On Meaning and Metaphor (for Mark)

Do you remember back in high school English, when your teacher taught you that a simile was a comparison using “like” or “as,” and a metaphor was a comparison that skipped the “like” or “as”? So, for example, under the heading “Simile,” she might have written on the blackboard (back in the olden days, when we still had blackboards) the phrase “cool as a cucumber,” and also the sentence, “The storm raged like a bull.” On the other hand, she might have written in the “Metaphor” column, “Ted Kennedy was the lion of the Senate,” though that’s probably not one Laura Baker, my high school English teacher, would have written, because she was a staunch Republican. She might have thought, rather, that Ted Kennedy was a jackass, though she probably would have refrained from writing it on the board. But if she had thought it (and she probably did), she would have been using a metaphor. Because Ted Kennedy was, in reality, neither a lion nor a jackass, but rather a human being who had certain qualities of lions … or jackasses, as the case may be. Get it?

So another way of explaining the difference between a simile and a metaphor is that a simile tells the truth, and a metaphor tells a lie. Right? I mean, you could say that, right? To say that someone is “cool as a cucumber” might literally be true, I suppose, and to say that “The storm raged like a bull”? Well, I suppose.

Metaphor, on the other hand, is never literally true, or, to put it another way, factual. On the contrary, it is a fact that Ted Kennedy was neither a lion nor a jackass, no matter what you thought of his politics or his political skill. So you could say that a metaphor does not tell the truth, because it is not factual. And if you care about the truth in that way, you could try to rid your language of metaphor, though you’d have a really hard time. Because most language is highly metaphorical, in ways we often don’t even register.

For example, when a political race is described as being “neck and neck,” it is being compared to a horse race; and if you’ve ever said you could “see the light at the end of the tunnel,” you’re comparing your situation to a train ride. But a political race is not really a horse race, and no matter how relieved you are about the end of a difficult situation, it usually doesn’t actually involve a ride through a tunnel. For that matter, most of the time our kids don’t literally “bounce off the walls”; and even when they do, it doesn’t actually make us “go out of our minds”; and when we’re bored, the minutes don’t literally “creep by”; and when we speak of “the root of the problem,” we’re usually not talking about potato blight. If you’ve ever used the expression “home run,” or “slam dunk” or “knocked it out of the park” outside the context of an actual ball game, then you have used a metaphor, and I suppose you could be accused of being less than truthful. And I suppose you could be accused of telling a lie if you have ever called someone a “straight shooter” who is not, in fact, a hunter; or if you’ve ever thought someone other than a carpenter “hit the nail right on the head”; or if you’ve ever thought that a grown person was a “babe” or that someone who is not, in fact, running a fever is “hot.”

But I would never accuse you of telling a lie in any of those situations, because I think that metaphor, rather than telling a lie, can actually tell a deeper, more evocative truth. When we place two images or situations next to each other that are not, in fact, the same, we can get at a truth that no amount of factual description will ever uncover. Often putting the two images or situations together creates a meaning that can touch us in a more profound way than straightforward reporting can. And in that way, I would argue, through metaphor we often get at the most important truths … even if it is by way of a little white lie (which is not, in fact, white … see? Metaphor is everywhere.)

I offer this scintillating discussion on metaphor as prelude to my answer to Mark’s daily Advent blogging question: “How can the Bible be true if it’s not factual?”

I do not believe every word in the Bible reports in a straightforward and factual way things that actually happened. It seems likely to me that some things written in the Bible are “factual” in the sense that they really did happen pretty much the way the Bible says they did, and that some things are not “factual” in that way; indeed, there’s a group of scholars called The Jesus Seminar who get together to consider the evidence for which among the Gospel stories can actually be attributed to the historical Jesus, and which cannot. That seems sort of interesting to me in the way a logic puzzle can be interesting, but it feels pretty irrelevant when it comes to my faith, because whether something really did or really didn’t happen, its power for me is in the story as metaphor for how I might live my own life. The metaphor is the powerful part for me; whether it’s also factual is sort of beside the point.

So, for example, maybe Jesus really did feed 5000 people with a few loaves and fishes, and maybe he didn’t. But let’s just say for a minute that he really did; let’s just say that story is straight-up, factual reporting of something that happened around 2000 years ago, and that as fact, and not metaphor, it tells us some truth. What is that truth, and what does it mean today? I guess the truth it tells us is that Jesus had supernatural powers. Maybe it tells us that he liked to feed people. It might tell us that 2000 years ago, some fisherman were convinced that he was the Messiah because he had these supernatural powers and used them to feed a lot of people. But what does that do for me, in Philadelphia, in 2009, even if I believe that Jesus had supernatural powers, and that he liked to feed people? Maybe, like those fisherman, his supernatural powers convince me that he is the Messiah, but it seems just as likely to me that I might come to a different conclusion, even if I accept his powers. I mean maybe I believe lots of people have supernatural powers; why should that convince me that Jesus is the Messiah? Or maybe it tells me that I ought to feed people too. But I don’t need Jesus to convince me of that, because I already love to feed people. Or maybe it’s telling me that with enough faith, I too might some day be able to feed a multitude of hungry folks with literally a few loaves and fishes …. but you know what? I’m not so much holding my breath, you know? So I’m just not sure where this story gets me if I treat it as straight-up factual reporting.

