking about, but an overwhelming collection of things to be thankful for or be concerned about or reflect upon. On Shabbat, for example, I may not need to be reminded about how awesome it is to take a special day and set it apart. I appreciate that also included in the worship service are prayers for people who are oppressed or ill, and prayers that request peace in the world, and prayers that remind us of loved ones no longer praying next to us, and opportunities to think about and pray for so much more.
I also truly love that the prayers – and even the same exact words – that I say are the same prayers being said all over the world and have been said the same way for thousands of years. It is the primary time when we can feel connected not just to God, but to everyone else who is connected to God like us.
Most important, prayer keeps us walk humbly with God. We talk. God listens. Taking time to pray gives us a moment to listen for God. It has been said that prayer does not change God, but hopefully it can change us to see the world with new enthusiasm.
There is a tradition in Judaism to try to say at least one hundred blessings a day. There are more than one hundred blessings already written for us. We can either use these or find our own words. The important part is to find at least one hundred opportunities to praise God each day, or to put it another way – realize that God is blessing you in at least one hundred ways each day. It isn’t hard to do. When you are in the habit of finding ways to be in awe of God and thankful for the experiences of life you find that your life is more awesome.
Our prayer book is called a “siddur,” which you may recognize is close to the word “seder.” At a Passover seder our story and rituals always unfold in the same order. In a worship service or in daily rituals our prayers follow a specific order. A siddur includes mostly prayers for public situations: Sabbath, Holy Day and weekday services. Usually the siddur also includes words that help for private moments as well, such as how to bless the food, things to say before going to sleep at night – and when waking in the morning, expressions of joy for happy occasions and words to help during difficult times. There are prayers for every day miracles, like thanking God for removing sleep from the eyes, for making firm our steps, and even for recognizing moments in our day when our bodies are functioning appropriately.
Sometimes I am bothered by using someone else’s words when I pray. I find myself concentrating on how something is said or that a concept is uncomfortable to me, or that the words do not match my needs at the moment. At times like that I try to open my mind to other ways of thinking, but I also appreciate that I have the freedom to use my own words whenever I speak to God.
There are, however, many reasons why it is wonderful to have words already available for prayer. It helps us to focus. It reminds us of many ways that God is in our lives – not just the few things that we happen to be thinking about, but an overwhelming collection of things to be thankful for or be concerned about or reflect upon. On Shabbat, for example, I may not need to be reminded about how awesome it is to take a special day and set it apart. I appreciate that also included in the worship service are prayers for people who are oppressed or ill, and prayers that request peace in the world, and prayers that remind us of loved ones no longer praying next to us, and opportunities to think about and pray for so much more.
I also truly love that the prayers – and even the same exact words – that I say are the same prayers being said all over the world and have been said the same way for thousands of years. It is the primary time when we can feel connected not just to God, but to everyone else who is connected to God like us.
Most important, prayer keeps us walk humbly with God. We talk. God listens. Taking time to pray gives us a moment to listen for God. It has been said that prayer does not change God, but hopefully it can change us to see the world with new enthusiasm.
There is a tradition in Judaism to try to say at least one hundred blessings a day. There are more than one hundred blessings already written for us. We can either use these or find our own words. The important part is to find at least one hundred opportunities to praise God each day, or to put it another way – realize that God is blessing you in at least one hundred ways each day. It isn’t hard to do. When you are in the habit of finding ways to be in awe of God and thankful for the experiences of life you find that your life is more awesome.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Holy Spaces
Rev. Ellen Alston
Some of the most profound ways I have known God in my life have been through experiences of hospitality. As an itinerant PK (“preacher’s kid”), I know well what it means to be the new kid on the block, and I have been given space and welcome time and time again. On a mission trip to Russia, I was bowled over by the sacrifices made by Russians who had spent nearly a month’s precious and scarce income to make sure that we were “hosted” well, when our purpose for making the journey was to be of help and support to them! Whether in another time zone or in the aisle of my local grocery store, I am in awe of the way encounters with seemingly perfect strangers can have the quality of connecting as long-lost friends.
