The Cost and Joy of Discipleship: Renewing My Lesbian Card

On my “ketchup” list in my last post was the fact that I have been thinking more about being a lesbian in the past ten weeks than I have in the past ten years. That might be a bit of an exaggeration (I’m a little prone to hyperbole), but not too much. Julie used to joke that they were going to take away our lesbian cards soon, if we didn’t get some pride … but then we didn’t, and then we were pretty sure the cards had, in fact, expired. Aside from in fact being lesbians, our lives aren’t very, well, lesbian. We don’t go to gay pride events, we’re not part of any gay and lesbian organizations, we don’t have a rainbow flag outside our house. We have plenty of gay friends, but they’re mostly not our friends because they’re gay, but because they go to our church, or they live on our block, or our kids are playmates.

So my newfound enthusiasm – giddiness even – for thinking and talking about being gay is especially startling to me, like someone renewed my card and forgot to tell me! And it’s not as though I haven’t given any thought to being a lesbian in the last decade, but honestly, it’s just occurring to me that for the most part, what brings gayness to the center of my attention has almost always been the ugly stuff: DOMA and the federal marriage amendment and the whole toxic political climate of the Bush years. But suddenly, we’re married! And we have a gay pastor! And hey, it feels sort of fun to be gay again!

I know that I owe you all an essay or two to conclude my marriage series, but it’s still percolating. I really thought getting married in Iowa was sort of a formality, something kind of cool we never thought we could do. I never imagined that it would be so profoundly generative, in such lovely and unexpected ways. I look forward to sharing all that with you soon (ish; no promises). But I’m finding that I sort of need to write and share my way around it for awhile. The meaning in it, which is gorgeous and unexpected and feels over and over like grace – it’s just too big right now to get my arms all the way around.

So in the meantime, I thought I would share a couple of scenes from a lesbian life, as they are happening to me, or coming back to me these days.

I.

Last Sunday at the adult Sunday school series called Sharing our Faith Stories, our pastor Michael led us in an exercise intended to help us feel more comfortable sharing with one another. It was sort of like “speed dating,” except it was “speed faith sharing.” The chairs in the social hall were set in two concentric circles, facing each other, so folks sitting in each circle were paired with someone sitting in the other circle, knee to knee. Michael would ask us a question, and we each had a minute to share, and then one circle would move one space to the right, so you had a new partner for each question. One of the questions was to tell about an embarrassing moment, and this is the story I told, as it turns out, to my dear friend Suzanne:

When we left Indiana to move to Philadelphia, it was largely because we couldn’t be out there and still be teachers, and Julie, at least, was really sure that she was called to teach (and she was right). As I have written before, it was painful to be closeted in our small, rural classrooms, and the city felt so fresh, so wide-open, so safe, ironically enough. And we were definitely loving being out again, like the BDOC’s (big dykes on campus) that we had been in college. That was definitely way before our lesbian cards expired, back in the day when we loved nothing more than a march on Washington, and if it was a dyke march, all the better.

So there we were, marching with tens of thousands of lesbians right past the White House, and there was a whole contingent who had stripped to the waist. And if you know me, you know that in general I like to have as little clothing on as possible, so OF COURSE I took my shirt off. I mean, right? What else would I do? And we’re marching right past the White House, and we’re chanting something like “Hey hey, ho ho, homophobia has got to go,” or singing “A you’re an Amazon, B coming Brave and strong, Clearly and Confidently you C! D you’re so dykey, oh how you Excite me, how Fortunate for the Female Faculty!” Or some such, you get the picture.

And then, quietly at first, and then a little louder, and more insistent, I hear a voice from behind: “Miss Rose? Miss Rose? Is that YOU?”

And sure enough, I turned around to see a somewhat flushed (and fully clothed, but quite clearly marching in the dyke march) former student. And by former, I mean like she was my student LAST YEAR!