On the other hand, if I treat this story as a metaphor for life – if I put this story next to my life, and ask myself what meaning I can glean from the relationship between the two – then suddenly this story is speaking to me (but not literally; that’s a metaphor!) Because this story seems to be about faith and abundance, you know? It seems to suggest that out of our faith in God, we can live abundantly; that we can share what we have, no matter how small, and still have enough; that we can care extravagantly for others, even folks who are strangers to us, without fear that the good things in life will run out. Does this mean that if I literally give away all the food in my house, I can with good faith still expect to feed my kids tomorrow? No. And I would be foolish and irresponsible to do that. But it does mean that I can orient my life toward faith and abundance, rather than toward fear and scarcity, and in doing so I can know that my life will be pleasing to God. To me, that is a far greater truth than the “fact” (if indeed it is a “fact”) that Jesus multiplied a few loaves and fishes half way around the world, several millennia ago.

I know a lot of folks disagree with me about my reading of the Bible. I know a lot of folks, especially fundamentalist Christians, are really committed to the notion that the Bible is “true” in the most literal, factual sense. I think such a reading is not only dangerous, but also probably not what Jesus himself intended. If Jesus had wanted us to have “just the facts, nothing but the fact,” I kind of doubt he would have spent all his time telling stories and talking in metaphors. Right?

I could be wrong. But I’m willing to take my chances. (Which is, of course … yup, a metaphor!)

On Suffering (for Ellen)

My mom used to say I could bring anyone home except a Republican or a born-again Christian (by which she actually meant fundamentalist Christian). And the truth is that she would have very much welcomed both, if they were one of the many college friends I used take home with me for the weekend, because extravagant hospitality was kind of the basic organizing principle of my family. She would have given them a hard time – all in good fun, of course – but she would have welcomed them, and they would have loved her, because everyone loved my mom. She got along with everyone except idiots. (She really couldn’t abide idiots).

But as it turns out, I didn’t have any born-again or even Republican friends in college, and what my mom really meant, anyway, was that she’d rather I didn’t fall in love with one. But anyone else? That would be just fine. And she really meant it. I think she loved reliving her own youthful exuberance vicariously through me. Having come of age in the 60’s, she understood perfectly the sort of ardent conversion experience young adulthood can be – even if, as in my case, you’re not converting away from anything, but just passionately embracing your world and your values as your own, and not just as an inheritance, even if a welcome one.

So when I announced, after taking Intro to Philosophy: Food Ethics, that I was a vegetarian, Mom thought that was fine, especially since I could explain why. I got her a copy of The Moosewood Cookbook, and she discovered that you don’t really need meat at every meal. And when I brought home a black boyfriend, she loved him (he was pretty lovable, I’ll admit). Next was the Cuban girlfriend – she didn’t blink. Then the Methodist minister’s daughter (not Julie, the one before Julie) – even that didn’t phase her (but only because she was not a fundamentalist).

So when I announced that I was going to be majoring in Peace and Global Studies, I wasn’t anxious that my parents might suggest that I get a real degree, for all the money they were spending to send me to the most expensive liberal arts college in the state, for heaven’s sake. And I was right. My mom thought Peace and Global Studies was a splendid thing to major in, and she even got sort of intrigued. My mom had, among many other wonderful qualities, one of the sharpest intellects of anyone I’ve ever known, and a deeply curious mind, so there wasn’t much she wasn’t intrigued by. Everything I was studying was fair game for long conversations on the green couch by the wood stove in our big farmhouse kitchen.

I remember in particular a conversation on the couch about the concept of “structural violence.” I used the phrase and mom immediately perked up: “What does that mean, ‘structural violence’?” I started to explain, but she already had it figured out. “That’s the way oppressive structures – like racism, or poverty – do violence to people, right? And it can be really explicit violence, like lynching, but it can also be slower, or less direct violence, like the way a child’s mind and spirit and opportunities get more and more and more hemmed in by living in poverty.”

Exactly. Yeah, she was pretty awesome.

I’ve been thinking about that conversation with my mom a lot lately, in part because I’ve been thinking about suffering a lot lately. I’m thinking about suffering these days because I’m holding several friends in prayer who are suffering a lot right now. I’m also thinking about suffering these days because when I solicited topics for my daily Advent blogging (what was I thinking?), Ellen suggested I tackle the question, “Why is there suffering?” Ellen knows too much of suffering lately. I am quite sure I am entirely inadequate to the task of explaining suffering to her or anyone else. Indeed, the only sort of cosmic answer I know to that question is, “I have no idea.”

But still, I know a little bit about suffering, especially of the sort Ellen is experiencing right now, the suffering of losing someone very dear to you, way too young. For Ellen it was her brother, who died just a couple of weeks ago; for me it was my mom, who died almost twenty years ago.

I used to think there was a pretty clear distinction between the sort of suffering that stems from, well, life, you know? And the sort of suffering that stems from structural violence. I remember making this distinction to my mom in that conversation on the green couch, when she immediately got it about structural violence: “Yeah, and you know, it’s not like the world would be without suffering if we ended structural violence. People would still leave their lovers, and break each other’s hearts, and there would still be earthquakes and people would still die of natural causes. But war and poverty and racism? Seems like that sort of suffering is worth fighting against.” My mom, of course, entirely agreed, and enthusiastically endorsed my plan to be a Peacemaker (“A Profession for the Future,” remember Earlham friends?)

The more I learn of the world, though, and the ugly horrible ways that human structures work on it, the less I am convinced that such a stark distinction is meaningful. Cancer may not be a violent human structure, but industrialized agriculture certainly is, and so is toxic waste, and probably both contribute in ways known and unknown to many cancers. Hurricanes may not be violent human structures, but if they ramp up because of our addiction to fossil fuels, is the suffering in their wake an act of God, or the result of human structural violence? And if they wreak greatest havoc on the poorest and most wretched of the earth, what is the cause of that suffering? Mental illness may not be a violent structure created by human society (though I could be convinced otherwise). But if a brilliant and talented young man suffers from mental illness and turns to drug use to cope, and if our society maintains an absurdly ineffective and vindictive public policy around the sale and use of certain drugs, then is his death by overdose at least in part a result of structural violence?