I keep learning how God truly lives in relationships, in the spaces between and among and in and through us - whose coming together really doesn’t much happen without some intentionality, or at least openness, on someone’s part. And opportunities abound: as Lauren Winner points out in Mudhouse Sabbath, “To throw a dinner party is not to abandon the poor; it is to begin hospitality with people you know.”
If your schedule is anything like mine, it is a rare occurrence to have some company over for a formal meal, much less an overnight. But what difference might it make in our lives, our journey, our day, to regard strangers as those to be welcomed and received on our pathways as family and friends? What would it be like to regard our family members and close friends as strangers about whom we are deeply curious and whom we seek to welcome in fresh ways? How might I intentionally choose an “extra step” to take that moves in this direction? I believe these musings and descriptions can well fit under the ample and gracious umbrella of “hospitality,” whose roots include the meaning of “shelter,” “power,” and “protection.”
And the ways I have experienced hospitality become reminders and teachers for the promise of my offering the same.
Would you sing (or at least hum) with me today…
“Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true.
With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living sanctuary for you.”
AMEN!
Some of the most profound ways I have known God in my life have been through experiences of hospitality. As an itinerant PK (“preacher’s kid”), I know well what it means to be the new kid on the block, and I have been given space and welcome time and time again. On a mission trip to Russia, I was bowled over by the sacrifices made by Russians who had spent nearly a month’s precious and scarce income to make sure that we were “hosted” well, when our purpose for making the journey was to be of help and support to them! Whether in another time zone or in the aisle of my local grocery store, I am in awe of the way encounters with seemingly perfect strangers can have the quality of connecting as long-lost friends.
I keep learning how God truly lives in relationships, in the spaces between and among and in and through us - whose coming together really doesn’t much happen without some intentionality, or at least openness, on someone’s part. And opportunities abound: as Lauren Winner points out in Mudhouse Sabbath, “To throw a dinner party is not to abandon the poor; it is to begin hospitality with people you know.”
If your schedule is anything like mine, it is a rare occurrence to have some company over for a formal meal, much less an overnight. But what difference might it make in our lives, our journey, our day, to regard strangers as those to be welcomed and received on our pathways as family and friends? What would it be like to regard our family members and close friends as strangers about whom we are deeply curious and whom we seek to welcome in fresh ways? How might I intentionally choose an “extra step” to take that moves in this direction? I believe these musings and descriptions can well fit under the ample and gracious umbrella of “hospitality,” whose roots include the meaning of “shelter,” “power,” and “protection.”
And the ways I have experienced hospitality become reminders and teachers for the promise of my offering the same.
Would you sing (or at least hum) with me today…
“Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true.
With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living sanctuary for you.”
AMEN!
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Hospitality
Ellen Blue
Hospitality is on my mind these days.
One reason is that my seminary will welcome Rev. Lorenza Andrade Smith to campus on April 17. Most of Lorenza’s life is focused on hospitality, though not so much in welcoming others as in giving others a chance to welcome her.
An ordained elder in the Rio Grande Annual Conference, Lorenza is a compact, 40-something woman with long, dark hair, whose head maybe reaches my shoulder. She’s intelligent, well-spoken, engaging. She radiates authenticity. She is full of humor, but absolutely serious about her mission.
Lorenza follows Jesus. And she is homeless.
At her own request, she is appointed by her bishop to a ministry to the streets. Last spring, she sold or gave away her possessions. Now, her backpack holds a chalice, a Bible, and the rest of what she owns. She sleeps on the streets or in homeless shelters.
Except sometimes, she sleeps in jail.
A photograph of Lorenza went viral last fall. Handcuffed and wearing a clerical collar, she is walking through the night next to her arresting officer. To look at that photograph is to see her as a saint; God’s hold on her shines on her face.