Again, those of you who know me in person know that I’m no prude, and I would probably be quite comfortable being naked in front of most of you – certainly if we were marching together in a dyke march past the White House – but this was too much. Even for me. I smiled, and said, “Well hello! Just let me put my shirt on and then I can talk to you!” But I’m pretty sure I was blushing.

II.

It’s lovely to feel so celebrated and safe these days as a lesbian woman, wife and mother. It’s so lovely that I almost forgot how recently it felt so very different. I think it’s important to remember. This is a link to something I shared with my congregation one Sunday in worship just three short years ago, when Pennsylvania was considering an amendment excluding gays and lesbians from marriage.

III.

A couple of weeks ago in church, we sang a new response at some point in the liturgy, that went like this:

Open my eyes, that I may see

glimpses of truth, Thou hast for me.

Open my eyes ...

Well, actually, I can’t remember exactly how the song we sang in church went, but most of you who grew up in church probably recognized this, right? That never happens to me, because I didn’t grow up in church. All those hymns that you’re pissed off about because some earnest PC music committee changed the lyrics? Doesn’t bother me in the least, because I never knew the old lyrics to begin with. So I was pretty startled that I recognized this song, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until about the third verse, and then I remembered: Cris Williamson, Song of the Soul, from The Changer and the Changed (go listen!) – the song that opens with that same refrain:

Open my eyes, that I may see

glimpses of truth Thou hast for me

Open my eyes illumine me,

Spirit Divine ….

And if you were an earnest lesbian (or even just an earnest feminist) in the 1980’s, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about. Remember how we used to sit up in the Womyn’s Center on the fourth floor of Carpenter Hall, that gorgeous space where men were not allowed, and where the sun streamed through that big semi-circular window? There were great big couches and pillows on the floor and that lavender mural called “Weaving Webs of Women’s Lives,” remember? (And of course, if you didn’t go to Earlham College in the 1980’s, but you were an earnest feminist somewhere else in those years, you can probably at least imagine what I’m talking about). There was a record player in the corner and a slender stack of “women’s music” albums – or “wimmin’s music,” or “womyn’s music” – oh my, but we were earnest then! And I loved it all – Cris Williamson and Meg Christian [edited to get her name right] and their triumphant concert at Carnegie Hall, singing about loving women; and Holly Near, who was maybe even a lesbian for a minute or two, wasn’t she? But at the very least she was bringing all us gentle, angry people together in harmony. And Ferrin, remember her? Oh good Lord, she was not only earnest, but earnest and bleak. And Deirdre McCalla [edited to fix her name] and Theresa Trull and Toshi Reagan … they were all like the sound track of my life back then. And I loved it all.

So when we sang that song in church the other day, a song that I not only knew from before I became a regular church-goer, but knew from those sun-filled days in the lavender womb of the Womyn’s Center, it all came flooding back – how much I loved being a lesbian, how full of hope and pride and joy we were, such young women loving each other, and how much those women’s music singers – Cris and Meg and Holly and Deirdre and Theresa and Toshi and all the rest – how easy it is to remember them with sentimentality, or to poke fun (as I often do) at their earnestness, and to forget that they really were pioneers. That it was fucking brave back then to get up on a stage and sing about loving another woman. I’m glad I got to be reminded of that in the midst of my loving, open and affirming congregation, being led by an openly gay pastor – those women were among the many folks who paved the way for there to be such a church, and such a pastor, and such a giddy lesbian as me -- and I am ever grateful to all of them.

The Cost and Joy of Discipleship: Now THAT Was Church!

When Trixie was born, I had not yet joined the church; indeed, I wasn't even so much thinking of joining the church.  Old First was a community I loved -- Julie had been a part of it since she was a volunteer there in college, and she joined immediately upon our move to Philadelphia, five years before Trixie's birth.  I loved the people, loved working at the homeless shelter (where we were known as "the ice cream ladies"), but I was actually exploring Judaism at the time, and was pretty sure that wherever I landed, it would not be as a member of a mainline protestant church.  