I don’t know.

Why is there suffering? I just don’t know what the answer is. I’m pretty sure that even in a world entirely free of structural violence, my mom still would have collapsed one day while weeding the asparagus patch, and the aneurysm in her brain still would have killed her a couple of days later, just a few weeks short of her fifty-first birthday. I’m pretty sure that when I got around to trying to get pregnant at the ripe old age of thirty-four, my ovaries still would have been old souls that were no longer going to produce viable eggs, because in the law of averages, someone has to be an outlier, and that just happened to be me.

But I am also pretty sure that a whole lot of suffering in the world – so very much of it – is caused by structural violence. Which is another way of saying that a whole lot of the suffering in the world is caused by sin. That, of course, is a word which is sort of out of vogue these days, among progressive intellectuals at least. I think it’s a shame that it’s been so co-opted by the fundamentalist religious right-wing. Indeed, now that I think of it, “sin” has itself become a form of structural violence. But I’m comfortable reclaiming it, because I do think there is such a thing. I probably prefer Michael’s formulation (and I’m loosely paraphrasing here because I don’t know how to find this particular conversation on his Facebook page) – that sin is anything which takes us out of loving relationship with each other and God. Structural violence, sin, broken relationship …. however you want to define it, or whatever you want to call it, it seems to me that a whole lot of suffering is caused by it.

And where is God in all this? I think for a lot of folks that’s the hardest question when faced with inexplicable suffering. I know such suffering can cause some to lose their faith, or at least to question it. For me, actually, the opposite is true. For me, if sin is that which pulls us out of loving relationship, then God is that which puts us back together. And I know that even in the face of so much suffering in the world, there is also so much goodness and beauty and abundance. I know too, though I surely don’t understand the mystery of it, that somehow that goodness and beauty and abundance often flows right out of suffering, even the sort that results from sin. My God is the God of that goodness and beauty and abundance, even the kind that is forged in a crucible of suffering. Why God isn’t bigger than sin, why God can’t just vanquish sin and suffering in one fell swoop, I don’t know. Maybe God isn’t all-powerful in that way. Maybe God needs us as much as we need God. Maybe the more we’re in loving relationship with God – which is the same thing as saying the more we’re in loving relationship with each other -- the less power sin and suffering have over the world.

I surely could be wrong. But if faith is being sure of what we hope for*, then my faith in that God is like a rock, even in the face of inexplicable suffering.

edited to add: this is from Bart Campolo.

You Must Not Know 'Bout Me (if you thought i was done talking about sex)

To the left, to the left, to the left….

I guess that’s where you could say I come down on the spectrum of Christians who think about sex. And these days, sadly, many Christians are positively obsessed with sex. Indeed, many Christians these days have made their sexual obsession – especially their obsession with homosexuality – almost a fetish, a fetish that has lost sight entirely of the good news of Jesus Christ.

That good news is that people matter -- not abstractions, but real, live people, and their lovely, messy, complicated relationships and their yearning, passionate desire to know and share the love of God. Classes and categories don’t matter – Jew or Samaritan is irrelevant, man or woman, sick or well, rich or poor, prostitute or wife, tax collector … centurion … servant…. thief.… Everyone matters. Everyone can be in relationship. Everyone can love everyone else as a blessed child of God. In the same way, rigid rules – about what you can or can’t eat, about whom you may or may not touch, about how and when and where to worship God -- just dissolve if they don’t foster dignity, love and relationship, among people and with God. A formal system of purity is set aside in favor of a more intentional purity that asks, “Is this good for people? Does this free people to love one another and God more closely? Does this require that people be intentional about the way their lives and actions affect the human dignity of others?”

It seems to me that if these are the questions that matter to Jesus (and I think they are), then much of Christianity’s current obsession with sex is nothing short of blasphemy. It seems to me that when Christian fundamentalists – whether they purport to be “progressive” or not – build an alter in front of a few passages of scripture, such as the first chapter of Romans, but turn a blind eye and cold heart to the blessed and beautiful desires and relationships and yearning of millions of actual human beings – well, it seems to me that is idolatry piled on top of blasphemy.

The blasphemy of much of Christian thinking about sex is that it starts with a set of formal purity rules of exactly the sort Jesus came to free us from. The Christian Right spews hate and damnation, “progressive” evangelicals kill us bit more softly, but even the liberal church does not really offer a paradigm shift, but merely a “kinder, gentler” set of purity rules.

These rules and how they shift, depending on where you sit on the spectrum from conservative to liberal Christian, remind me of a moralistic game of sexual Clue: definitely everyone is down with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, with candles (and maybe even sex toys?), in the bedroom; and maybe some of us can handle Mr. and Mr. White, also with candles (but please don’t tell us about the sex toys), in the bedroom; and possibly Mr. Brown and Miss Jones (though it’s probably better if they are someone else’s kids), but only with birth control, and only in the bedroom they share only with each other; and most definitely not Mr. Smith and Mrs. Jones, with anything at all, anywhere; and obviously not Mr. White and Mr. Jones, even if they use a condom, at the rest stop; and ditto Miss Jones and Mr. Black, with alcohol, at a party where they’ve just hooked up.

Right? Isn’t that how it goes? We start with a formal set of rules – they might be about “the sanctity of marriage,” or they might be about “loving and committed relationships,” but always formal rules about relationships in the abstract – and then we plug in real people, without much thought to their actual relationships with other real people, and rarely with any thought at all about their actual desires or, horror of horror, their physical pleasure. Real relationships and real pleasure always seem subservient, at best, or even irrelevant, to these formal rules about sex.

What if, instead, we started with real relationships and real pleasure and built a sexual ethic from there? I’m no Biblical scholar, but I’m having a difficult time understanding why that would not be pleasing to God.