She was arrested at a peaceful protest at Kay Bailey Hutchinson’s office in San Antonio after the Senator withdrew her support for the DREAM Act, legislation that would provide a path to citizenship for students brought here before they turned 16. Students who were also arrested had exams, so Lorenza remained incarcerated on their behalf, fasting and praying. Other religious leaders persuaded her to take liquids and food by promising to fast on her behalf. People took turns fasting to cover the first year, and the project still continues.
Lorenza was arrested again, standing with housekeepers on strike against a Hyatt. She’s been ticketed several times for sleeping on park benches. She is free now because the jail is too crowded. Despite her refusal to pay her fine, a judge sent her away, hoping she would just stay out of trouble. Fat chance.
Her bus pass lets her travel around to talk about being in solidarity with people who are homeless, in exile, poor. She doesn’t stay in private homes, choosing to be where other homeless people could also stay. We’ll be looking for a shelter that might be able to welcome her for a few days in April.
In Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner makes a rhetorical move from talking about hospitality as welcoming someone into her home for a meal, to talking about it as welcoming someone into her life. I hope that I can celebrate Lorenza’s visit to Tulsa by advocating more strongly for the U.S. to show hospitality to the DREAMers; by practicing hospitality myself through sharing more of what I have with those who need it; and as Lauren suggests, by opening my own heart a little more to others.
Follow her journey on Facebook by friending Lorenza Andrade Smith. Participate in the fast through the Facebook page “365 Day Fast in Solidarity with DREAMers.”
Hospitality is on my mind these days.
One reason is that my seminary will welcome Rev. Lorenza Andrade Smith to campus on April 17. Most of Lorenza’s life is focused on hospitality, though not so much in welcoming others as in giving others a chance to welcome her.
An ordained elder in the Rio Grande Annual Conference, Lorenza is a compact, 40-something woman with long, dark hair, whose head maybe reaches my shoulder. She’s intelligent, well-spoken, engaging. She radiates authenticity. She is full of humor, but absolutely serious about her mission.
Lorenza follows Jesus. And she is homeless.
At her own request, she is appointed by her bishop to a ministry to the streets. Last spring, she sold or gave away her possessions. Now, her backpack holds a chalice, a Bible, and the rest of what she owns. She sleeps on the streets or in homeless shelters.
Except sometimes, she sleeps in jail.
A photograph of Lorenza went viral last fall. Handcuffed and wearing a clerical collar, she is walking through the night next to her arresting officer. To look at that photograph is to see her as a saint; God’s hold on her shines on her face.
She was arrested at a peaceful protest at Kay Bailey Hutchinson’s office in San Antonio after the Senator withdrew her support for the DREAM Act, legislation that would provide a path to citizenship for students brought here before they turned 16. Students who were also arrested had exams, so Lorenza remained incarcerated on their behalf, fasting and praying. Other religious leaders persuaded her to take liquids and food by promising to fast on her behalf. People took turns fasting to cover the first year, and the project still continues.
Lorenza was arrested again, standing with housekeepers on strike against a Hyatt. She’s been ticketed several times for sleeping on park benches. She is free now because the jail is too crowded. Despite her refusal to pay her fine, a judge sent her away, hoping she would just stay out of trouble. Fat chance.
Her bus pass lets her travel around to talk about being in solidarity with people who are homeless, in exile, poor. She doesn’t stay in private homes, choosing to be where other homeless people could also stay. We’ll be looking for a shelter that might be able to welcome her for a few days in April.
In Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner makes a rhetorical move from talking about hospitality as welcoming someone into her home for a meal, to talking about it as welcoming someone into her life. I hope that I can celebrate Lorenza’s visit to Tulsa by advocating more strongly for the U.S. to show hospitality to the DREAMers; by practicing hospitality myself through sharing more of what I have with those who need it; and as Lauren suggests, by opening my own heart a little more to others.
Follow her journey on Facebook by friending Lorenza Andrade Smith. Participate in the fast through the Facebook page “365 Day Fast in Solidarity with DREAMers.”