As it turns out, Old First worked its way into my heart and soul, and through that community, I found myself casting my lot with Jesus and his wacky band of disciples.  If conversion is a "turning around," I've always thought of mine as a 360, rather than a 180, degree turn; my dad, the born-again atheist, lives the most Christ-like life of anyone I know, and my conversion to Christianity has simply given life and community and rhythm and story to the values of simplicity and hospitality and love and stewardship that are my birthright and my family's lifeblood.  So on the one hand, my conversion was simple and easy; but on the other hand, it was oh-so-difficult, and it was precisely baptism that was the stumbling block.

I was not baptized as an infant, much to the chagrin of my staunch Episcopalian Grandma Rose. My parents held firm though; their baby would not go through what felt to them like a meaningless ritual simply to appease the grandparents.  As it turns out, I am forever grateful for their choice on my behalf, because their choice not to baptize me meant that I had to very actively and consciously choose the church, rather than just falling into it.   Had I been baptized as an infant, I could have quietly joined Old First without having to think very hard about it. But baptism! Wow, that felt really big.  How would I know when I was really ready?  

How would I know if I really was a Christian? What if all those lingering doubts just made me a big old fraud?   It was my friend Donna (there she is, taking some of these pictures) who finally distilled my dilemma for me:  "Marta," she said, "It sounds like it's time to shit or get off the pot."  Yup! On the day of my baptism, though, I did not feel like a new-born child of God. Mostly I was in a really grumpy mood, and wished everyone would stop asking me how I felt, implying that I was supposed to feel something in particular which I most decidedly did not, confirming my own secret fears that I was, indeed, nothing but a big poser.  

I like to think that baptism, like conversion, is something we grow into, forever, and not something that happens and then it's done.  I had clearly come to the point in my conversion where I needed to continue my journey inside the church, so it was time to "get washed up." But I'm always glad to have the chance to renew my baptismal vows, as we do at St. Vincent's at Easter Vigil, where older children and adults are baptized -- with lots and

lots and lots of water!  I've been going to Easter Vigil (with Pat, Trixie's confirmation mentor and our dear dear friend) for years at St. Vincent's, the Catholic church in my neighborhood where I also sometimes attend the mid-day Mass.  And I've always loved all the water, big copper urns of it, poured over the heads of the kneeling candidates.  My own church's tradition is sort of a desert version; water is apparently scarce in the UCC, so just a few drops must do.  That was my own baptism, but I wanted something different for Trixie.

It felt important to both me and Julie that our children have a choice, especially since, when Trixie was born, my own spiritual quest had not yet landed me in the Christian faith, so Trixie and Micah were both dedicated as infants, but not baptized.  As it turns out, we did not give Trixie so much of a choice; she has been very much raised in the Christian church (so much so, that once as a toddler, when we pulled into our church's parking lot, Trixie declared, "We're home!"  It occurred to us then that perhaps we were spending too much time at the corner of Fourth and Race.)  But whether or not we have really given her a true choice, her baptism is something that she has been able to actively and fully embrace as part of her year of exploring her faith in anticipation of Confirmation, and I am glad for that. Normally, she would be quickly baptized, with a few drops of water, prior to the confirmation ceremony (scheduled for Pentecost, on the 31st), but she, Julie and I all wanted something more special, and with LOTS MORE WATER.

Lucky for us, our dear ones Woody and Joey have a heated pool, which, if you're in need, is now full of a whole lotta holy water!  This seemed an especially perfect place as Woody played John the Baptist in Old First's production of Godspell a couple of years ago. And Trixie is an avid swimmer, so a plan was hatched, and a wonderful service and pool party followed.  In the words of our friend Wanda, who co-officiated with Julie's father at the service:  "Now THAT was church!"  Indeed.