How would such a sexual ethic change the way we think about sex? Well, first of all, it might problematize a lot of sex that no one ever questions under the current set of formal rules. Isn’t it funny how no one ever worries much about the ethics of sex within a heterosexual marriage? Oh, we hear all the time about the problems (that’s what Viagra’s for, right?) and the wonders (the Obamas are making marriage sexy again!) of such sex, but what about the ethics? So for example, what if Mr. and Mrs. Smith have an emotionally abusive relationship that extends to their bedroom? Is that ethical? Or what if Mrs. Smith has never experienced pleasure in her sexual relationship with Mr. Smith, and he doesn’t really care? Is that ethical?

On the other hand, what if Mr. Smith and Miss Jones really enjoy sex with each other, but they’re not at all romantically attached to one another? What if they’ve taken care to communicate to one another that neither of them is interested in a love match, but that they are both very interested in exploring sexual pleasure as a natural extension of an intimate friendship? Could that be ethical?

And what if Mr. Smith and Mrs. Jones are married to other people, and for various reasons that aren’t all that difficult to imagine, all four adults have decided that a sexual relationship between Mr. Smith and Mrs. Jones is worth exploring, and everyone is being a grown-up and communicating, and it’s all pretty emotionally healthy? In a universe where relationship and pleasure are the foundation of sexual ethics, couldn’t that be ethical? It seems to me that such a scenario is inherently complicated – but in my ethics, at least, it is complicated because there are so many relationships to attend to, not because there are some formal rules that require certain behavior within the institution of marriage, everyone’s real relationships and pleasure be damned.

And what about Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones at the rest stop? Or what about Miss Jones and Mr. Black’s drunken hook-up at a party? It seems to me that these are the most ethically problematic. As with any form of conspicuous consumption, these sexual encounters are ethically problematic because they lack any sort of meaningful relationship outside of possibly healthy pleasure, and even healthy pleasure can’t be very meaningfully tended to when two people know nothing at all about one another, and even less so when judgment is impaired. It is difficult for me to affirm these encounters as ethical, but only because they do not seem to me to be intentionally concerned with healthy relationships or pleasure. Moreover, I should note, that much of our culture’s conspicuous consumption is unethical by exactly the same standard and every bit as sinful in my eyes.

A sexual ethic that begins with relationship and pleasure … does this seem complicated? But of course! Being a human being in relationship is complicated. Treating people as though they matter is complicated. Add sex to that mix, and it gets very very complicated, most certainly. A sexual ethic that begins with relationship and pleasure is NOT simply “anything goes” – indeed, it is quite the opposite. It is an ethic that requires intentional and careful tending to real relationships and pleasure, which is never easy, especially when passion is involved. It is not an ethic that promises to solve all the problems that inevitably will arise in sexual relationships. People will still get hurt, and relationships will still end, and even people acting with the most ethical intention they can bring to their sexual relationships will make a big old mess of things. Ethics doesn’t solve the dilemma of being human.

But all the pain and sorrow and alienation and shame that so many people feel about themselves as sexual beings, and all the violence and persecution and hatred that has been visited on so many for so long, all because of the rigid and merciless purity codes that so much of Christianity is obsessed by? None of that is intrinsic to being human. None of that is necessary. It is not good news, and it is not pleasing to God.

Christianity’s obsession with sex, and in particular homoerotic sex, is tearing apart the Body of Christ limb from limb. I would go so far as to say that this obsession is crucifying Christ all over again. May God have mercy on us all.

The Cost and Joy of Discipleship: Advent Reflections

Do you ever wake up on a Saturday morning, and your body and your mind are all oriented toward getting up and going to work; maybe you're anticipating the day with dread, maybe with eagerness, but either way, you're gearing up, lingering in the warmth of the duvet for just a few more minutes .... and then you realize it's Saturday. You know that delicious feeling in the first few moments when you realize you don't have to get up? When the whole orientation of your body and mind shifts? You rest back into the warmth, your face and body relaxes, maybe you sigh and smile, and your mind turns with a different, slower sort of anticipation ... of more sleep, or a pancake breakfast, family time, domestic chores.

That's what Advent always feels like to me. I've always loved new beginnings, that back-to-school feeling of new clothes and blank copy books, freshly sharpened pencils, everything new and fresh and full of hope and anticipation. I love the new calendar year in the same way, that sense that everything is possible with a fresh start, last year's failed resolutions be damned! But as someone relatively new to observing the Christian liturgical year, Advent -- a season of anticipation that also begins the new church year -- often creeps up on me. It's like this little gift of a new beginning, tucked between back-to-school in September and the New Year in January, all the more fresh and delightful because I often sort of forget about it, especially when it falls so closely on the heals of Thanksgiving, as it has this year.

So this morning I woke up, early as usual, made coffee and began noodling around on Facebook as is my usual morning routine, thinking about getting ready for church, getting myself oriented toward the busyness of a Sunday morning for my family -- and then I remembered: it's the first Sunday in Advent.

And what a delightful moment when I realized, because I love Advent! Advent is about nesting, full of domestic chores as we prepare our home to welcome a new child in the bleak midwinter. Advent is the most female of the liturgical seasons, pregnant and full with heavy, round bellies. I used to think Advent should be so quiet and peaceful and contemplative, and was often annoyed by how busy and hectic and even cranky it can be, especially as Christmas gets near. But if you've ever known a woman in the last few weeks of pregnancy, no matter how much she has loved being pregnant, she just wants that baby out NOW. She's usually tired, uncomfortable, and a little cranky that this child still hasn't made its appearance. Mary may be the very mother of God, but I doubt she was any different. Advent is her ninth month of pregnancy, and ours too. We may not have a baby Jesus pressing on our bladders and our sciatic nerves, but we ought to have him pressing in other ways that make us a little uncomfortable and tired as we wait with eager anticipation for his arrival, for all the freshness and mystery -- not to mention all the hard work -- that a new child brings.