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Making room for God
Rev. Matt Rawle
Early in ministry I thought hospitality was a mastery of entertaining: making sure invitations were beautiful and informative, table settings were thematically appropriate, background music subconsciously audible, and gathering area open and spacious and full of greeters. I also prided myself on hospitality of the mind: entertaining an opposing idea. Superficially this seems to translate well in a local church, at least a hospitality team equips themselves to be ready for visitors to a worship experience or funeral service or open house of the new renovations, but hospitality as “entertaining,” seems hopelessly shallow when I meditate on what God has accomplished and is accomplishing through Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit. I certainly don’t think that God is entertaining humanity, at least, that sounds so incredibly shallow.
Hospitality is more than entertaining. It is making room. In John 14 Jesus tells the disciples that he goes to prepare a place for us. It is not a guest house, but a permanent dwelling place within the heart of God. Through Christ, in the power of the Holy Spirit, God is making room for us within the Godhead. We see it each Sunday when we gather for worship. Saint Augustine said that the Trinity is the Lover (God), the Beloved (Christ), and the love that they share (Holy Spirit). When we gather for worship we see a manifestation of the Trinity: God and the body of Christ lost in mutual adoration (not sure if this is theologically orthodox, but it’s a good picture anyway: “Ceci n’est pas une pipe”—Google it). When we make room for the stranger in a real and abiding way we find that God’s heart is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, God’s heart is like the TARDIS).
Hospitality is part of the discipline of losing your life in order to find it. Our lives are filled with holy
(and not so holy) spaces: your home, your workplace, your church, your car. When we hopefully and intentionally make room for the stranger, these places are permanently transformed. They no longer fill our personal wants and desires, but are begging for the presence of “the other.” If we cannot make room for “the other,” how can we ask God, who is wholly (holy) other, to abide with us? So, we don’t make room in case those around us happen to be angels. That would be self-centered entertaining. In a way we make room in order to detach our soul from the stuff which so readily defines us. Making room is a sign of the kingdom. Making room points to the heart of God. We make room because God makes room for us.
Early in ministry I thought hospitality was a mastery of entertaining: making sure invitations were beautiful and informative, table settings were thematically appropriate, background music subconsciously audible, and gathering area open and spacious and full of greeters. I also prided myself on hospitality of the mind: entertaining an opposing idea. Superficially this seems to translate well in a local church, at least a hospitality team equips themselves to be ready for visitors to a worship experience or funeral service or open house of the new renovations, but hospitality as “entertaining,” seems hopelessly shallow when I meditate on what God has accomplished and is accomplishing through Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit. I certainly don’t think that God is entertaining humanity, at least, that sounds so incredibly shallow.
Hospitality is more than entertaining. It is making room. In John 14 Jesus tells the disciples that he goes to prepare a place for us. It is not a guest house, but a permanent dwelling place within the heart of God. Through Christ, in the power of the Holy Spirit, God is making room for us within the Godhead. We see it each Sunday when we gather for worship. Saint Augustine said that the Trinity is the Lover (God), the Beloved (Christ), and the love that they share (Holy Spirit). When we gather for worship we see a manifestation of the Trinity: God and the body of Christ lost in mutual adoration (not sure if this is theologically orthodox, but it’s a good picture anyway: “Ceci n’est pas une pipe”—Google it). When we make room for the stranger in a real and abiding way we find that God’s heart is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, God’s heart is like the TARDIS).
Hospitality is part of the discipline of losing your life in order to find it. Our lives are filled with holy
(and not so holy) spaces: your home, your workplace, your church, your car. When we hopefully and intentionally make room for the stranger, these places are permanently transformed. They no longer fill our personal wants and desires, but are begging for the presence of “the other.” If we cannot make room for “the other,” how can we ask God, who is wholly (holy) other, to abide with us? So, we don’t make room in case those around us happen to be angels. That would be self-centered entertaining. In a way we make room in order to detach our soul from the stuff which so readily defines us. Making room is a sign of the kingdom. Making room points to the heart of God. We make room because God makes room for us.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Stranger danger changer
Rabbi Dr. Jana L. De Benedetti
Lauren Winner discusses the importance of welcoming guests in two different places. First she talks about ways she felt welcome at Church, and then she discusses the importance of welcoming guests into your home. She laments that her home is too small to be able to invite guests. It is impressive that she is moving to a larger apartment, with the primary goal of finding a place that will allow her to have guests.