I will leave you with the lovely Prayer of Baptism from the UCC Book of Worship's baptism liturgy, which I have always loved:

We thank you, God,

for the gift of creation

called forth by your saving Word.

Before the world had shape and form,

your Spirit moved over the waters.

Out of the waters of the deep,

you formed the firmament

and brought forth the earth

to sustain all life.

In the time of Noah, 

you washed the earth

with the waters of the flood,

and your ark of salvation bore a new beginning.

In the time of Moses,

your people Israel passed

through the Red Sea waters

from slavery to freedom

and crossed the flowing Jordan

to enter the promised land.

In the fullness of time,

you sent Jesus Christ,

who was nurtured 

in the water of Mary's womb.

Jesus was baptized by John

in the water of the Jordan,

became living water to a woman

at the Samaritan well,

washed the feet of the disciples,

and sent them forth

to baptize all the nations

by water and the Holy Spirit.

Bless by your Holy Spirit,

gracious God, this water.

By your Holy Spirit

save those who confess

the name of Jesus Christ

that sin may have not power over them.

Create new life in Trixie

baptized this day

that she may rise in Christ.

Glory to you, eternal God,

the one who was, and is, and shall always be,

world without end.

Amen.

Lots more photos on Facebook (Margaret? Marjorie? I'm just sayin')

The Cost and Joy of Discipleship: This I Believe?

I'm loving the conversation about homemaking and housekeeping, and will come back to it shortly.

This is a new series on faith (I had a lot of time to write at my in-laws last weekend; I won't usually be so prolific), one I likewise hope to explore with all my friends.

*************

Our daughter Trixie, who is almost twelve, is participating in our church’s faith exploration program for youth this year, at the end of which she will make a decision about whether she wants to be confirmed and join the church as a full member. (Trixie, who was dedicated but not baptized as an infant, will also, assuming she so decides, be getting dunked in Woody and Joey’s heated swimming pool by Julie’s father, a retired minister, a couple of weeks before being confirmed on Pentecost; this is my idea, because I find the paltry drops of water that are part of our church’s baptism sacrament so deeply unsatisfying, but I’m happy that so far, Trixie is totally on board). As part of her faith exploration process, in which she is guided by an adult mentor, Trixie will be writing her own personal Statement of Faith. (She has already decided that it will begin, “I believe humans descended from monkeys; I believe that human civilization first grew in ancient Sumaria….” I have assured her that this will make her Grandpa Jim very happy.) I have always loved this exercise, which Confirmands at Old First have been doing for years. Their Statements of Faith are always thoughtful, funny, challenging, and invariably make me cry.

But I love Statements of Faith in general. When I taught Sunday school, my class memorized the UCC Statement of Faith, and when those kids were confirmed, and stood before the congregation and recited it with us, I brimmed with pride … and, of course, I cried. I love the UCC Statement of Faith for lots of reasons: I love its poetry; I love that it is a corporate profession (“We believe” rather than “I believe”); I love it because it is the first Statement of Faith I ever learned (I’m an adult convert to Christianity, and Old First is the only church, and the UCC the only denomination, that I’ve ever belonged to), and because I say it with my church family most Sundays. It goes like this:

We believe in you O God, Eternal Spirit,
God of our Savior Jesus Christ and our God,
and to your deeds we testify:

You call the worlds into being,
create persons in your own image,
and set before each one the ways of life and death.

You seek in holy love to save all people from aimlessness and sin.

You judge people and nations through your righteous will, declared through prophets and apostles.

In Jesus Christ, the man of Nazareth, our crucified and risen Savior,
you have come to us
and shared our common lot,
conquering sin and death
and reconciling the world to yourself.

You bestow upon us your Holy Spirit,
creating and renewing the church of Jesus Christ,
binding in covenant faithful people of all ages, tongues and races.

You call us into your church
to accept the cost and joy of discipleship,
to be your servants in the service of others,
to proclaim the gospel to all the world
and resist the powers of evil,
to share at Christ’s baptism and eat at his table,
to join him in his passion and victory.