A couple of years ago in Advent, I made a discipline of going to noon Mass almost every day. It was lovely, and sort of gave structure to the otherwise chaotic nature of this busy season leading up to Christmas. One of the things I'm preparing for in the New Year is to get more serious about my writing, and so for my Advent discipline this year, I am planning to blog every day.

That's a lot of blogging, especially for me. So if you have anything you've been dying to ask me about, now's the time. Ask away -- as those who know me well can attest, there's very little I'm not willing to blather on about!

Coming Attractions

Last Sunday Michael preached a sermon on James and John, two of Jesus’ disciples who, with a stunning lack of humility, conspired to reserve for themselves the seats of honor on Jesus’ right and on his left in his coming glory. Can you imagine? Wanting to be special like that? Sheesh.

Of course, as Michael suggested in his sermon, we probably all have a bit of that – ambition, a drive to be successful, to be great even – or at the very least, a need to be recognized, affirmed. In its most basic form, it seems to me, this is really just another way of saying that we all need to be loved.

Of course, our need to be loved can play itself out in many ways, some of them not so humble. Often, our need to be loved plays itself out as a need to be loved over and above everyone else, to be greater, better, more special. I mean really, James and John were already Jesus’ disciples for crying out loud! What more could you want?

I doubt Jesus’ response was all that satisfying to James and John, and it can be hard medicine for most of us still today: “…whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve…” (Mark 10: 43-45) Jesus doesn’t say that we can’t be special, that we can’t be great, but he redefines greatness. As Michael put it, Jesus asks not that we give up our drive to be first, but rather that we turn our drive to be “first in love … first in service.” Michael suggested that Jesus “democratizes ‘greatness’ if you will. Everyone can be great, because everyone can serve…. Beloved," Michael continued, "Service is the rent we pay for the room we take up in this world. Not something we do in our spare time, with what’s left over. But our purpose in life. Everyone can be great. And it’s one of the most beautiful compensations in life that no one can sincerely try and help another without helping himself. The best way to become yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others. Everyone can be great. ‘We cannot truly live for ourselves alone. Our lives are connected by a 1000 invisible threads, and along these sympathetic fibers, our actions run first as causes and then return as results’ (Herman Melville). Everyone can be great. We can’t foresee our lives’ twists and turns, but one thing we can know: the ones who live best will be those who’ve sought and found how to serve. Everyone can be great. Children of God, Disciples of Christ, find your real job, and do it. Understand real success and go for it. Everyone can be great. Amen.” (Michael Ward Caine, sermon to Old First Reformed United Church of Christ, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on October 18, 2009)

I agree with Michael that everyone can be great. I agree that Jesus calls us to a different standard of greatness than the world calls us to, and that Jesus’ standard is how well we love and serve one another.

I agree, wholeheartedly, indeed this is at the heart of my faith as a Christian … and yet, and yet … that doesn’t feel like the whole story to me. Or rather, I should say, that’s not my whole story. And I want to tell you my whole story about service and greatness and my need to be loved. I want to tell you because I think it is sort of easy to be a little polly-anna about how nice and good and right it is to serve others, but I am here to tell you it can be pretty fucking hard too. And our actions, that “run first as causes and then return as results”? Sometimes the results aren’t what you’d expect. And you still find yourself yearning for a pat on the back, to be special, to be loved.

A couple of years ago I stopped blogging at the wide tent for several reasons. One was that I found myself starting to feel ambitious as a writer, wanting to be read, and recognized, to be one of the important and successful bloggers – but I didn’t like the writer I became when I was motivated by ambition. I felt that my words, in my mouth, on my fingertips, that they were often righteous, and lacked humility, that I was trying to bring craft to my work not so that it would serve others but so that it would reflect well on me. And when I did try to approach my writing with humility, I would just be left wondering, “Who the hell am I anyway? Why do I think I have anything so special to say?” Either way, it was sort of paralyzing.

Another reason I stopped blogging was that I had hit a wall when it came to writing about race and poverty. I was and still am pretty in awe of Dawn’s writing about adoption, and as I have said before, I felt, and still feel, like I don’t have a whole lot to add. But poverty and racism – I felt like I actually did have something to say, and I was tired of the same old predictable white liberal script -- I wanted to break out, and talk about these things in new ways … but again, I just felt paralyzed.

Most importantly, though, I stopped blogging because I took a job, and I just really didn’t have any time. For almost two years, from early in 2007 until late fall of 2008, I became very involved in directing my church’s summer and after school programs for children and youth living in poverty in a neighborhood of Philadelphia called Kensington. By the end of 2008, I had burned through just about everything I thought I knew about myself, and I just collapsed.

Writing again here at my goodly heritage has been wildly theraputic, and while I don’t have all the answers about why I write, and how I write, and what it all means, I do know that I don’t feel so paralyzed any more. I feel like I have emerged with a new voice, and I will admit I like it. I also will admit that I like getting nice comments from all of you. I don’t know if I have more ambition than that right now, but I’m also pretty sure that if I do, it’s okay. And, I think, maybe I’m ready to tell you my story, my complicated story about service and greatness and needing to be loved.

This story is long, and it will most likely unfold over many months. So stay tuned. If you feel so moved, drop me a comment now and again and let me know what you think. I’m not too proud to tell you that it really does make my day!