On a personal level, I would rather not talk about what it takes to have guests in my own home. She lives alone. I have two young adult sons at my house. My space is not my own. My mess is not my own. She is very insightful and inspiring when she describes working on your own space so that it becomes a place that is welcoming to others. Opening ones home and heart to the possibility of guests helps people to see the world with open, caring eyes.
It is not just important to welcome people in your home, it is also important to be welcoming in our congregations. I have to admit that I was surprised that she began the chapter with admitting that she feels uncomfortable when she goes to a new house of worship. One of the things that I love is getting to visit other synagogues – I know that there will be some different customs, but I cherish the fact that wherever I go in the world, the liturgy will be basically the same. The Hebrew will be the same. The order of the service will be the same. Wherever I go, I will be at “home.” Feeling comfortable with the liturgy is not the same as feeling welcome by the congregation.
My congregation prides itself on being a welcoming place. It is a house of worship, which means that anyone searching for a fulfilling spiritual experience should feel at home. I am proud when I hear from visitors – Jewish and non-Jewish – that we are accomplishing this. There are times when people feel uncomfortable at my congregation, and it is something I find hard to fix. Sometimes individuals feel that they are strangers in their own congregation. They see that others have groups to go with after services, or exclusive conversations. These are people who see themselves as strangers. That is a more difficult stranger to welcome. We obviously can tell when there is a new face in the crowd. It is easy to greet them, introduce ourselves, help them find their way around our building, congregation, and our worship. When the “stranger” is someone we see frequently, it is not as easy to know that they need help and guidance.
I hope that we are also very aware and welcoming to these “strangers.” However, I realize how very difficult it can be to help them. I believe that even God gets frustrated when it is hard to tell who is seeing the possibilities and who is seeing the negative. It reminds me of when the scouts were sent to see the Promised Land. Some came back and said that they saw themselves as small compared to the people already there. God decided that if they couldn’t see the reality, they didn’t get to go to the Promised Land at all.
I like to think that we learn from these lessons. I hope that we can learn to welcome new faces and old. We certainly remember what it was like to be strangers, and we remember what it was like not to be treated well because we were strangers. And we know what it means to be human, as we strive to be holy, that we have a responsibility to be welcoming. Perhaps we should also recognize that we have a responsibility to recognize when we are being welcomed.
Lauren Winner discusses the importance of welcoming guests in two different places. First she talks about ways she felt welcome at Church, and then she discusses the importance of welcoming guests into your home. She laments that her home is too small to be able to invite guests. It is impressive that she is moving to a larger apartment, with the primary goal of finding a place that will allow her to have guests.
On a personal level, I would rather not talk about what it takes to have guests in my own home. She lives alone. I have two young adult sons at my house. My space is not my own. My mess is not my own. She is very insightful and inspiring when she describes working on your own space so that it becomes a place that is welcoming to others. Opening ones home and heart to the possibility of guests helps people to see the world with open, caring eyes.
It is not just important to welcome people in your home, it is also important to be welcoming in our congregations. I have to admit that I was surprised that she began the chapter with admitting that she feels uncomfortable when she goes to a new house of worship. One of the things that I love is getting to visit other synagogues – I know that there will be some different customs, but I cherish the fact that wherever I go in the world, the liturgy will be basically the same. The Hebrew will be the same. The order of the service will be the same. Wherever I go, I will be at “home.” Feeling comfortable with the liturgy is not the same as feeling welcome by the congregation.