You promise to all who trust you
forgiveness of sins and fullness of grace,
courage in the struggle for justice and peace,
your presence in trial and rejoicing,
and eternal life in your realm which has no end.

Blessing and honor, glory and power be unto you.
Amen.

I also love the Apostles’ Creed, which was the second creed I learned. I love the Apostles’ Creed for its rhythms and spare poetry, for how such a bare bones statement can sum up so much. I also love that the Apostles’ Creed is so ancient, and that I can say it with Christians across space and time, and that in saying it, I participate in the Body of Christ. Here is the Apostles’ Creed:

I believe in God, the Father almighty,
Creator of heaven and earth.

I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried;
he descended to the dead.
On the third day he rose again;
he ascended into heaven,
he is seated at the right hand of the Father,
and he will come to judge the living and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting.
Amen.

I still don’t know the Nicene Creed by heart, and I’m always jealous of my Catholic friends when I go to Mass and it rolls off their tongues so effortlessly. This is the most ancient of Christian creeds, and it feels to me the most mysterious and elemental and sacred. I can just hear the passion of the folks who wrote it, like it mattered so much to them that we understand what they were trying to share with us. When I say this creed, I feel like I am in on a special secret that I still don’t completely understand. It’s like a love poem to the Christian faith. I love this creed a lot and regret we don’t say it more often:

We believe in one God,
the Father, the Almighty,
maker of heaven and earth,
of all that is, seen and unseen.

We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ,
the only Son of God,
eternally begotten of the Father,
God from God, Light from Light,
true God from true God,
begotten, not made,
of one Being with the Father.
Through him all things were made.
For us and for our salvation
he came down from heaven:
by the power of the Holy Spirit
he became incarnate from the Virgin Mary,
and was made man.
For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate;
he suffered death and was buried.
On the third day he rose again
in accordance with the scriptures;
he ascended into heaven
and is seated at the right hand of the Father.
He will come again in glory
to judge the living and the dead,
and his kingdom will have no end.

We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of live,
who proceeds from the Father and the Son.
With the Father and the Son
he is worshiped and glorified.
He has spoken through the prophets.
We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church.
We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
We look for the resurrection of the dead,
and the life of the world to come. Amen.

A lot of people I know have a hard time saying these ancient creeds – or even new ones, like the UCC Statement of Faith – because they feel they are telling a lie to say words they are not sure they believe. It seems to me that this is to miss the point of saying creeds. For me, to say these ancient words -- even the new-fangled versions -- is itself an act of faith, independent of what the words actually mean. Which is not to say that the meaning of the words is irrelevant. For me, wrestling with what these words mean – these and many other mysterious, scary, difficult, awesome words -- is important (and why I am a Christian, and not, say, a Unitarian). But wrestling with what they mean, and saying them as an act of faith, are two very different things for me; and when my wrestling stirs up doubt, which it most often does, the antidote is to say them more often, not less.

You see, I believe (and herein begins my own Statement of Faith), that Belief is not a very useful entry point to faith for me. I believe that whenever I start thinking too hard about what I believe, I end up feeling like a fraud, and wonder if I even have the right to call myself a Christian. I feel this especially around Christians who seem so clear about what they believe, for whom belief and experience seem to line up quite neatly.

On the other hand, I believe that practicing my faith – worshipping regularly, praying the Psalms, following the rhythms of the liturgical year, celebrating the festivals, singing the songs -- brings me into relationship with God, helps me experience God in my life … and that Belief has very little to do with it. I believe that if Belief matters, it will follow (I’m still waiting), and conversely, if it doesn’t follow, maybe it doesn’t matter all that much.