The Cost and Joy of Discipleship: My Resurrection "Problem"

Is it just me, or do you have conversations in your head too? I do this all the time, “talk” to people in my head about all sorts of things. When I’m thinking something through, I guess I need an audience, even if it’s just an imaginary one. That’s the reason I started this blog, really: I love to write, I need to write, but I could never make myself do it just for me, in a journal. But I also have never felt that fire in my belly to get published. Oh, it would be nice, I’m sure, and if someone out of the blue asked me to submit something to a magazine, or offered me a book contract, I would surely say “Yes!” and be thrilled. But that’s not how it happens, and I have never had the stomach for the sort of self-promotion and marketing it takes to be a successful writer. Still, I need to write, and a blog seemed like a way to gather around me a little bit of an audience to make me actually get words on a page now and then. (And as it turns out you, my dear little group of readers, are everything I need and I totally adore you, by the way!)

My friend Gordon says that reading, like writing, is communal, that we always read with someone, even if they don’t know that we are reading with them. I never thought about it that way, but instantly I knew what he meant – I’m always reading with someone or other, a friend who loves this author, or someone who reminds me of a character in the book I’m reading, or a loved one who has sewn themes into my life related to the themes in the book I’m reading. Since I joined Gordon’s book review group, affectionately know as the “Booksters,” I now read just about everything with Gordon, in addition to the other folks I’m reading “with,” because I know at the end of my book I will write a review for him. I love that, having him and all those other folks with me as I read.

My solitude is much like that, very much animated by souls who don’t even know they are with me. As an introvert, I need solitude to stay healthy and whole, but I’m also really a relationship-hound. I love people. I just adore them. I treasure relationships and crave intimacy and am promiscuously affectionate. And though I need to be alone a lot, I find that even in my solitude, I gather my dear ones around me in the form of imaginary conversations. I carry on conversations in my head with just about anybody, whether I’ve met them or not. I can “talk” to my loved ones, of course, but also to authors of books I’m reading, famous people I admire, “friends” on Facebook whom I’ve never even met – it’s how I flesh out ideas, ideas that often make their way here in written form, ideas that are influenced along the way by books I’m reading – it’s all very dynamic, my reading, talking, and writing. (Of course in my imaginary conversations, I’m always incredibly articulate and wise and quite attractively clever and witty, so maybe they also serve a therapeutic purpose, to perk me up when I’m down!)

At any rate, what I realized recently is that I don’t “talk” to people who aren’t alive. My imaginary conversations are really rehearsals, fantasy conversations that I’m imagining, at least theoretically, could really happen. I realized this recently when I was thinking (having a conversation, actually, in my head with someone I don’t even really know) about why prayer is so hard for me. The prayer that works best for me is liturgical, praying the Psalms, even praying the Rosary (though I pray it in a very modified way that would probably horrify orthodox Catholics … though just the thought of me praying the Rosary in any way would probably horrify orthodox Catholics, now that I think about it, so what are you going to do?) But I’m terribly undisciplined about any of that, which, combined with my complete inability to pray meaningful in a “talking to God” sort of way, leaves me without the rich prayer life that I really crave. Okay, so yes, I could just get some discipline about the sort of prayer life that actually does work for me (why is it so hard to just pray the Psalms every freakin day, when I love them so much? Go figure.). But still, this “talking to God” sort of prayer is fascinating to me, but ultimately elusive. Entirely elusive. Which doesn’t really make sense, right, if I’m all about imaginary conversations with folks.

Yesterday after church a small group of us gathered over lunch (broccoli and cheddar quiche made by yours truly and a lovely fall salad from Jane) in the parsonage to brainstorm topics for the adult Sunday school series, and George suggested a series called something like, “What’s Jesus Got to Do With It?” He speculated that there are some folks outside the church who are maybe craving something we have, but can’t quite get themselves to join us because while they sort of get God, they’re just not sure what Jesus adds. What’s he got to do with it anyway? I thought that was interesting, because for me, it’s just the opposite: I’m all about Jesus. Truth be told, I’m kind of crazy about Jesus. But God? I really, honestly can’t wrap my mind around God. No, that’s not right -- I can wrap my mind around God, and I really do believe in and experience God, all the time. But the problem is, I can’t wrap my arms around God – I can’t animate God enough to give God personality and the sort of presence that I can be in relationship with, that I can talk to. So when people try to reassure me that really, prayer is easy! It’s just talking to God! That doesn’t help. Not even a little.

But if you have been reading me even for a little while, you know that Incarnation is central to my faith. I just really love the notion that in Jesus, God shares God’s Godness (I was going to say Self, but like I said, I can’t really imagine God as having a Self) with us all in such a physical, earthy, intimate, bodily way. If you’re a relationship-hound like me, who loves the way we can touch one another not just with our heads and our hearts but literally by touching each other, holding hands, kissing and laughing and laying our hands on one another in gestures of love and healing – if you love all that, well then, Jesus is your boy, right? And eating! Have you ever noticed how central eating is to our Incarnational faith? That’s because bodies need to eat, and it is sacred and good to eat together. It’s no accident that Jesus left us with a meal to recreate himself among us. It’s no accident that Jesus revealed himself in Emmaus through the breaking of bread. So, yeah, I’m all about the Incarnation. (I should note here that none of this about the centrality of bodies and food to faith – not one single bit of it – is unique to Christianity; I just happen to be Christian so that’s the tradition out of which I write.)

So the other day, as I was driving past the Art Museum on my way home from a meeting at church, I was thinking about prayer and why it is so hard for me (okay, again, I was actually having a conversation with one of you! In my head…. all the time, I’m telling you, these conversations are going on in my head). I thought, okay, it makes sense that I can’t “talk” to God, but why can’t I “talk” to Jesus? If Incarnation is really so central to my faith, and I’ve got this man, Jesus, whom I adore, and he’s perfectly embodying God, then why can’t I “talk” to him? At first I worried that I had an Incarnation problem, which would be a real crisis of faith, let me tell you. And then I realized what it was: I don’t talk to dead people. I don’t “talk” to my mom, much as I wish I could, and I don’t “talk” to Thomas Merton, even though I call him my patron saint. I don’t talk to historical figures, and, as I realized winding my way past boat house row, I don’t talk to Jesus. At least not unselfconsciously, not in the way that I can lose myself in imaginary conversations with people who are alive.