My congregation prides itself on being a welcoming place. It is a house of worship, which means that anyone searching for a fulfilling spiritual experience should feel at home. I am proud when I hear from visitors – Jewish and non-Jewish – that we are accomplishing this. There are times when people feel uncomfortable at my congregation, and it is something I find hard to fix. Sometimes individuals feel that they are strangers in their own congregation. They see that others have groups to go with after services, or exclusive conversations. These are people who see themselves as strangers. That is a more difficult stranger to welcome. We obviously can tell when there is a new face in the crowd. It is easy to greet them, introduce ourselves, help them find their way around our building, congregation, and our worship. When the “stranger” is someone we see frequently, it is not as easy to know that they need help and guidance.
I hope that we are also very aware and welcoming to these “strangers.” However, I realize how very difficult it can be to help them. I believe that even God gets frustrated when it is hard to tell who is seeing the possibilities and who is seeing the negative. It reminds me of when the scouts were sent to see the Promised Land. Some came back and said that they saw themselves as small compared to the people already there. God decided that if they couldn’t see the reality, they didn’t get to go to the Promised Land at all.
I like to think that we learn from these lessons. I hope that we can learn to welcome new faces and old. We certainly remember what it was like to be strangers, and we remember what it was like not to be treated well because we were strangers. And we know what it means to be human, as we strive to be holy, that we have a responsibility to be welcoming. Perhaps we should also recognize that we have a responsibility to recognize when we are being welcomed.
Get Over It!
Rev. Mimi McDowell
My first job out of graduate school was as the neonatal/pediatric social worker for a large hospital. While I was leading a support group for parents who had lost a child, one mother reported that a psychiatrist had told her, “It has been six weeks. You should be over it by now.” Oh my! That is not only rotten psychiatry; it is awful theology! To suggest that any death is “gotten over” within six weeks, especially a parent’s loss of a child, is unfathomable.
Lauren Winner not only dispels the myth that death is to be gotten over, but she presents a compelling argument for the rituals of communal mourning. When I was in college a sorority sister of mine died suddenly at the age of 19. In the days following her death and funeral we all wore black ribbons pinned just above our sorority pins, as an outward symbol of our mourning. There was something powerful in that. Many people stopped and asked about the black ribbon, and each time we would have the opportunity to tell the story of our friend and our grief at having lost her. Being able to tell the story, and having others honor your grief, helps to bring healing to the mourner.
For several years I have offered the reflection at a local hospice’s annual memorial service. As a part of the reflection, the congregation is always invited to speak aloud, in unison, the name of their loved one who has died. In the cacophony of voices, there is a feeling of community – of a diverse group united by a shared pain. In my reflection I almost always refer to the Psalms because I find them to be so genuinely honest in their expressions of pain and lament. One of my favorites is Psalm 30. “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes in the morning,” the Psalmist David tells us. He doesn’t deny that there is cause for weeping. There was no pretense that life is all about joy. But he also offers assurance that the weeping will not last forever, but for only a night. Now we can quibble over how long that night really is. Certainly it is more than what we normally think of as one night, eight to ten hours of darkness at the end of a day. The truth is that the darkness of grief has no set time; no definition of when that night is over.
But the good news that the psalmist gives us is that weeping does not have the last word. At the end of human suffering comes rejoicing. God will even turn our mourning into dancing, according to the psalm. “You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” (Ps. 30:11) But notice that weeping precedes joy, and mourning precedes dancing. David doesn’t give us false hope that life will be easy or pain-free. He acknowledges the cycle of life – suffering and relief, pain and joy, crying and laughing, mourning and dancing. And, as this season of Lent reminds us, perhaps even death and resurrection!
My first job out of graduate school was as the neonatal/pediatric social worker for a large hospital. While I was leading a support group for parents who had lost a child, one mother reported that a psychiatrist had told her, “It has been six weeks. You should be over it by now.” Oh my! That is not only rotten psychiatry; it is awful theology! To suggest that any death is “gotten over” within six weeks, especially a parent’s loss of a child, is unfathomable.