In the interests of full disclosure (and at the risk of truly exposing myself as a fraud) I should probably explain that I’m not talking here about arcane doctrines, like, say, transubstantiation (the Catholic doctrine that the elements of the Eucharist do not represent the body and blood of Christ, but actually become them). I spent hours and hours once researching transubstantiation, in the hopes that I could tell Father John at St. Vincent’s “Yes, I believe that,” when I went to talk to him about whether, as a Protestant, I could participate in the Eucharist at the daily 12:05 Mass I was yearning to attend. Bless his heart, he just waved his hand when I brought it up and said, “Who really understands transubstantiation? If you experience Christ in the Eucharist, that’s enough” – which was perfect, because I could wholeheartedly say “YES!” to that. (I still have NO IDEA what transubstantiation is all about.)

But when I say that Belief is not a useful entry point to faith for me, I’m not talking about whether or not I believe in transubstantiation. I’m talking about way more fundamental stuff. Like God. And the Incarnation. And Resurrection. And Salvation.

You see why I worry about being a fraud?

But let me explain. Say you are a “believing Christian” (a phrase a dear friend of mine has used in my presence, assuming, presumably, that such a phrase encompasses both of us, an assumption that causes me no small amount of anxiety … but I digress), and you ask me “Do you believe in God?” For most Christians, that is the most basic, fundamental and easily answered of questions. The answer is simply, “Yes, of course.” And depending on who you are, I might answer, just as simply, “Yes.” I wouldn’t be lying, exactly. But I’m not sure I would pass a lie detector test either, because if I say, simply, “Yes,” my blood pressure is probably rising a little, and my heart is probably beating a little faster, and inside my head a million thoughts are racing. If I have simply answered “Yes” to the question “Do you believe in God,” then I probably have not screwed up my courage to share all of those thoughts with you, but they are racing nonetheless, and if I were to screw up my courage and share them with you, they might go something like this:

“Yeeeessssss, I do believe in God … I guess … No! I mean, Yes! I do! Really, I do, but … but probably not in the way you do … I mean, I don’t really believe in, well, a sentient God, so much … an omniscient, anthropomorphic God, you know? Who acts outside of the laws of nature? And interferes in natural or human history in response to the acts and pleas of human beings? No, I guess I don’t believe so much in that kind of a God.” Here I might pause, and feel anxious, and wonder what you’re thinking. Then I might continue, throwing caution to the wind: “But you know what, I do believe in God, I just don’t believe that God is something human beings are even capable of understanding, really, and therefore it seems to me that every human expression of what or who God is must ultimately be laughably small and absurd.” There, I said it! “But I still think we humans have a fundamental need to try to capture and name what God is -- by which I do not mean the same thing as when patronizing atheists argue that humans (with the exception of a few enlightened atheists like themselves) have a fundamental need to create a God in our own image – that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that human beings seem to have a need to give name and form, out of our own limited vocabulary and experience, to the ineffable and unknowable. You know? And what we call God, and the stories we tell about God, are just our truest and best effort … but at the end of the day, we really have no idea what we’re talking about.” Here I might pause again, as my courage and my clarity fades. “But not really unknowable, you know … because isn’t it a paradox how … whatever it is we’re calling God … can be so intimately known and yet so unfathomably unknowable…?” And then I would probably fade off with a sort of anxious sigh and have trouble making eye contact with you.

(Which is all to say, I am now realizing, that Belief really is just the wrong word. Because it’s not so much that I don’t believe in that sort of God, as that I don’t experience God in that way. But I have no trouble believing that other people do experience God that way.)