I realized then, on Kelly Drive, that my problem with prayer is not an Incarnation problem, but a Resurrection problem. And I will admit that I realized this with some relief. Not because Resurrection is not central to my faith: it is, actually. But, I will confess, I don’t “believe in the resurrection of the body,” much as I love to say the Apostles Creed, and I don’t “look for the resurrection of the dead” even though I love saying the Nicene Creed. I believe in, and experience, the Resurrection of Christ all the time, every day, but not in a way that manifests one body, in the person of Jesus, who is alive in a way that I can “talk” to.

Last night another group of folks from church met for dinner at Bob and Joanna’s house. (I brought salad this time, and there was also chili and baked lentils and awesome chocolate chip-raisin muffins for dessert; and always, with that bunch, good wine and beer). We were there as part of our covenant ministry with Michael, with whom we are embarking on a period of revitalization during which we hope to share our good news with others who need it and are seeking it, but aren’t sure where to find it. Michael asked us a series of questions and we shared around the living room, a wacky diverse group of folks. Among the questions Michael asked us was, What is a central way that we as a church experience Jesus? The discussion was thoughtful and moving and just lovely. Dorothy told the story of coming to the United States as a refugee from Liberia, and against all odds finding a church home with us. Laura told of how difficult for her is Jesus’ challenge that we must become like children to enter the Kingdom, yet when a pack of kids, led by Micah and Meg, randomly and very noisily flew through our discussion, there he was for her. Joe, a long-time UCC pastor, spoke of meeting Jesus in Buddhist practices such as meditation, and Bob spoke of meeting Jesus in the homeless men he works with at our food and clothing cupboard. Bobbie noted that because of her work in the HIV/AIDS community, she could only join her husband’s church after we became Open and Affirming, because acceptance of gay and lesbian people was so central to her experience of Christ. And on and on, one gorgeous story after another.

I was sitting in a chair, with Michael on the floor next to me on one side, and Dorothy in a chair on the other, and for a brief moment I had one of those “movie” experiences – you know, when there’s a sequence in a film where the music rises over the dialogue, and usually the camera does something clever, like zooms out or spins round the circle, and you are meant to experience with the character a transcendent moment? That’s what it was for a moment: pure transcendence. I resisted an urge to reach down and take Michael’s hand, to reach over and put my other hand on Dorothy’s back. And I looked around, as the camera would, not really hearing the sounds of voices for a moment, but seeing these faces of all these people that I just love so very much. And they were shining, I’m telling you. Transfigured. And I actually thought right then about all the petty ways that we can be annoying to one another, and let each other down, and be, well, human, you know? I was acutely aware of that, that these were human people, with very real human foibles, many of which I am well aware, having loved them and struggled in community with them now for over a decade. But in that moment they were all shining and perfect and utterly beautiful. And I thought this! This is it, this is the Body of Christ, this is the Resurrection: all these people I’m talking to all the time in my head.

And I realized then that maybe I don’t have a Resurrection problem at all. And maybe, just maybe, all those conversations I have in my head with all of you, my dearest ones, maybe those conversations are my prayer?

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: Some Thoughts on Gay Marriage from 2006

I started writing my next post (above) thinking that I haven't been thinking much about being a lesbian for a decade or more ... and then I remembered this. I guess I haven't had so much FUN thinking about being a lesbian in a decade as I'm having now, but certainly the raging homophobia of the Bush years had me thinking a lot about my lesbianism just a couple of years ago. It's refreshing to feel the climate change so much and so quickly; I certainly never thought, when I shared this piece during worship at Old First in the spring of 2006, that I would be married (though not recognized in Pennsylvania) in three short years. This was written in a much less hopeful time, when the Pennsylvania legislature was considering an amendment to the Pennsylvania constitution to exclude same sex marriage, an amendment I am pleased to report was never passed. Still, it's good to remember what that time felt like.

***

I was in the car recently listening to Radio Times and heard Kenji Yoshino, a gay professor at Yale Law School, discussing his new book about gay civil rights. Yoshino was telling the story of an encounter with his father who lovingly embraced his son with the words “You are my son,” during a difficult time in Yoshino’s life when he was beginning to question his sexuality. Knowing that his father loved him in that sort of unconditional way allowed him to come to terms with the fact that he was a gay man. Commenting on that encounter, Yoshino said that “love is a sort of narrative permission that allows certain stories to be told within its bounds which could not otherwise be told.” I was so struck by this thought that I kept repeating it over and over until I got home and wrote it down. “Love is a sort of narrative permission that allows certain stories to be told within its bounds which could not otherwise be told.” I think that the community we have created here at Old First is one in which the love at the heart of our Christian faith allows us to tell all sorts of stories we might not otherwise be able to tell.

I think that, like love, the law also is also a sort of narrative permission that allows certain stories to be told. Often those stories are very affirming, but unfortunately, they aren’t always. One of the stories for which the law creates a narrative framework is the story of marriage and family: the law tells us that certain sorts of marriages and families are “real” and “legitimate” and worthy of celebration, and others are ominously dangerous imposters. Of course, we at Old First know better, because God’s love is what guides our story-telling, but none of us at Old First is immune from the effects of this other story that is constantly being told by and through the law. I would like to share with you how that other story has affected me and my family.