Lauren Winner not only dispels the myth that death is to be gotten over, but she presents a compelling argument for the rituals of communal mourning. When I was in college a sorority sister of mine died suddenly at the age of 19. In the days following her death and funeral we all wore black ribbons pinned just above our sorority pins, as an outward symbol of our mourning. There was something powerful in that. Many people stopped and asked about the black ribbon, and each time we would have the opportunity to tell the story of our friend and our grief at having lost her. Being able to tell the story, and having others honor your grief, helps to bring healing to the mourner.
For several years I have offered the reflection at a local hospice’s annual memorial service. As a part of the reflection, the congregation is always invited to speak aloud, in unison, the name of their loved one who has died. In the cacophony of voices, there is a feeling of community – of a diverse group united by a shared pain. In my reflection I almost always refer to the Psalms because I find them to be so genuinely honest in their expressions of pain and lament. One of my favorites is Psalm 30. “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes in the morning,” the Psalmist David tells us. He doesn’t deny that there is cause for weeping. There was no pretense that life is all about joy. But he also offers assurance that the weeping will not last forever, but for only a night. Now we can quibble over how long that night really is. Certainly it is more than what we normally think of as one night, eight to ten hours of darkness at the end of a day. The truth is that the darkness of grief has no set time; no definition of when that night is over.
But the good news that the psalmist gives us is that weeping does not have the last word. At the end of human suffering comes rejoicing. God will even turn our mourning into dancing, according to the psalm. “You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” (Ps. 30:11) But notice that weeping precedes joy, and mourning precedes dancing. David doesn’t give us false hope that life will be easy or pain-free. He acknowledges the cycle of life – suffering and relief, pain and joy, crying and laughing, mourning and dancing. And, as this season of Lent reminds us, perhaps even death and resurrection!
Saturday, March 3, 2012
The Dead Walking
Rev. Valerie Robideaux
My husband and I are big fans of the AMC show, The Walking Dead. Well, let me correct this statement. Thrilled to learn of the new zombie apocalypse series, my husband urged me to view the horrific scenes and I somehow lost myself in the emotional angst of the drama. The series is set in the outskirts of Atlanta, GA during the aftermath of an epidemic that leaves over 90% of humanity in a resurrected zombie state postmortem. Following a group of survivors, viewers watch with anticipation (possibly through their hand covered eyes, like me) during the survivors’ endless search for life and signs of hope in the midst of chilling and devastating debris. Life as they knew it is over and they are left to figure out life in this new reality.
As I read Lauren Winner’s chapter on the Jewish practice of avelut/mourning, I was surprisingly reminded of The Walking Dead. She states, “While you the mourner are still bawling your eyes out and slamming fists into the wall, everyone else, understandably, forgets and goes back to their normal lives and you find, after all those crowds of people, that you are left alone” (Winner, Mudhouse Sabbath, 28). Have you ever lost someone close to you and at times felt like you are walking dead? Mourners can almost take on a zombie like state in their grief, carrying the foggy weight of sorrow, bereavement, and anguish while everyone else forgets and goes about normal routines. For the mourner, life as she knew it is over and she is left to figure out how to live in this new reality.
Winner encourages the Christian church to develop a ritual of mourning that honors the beautiful theological reality of death and resurrection. A crucial part of Christianity is the act of remembrance. To remember is to recall, to participate with, and to act in solidarity with the past, present, and future. While a Christian people are quick to jump from death to resurrection, Winner challenges the church to remember the present, the in between.
The season of Lent is a season dedicated to remembering the in between; to participate with and act in solidarity with the past, present, and future, to carry the foggy weight together allowing it to disrupt our normal routines.
Who do you know that may still be grieving after you have resumed life again?
During this season of Lent, how can you remember this person and honor their mourning?