But I do experience God, very much so. Indeed, if you had asked instead, “Do you experience God in your life?” my answer would be simple and straightforward and heartfelt: “Why yes, of course!” I might be brimming with stories to share about baking bread, or making beds and hanging laundry, or the satisfying, frustrating “quotidian mysteries”* of mothering and homemaking. I will definitely want to tell you all about the way the bread and the wine feel in my mouth at Mass at St. Vincent’s, and the way the sun glinted off the water during my last run by the river, and the way Julie’s descant floated above our heads during the hymn we sang at church last Sunday, and the color just under the skin of a peach when you’re canning, and the Psalm I’m praying these days, and what it means to begin letting go of being, quite literally, the center of my children’s universe. If I love and trust you, I might even tell you about how the awesome responsibility of mothering stretches me thin sometimes, and brings out my worst self; or about the shame I feel having just walked away from several communities I care so much about when poverty got too ugly and overwhelming; and about all the petty and jealous and snarky and bitter things that are inside me; and how impossible I would find it to just be me but for the grace of God’s love and forgiveness. But all of this will bring only a flush of pleasure – or at least relief -- to my cheeks, not the sort of anxious argument that a “Do you believe…” question raises.

Similarly, if you ask me whether I believe in the Resurrection, I will probably need to launch into a dissertation on what metaphor means to me (which is: everything; it is what makes us human; it does not merely explain our relationship with God, but IS the very substance of our relationship with God). I would further argue that if you have ever put the word “just” in front of the word “metaphor” in an effort to distinguish a metaphor from what is “real,” then you do not understand what I am talking about at all, and it will probably be unproductive for us to continue talking about whether I “believe” (“belief,” of course, being “just” a metaphor to me) in the Resurrection. But ask me whether I experience Resurrection, and again, the answer is simple: “Why yes, all the time, every new day. Let me tell you about some kids I knew once in a ghetto called Kensington. Oh! And Sr. Margaret McKenna and the recovery community of New Jerusalem. You can’t turn around without bumping into the resurrected Christ at New Jerusalem!”

Incarnation? Salvation? Lather, rinse, repeat. I can tell you story after story of my experience of all these things, but what do I believe? Really and truly believe?

I suppose there are a few things:

I believe that I am in need of love and forgiveness, that I am loved and forgiven by God, and that in God’s love and forgiveness there is salvation.

I believe that for me, God’s love, forgiveness and salvation flow through the historical figure of Jesus in a special and unique way. I believe that the story and Gospel of Jesus Christ is the most compelling way that I can connect my life to God. I believe there is no other figure, and no other story, that can help me so well to make meaning of the world and to live a good life in it. (I believe, if truth be told, that I’m a little bit of a Jesus freak. I’m really kind of crazy about Jesus.)

I believe there is a Spirit of some sort that I can’t name and don’t understand but that works in my life and connects me across time and space with other Christians as the Body of Christ, and with all other people of all other faiths, and of no faith at all, who strive to be part of and to share in the Goodness that is in the world.

Speaking of which, I believe in Goodness. I also believe in Evil, and Sin. I don’t believe that everything is relative (although I do believe that a lot of things are all sorts of shades of gray).

I believe that saying ancient words, telling ancient stories, participating in ancient rituals, and making a joyful sound (i.e. worship) are the fundamental ways that I encounter God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit. I believe that something awesome and mystical happens in the Eucharist, even if I don’t have the foggiest notion what transubstantiation is all about.

I believe that if God is love, then Resurrection is hope, the Incarnation is a great, big, wonderfully messy scandal, and Salvation is a sigh of relief, and the reason to keep loving and hoping against all the odds. I believe that being the Body of Christ (that is, a co-conspirator in the big messy scandal of the Incarnation) is all about hospitality, which is where the rubber really hits the road, isn’t it?

And thus ends the first installment of my second blog series, on faith, which I’m calling “The Cost and Joy of Discipleship.” (Julie wanted me to work in "Aimlessness and Sin," but I’m just not that clever.) I’d love for this to be a conversation, and if anyone out there (all five of you! hi friends!) would like to share about your own faith, I’d love to have you as guest blogger. Just email me at marta dot bloem dot rose at gmail dot com.

*Kathleen Norris's influence on me and my faith cannot be overstated. This is a reference to her monograph, Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy and Women's Work, which I love love love. Edited to add: Incarnation as scandal is also Norris's idea, not mine.