As you all know by now, the Pennsylvania legislature is considering an amendment to the Pennsylvania that would only recognize marriage between a man and a woman, and that would prohibit the Commonwealth from conferring any legal status on unmarried couples. This proposed amendment has to be understood in a much wider context of similar legislation and amendments, beginning with DOMA, the federal so-called Defense of Marriage Act, followed by mini-DOMA’s in many states, and then a proposed “Federal Marriage Amendment” to the federal constitution, and most recently a rash of state constitutional amendments like the one currently under consideration in Pennsylvania. To date, voters in 19 states have enacted such constitutional amendments, while 13 other states in addition to Pennsylvania are currently somewhere in the process of enacting one. Many of these amendments also contain vague language denying marriage-like benefits to unmarried couples, which may be interpreted as including domestic partnership health benefits. The state of Virginia recently enacted legislation which prohibits any contract, public or private, which would confer any of the benefits of marriage on a same-sex couple.

And as if these assaults on same-sex couples aren’t enough, now our opponents are going after our families. Currently one state, Florida, does not allow openly gay and lesbian people to adopt children, neither individually nor as a couple. Now 16 other states are considering legislation which would prohibit adoption by lesbians and gay men.

Obviously, there are concrete ways that all of this legal activity affects me and my family. If the Pennsylvania constitution is amended as proposed, Julie and I essentially lose all hope of ever legally marrying in Pennsylvania and enjoying the legal benefits of marriage. We also quite possibly could lose the domestic partnership benefits we receive through the publicly funded Philadelphia School District – the benefits that allow me to be home with our children and to do the unpaid work I have come to love.

That alone is certainly reason enough to go downstairs after worship and write a letter opposing the HB2381. But I want to try to share with you on an even deeper level what all of this means to us. I want you to imagine that every day when you open the paper, or log onto MSNBC, or turn on the radio, a drama is being played out in which you are the enemy, the villain. You, your most intimate relationships, the family you cherish, you all are dangerous. Unfit to raise children. The flashpoint rallying people of faith across the country in a way no other cause has managed to for decades. You, and your family, are a threat to the institution of marriage and to the very fabric of society. You hear this day after day after day, as the drama gets played out in an ever escalating series of legal enactments, each one more severe and punative than the last, until you have to ask yourself, when is it going to stop?

As for me, I go through a pretty constantly cycling series of emotions. Much of the time I get caught up in the minutia of my life, which is pretty wonderful, and I feel safe in the little bubble of progressive folks I have chosen to surround myself with. But there are other times when I lie awake at night and wonder when they will start trying to take our kids away from us, and whether Canada or Sweden or Holland will take us in. Now, I am the first to admit that in the light of day, these fears seem pretty extreme, and probably unfounded, and usually I just shake them off and tell myself I’m letting my overactive imagination get the best of me. But there are other moments when I remember that many of the Jews of Europe continued to tell themselves that it wasn’t really that bad, even as they were being sent away to their deaths in the camps. So, how do you know when that line gets crossed? How do you know when the fears you have for yourself and your family are no longer just overblown stories you are spinning for yourself in the dead of night, but something to be taken seriously? I don’t know, and not knowing makes me anxious.

I especially hate that I can’t protect my children from that anxiety. Recently, Trixie overheard a conversation I had after church about the many states considering banning gay men and lesbians from adopting, and in the car on the way home she asked me about it. We talked, as we have many times before, about how some people think it’s wrong for two women or two men to love each other and to be married and to raise a family. I explained that, for reasons I really don’t understand, some of these people feel so strongly that they want to prevent gay and lesbian people from adopting children. Trixie and I agreed that this view is absurd, and that especially silly is the notion that God agrees with this view, since after all, God is love, and that’s what our family is all about too. This is a conversation we have had many times before about marriage, but never about adoption. I waited while Trixie mulled it all over, and then came the obvious, inevitable question from a bright and thoughtful girl: “Mom, if they do that in Pennsylvania, do you think they will also undo adoptions that have already happened?”

“You mean like my adoption of you, or our adoptoin of Micah?” I asked.

“Yeah. They can’t say we’re not your kids, can they?”

And there you have it. That’s the story the law is currently telling my children: their family may not be secure because they have two moms who love each other. Of course, I assured Trixie that we will always keep our family safe, and that she needn’t worry. But the competing drama being played out in the law right now tells her and us a very different story.

Despite all the gloom and doom I’ve been sharing with you for the past several minutes, I’d like to end on a note of hope. Because I actually do feel startlingly hopeful these days. There is, of course, a much larger story than any of those I’ve been talking about, and that is the story of God’s love for us. Just recently, when I was feeling quite some despair about all of this, it came to me: I believe in God, and I believe that our God is a God of love. Those of you whose faith is deep and firm will find this a simple enough truth, one that I’m sure has sustained you through many difficult times. But those of you who know me well know that my own faith has mostly been plagued by doubt, so you may understand what a startling and powerful revelation that was when it gripped me recently. Yes, I believe in God, and our God is a God of love. God’s love is with me, God’s love is in my marriage, God’s love is in my family. And as Jeff reminded us last week, God’s love is with our opponents too. And God’s love will prevail. It will. And that is profoundly hopeful.

I’m not a pollyanna, though. I know that while my faith and God’s love are powerful and full of hope, they are unfortunately no talisman against bad things happening. This is a mystery I am still struggling to understand, but which I nevertheless know to be true. So, I hope you will take a stand against this gathering madness and lend your voice to the story love is telling. You can begin during the coffee hour today by writing a letter to your representative, asking him or her to oppose HB2381. If enough of us take a stand, and let our voices be heard, perhaps the law might begin to tell a different sort of story as well, the love story we here at Old First already know.

I thank you all for doing your part to make that happen.

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')