My husband and I are big fans of the AMC show, The Walking Dead. Well, let me correct this statement. Thrilled to learn of the new zombie apocalypse series, my husband urged me to view the horrific scenes and I somehow lost myself in the emotional angst of the drama. The series is set in the outskirts of Atlanta, GA during the aftermath of an epidemic that leaves over 90% of humanity in a resurrected zombie state postmortem. Following a group of survivors, viewers watch with anticipation (possibly through their hand covered eyes, like me) during the survivors’ endless search for life and signs of hope in the midst of chilling and devastating debris. Life as they knew it is over and they are left to figure out life in this new reality.
As I read Lauren Winner’s chapter on the Jewish practice of avelut/mourning, I was surprisingly reminded of The Walking Dead. She states, “While you the mourner are still bawling your eyes out and slamming fists into the wall, everyone else, understandably, forgets and goes back to their normal lives and you find, after all those crowds of people, that you are left alone” (Winner, Mudhouse Sabbath, 28). Have you ever lost someone close to you and at times felt like you are walking dead? Mourners can almost take on a zombie like state in their grief, carrying the foggy weight of sorrow, bereavement, and anguish while everyone else forgets and goes about normal routines. For the mourner, life as she knew it is over and she is left to figure out how to live in this new reality.
Winner encourages the Christian church to develop a ritual of mourning that honors the beautiful theological reality of death and resurrection. A crucial part of Christianity is the act of remembrance. To remember is to recall, to participate with, and to act in solidarity with the past, present, and future. While a Christian people are quick to jump from death to resurrection, Winner challenges the church to remember the present, the in between.
The season of Lent is a season dedicated to remembering the in between; to participate with and act in solidarity with the past, present, and future, to carry the foggy weight together allowing it to disrupt our normal routines.
Who do you know that may still be grieving after you have resumed life again?
During this season of Lent, how can you remember this person and honor their mourning?
Friday, March 2, 2012
Mourning Guidelines
Rabbi Dr. Jana L. De Benedett
I recently buried a congregant. A short time later I was speaking with his relative, and she said that she felt that grief is like a blanket. At first, you wrap it around yourself, covering your head, keeping everything else out. Eventually, you feel like you can leave the house, but you keep the “blanket” wrapped around your shoulders. At some point you realize that sometimes you feel like you can leave the blanket at home when you go out – but you know it will be there when you get back.
This isn’t to imply that grief is a source of comfort, but rather that for many people it envelops them, and slowly fades to a point that they can participate again in life activities. For some, it will never fully go away, however for everyone, it changes over time.
That is what our tradition teaches about mourning as well. We don’t have guidelines about grief, but the stages of mourning help us move slowly back into life. Also, at a time when we feel depleted from our loss, the traditions provide us with steps to take that we don’t have to think about. We don’t have to decide what to do next.
Ideally, we also don’t get left alone for too long. Returning to life includes having a support system. These traditions help with that in many ways. People around you, often telling wonderful stories about what they remember of your loved one – often happy stories that help you remember how to laugh.
Many people do not use these guidelines to help them with their mourning. I believe it makes the process of returning to life more difficult.
I recently buried a congregant. A short time later I was speaking with his relative, and she said that she felt that grief is like a blanket. At first, you wrap it around yourself, covering your head, keeping everything else out. Eventually, you feel like you can leave the house, but you keep the “blanket” wrapped around your shoulders. At some point you realize that sometimes you feel like you can leave the blanket at home when you go out – but you know it will be there when you get back.
This isn’t to imply that grief is a source of comfort, but rather that for many people it envelops them, and slowly fades to a point that they can participate again in life activities. For some, it will never fully go away, however for everyone, it changes over time.
That is what our tradition teaches about mourning as well. We don’t have guidelines about grief, but the stages of mourning help us move slowly back into life. Also, at a time when we feel depleted from our loss, the traditions provide us with steps to take that we don’t have to think about. We don’t have to decide what to do next.
Ideally, we also don’t get left alone for too long. Returning to life includes having a support system. These traditions help with that in many ways. People around you, often telling wonderful stories about what they remember of your loved one – often happy stories that help you remember how to laugh.
Many people do not use these guidelines to help them with their mourning. I believe it makes the process of returning to life more difficult.
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