Take Me to Church 9/22/19: Seeding in Autumn

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Photo by Joshua Lanzarini on Unsplash.

Autumn isn’t typically the time of year to be thinking about planting seeds.  It’s the time of harvest, the time of storing up and shoring up.  But in the wake of the Climate March and Strike, we found ourselves today wondering what seeds we can plant, among ourselves and others, to inspire change and movement around the coming chaos, disaster, and mass death that unchecked climate change will surely bring.

And so I found myself wondering if things might have been different if the environmental movement had had a different message all along. When I was growing up, and maybe even as recently as a few years ago, I received the message of the environmental movement as a message about the Earth: protect the Earth, keep it clean.  I dutifully recycled and took public transit and ate no, or at least less, meat.  But Greta Thunberg and her young allies in climate activism put it bluntly: The future for young people looks fragile, even bleak, indeed, and even more fragile and bleak for the young people of the developing world.  The Earth will survive us if necessary.  But we will not survive an Earth that is rapidly warming, flooding, storming, and burning, much of it aggravated (even if all of not directly caused) by human activity.  Climate change deniers may scoff at the idea of protecting the spotted owl from extinction until they realize, likely too late, how the spotted owl (or any other vulnerable species) is also a canary in a coal mine.

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Take Me to Church 9/8/19: New School Year, New Heart

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Photo by Anthony Intraversato on Unsplash

Even if you’re not personally going “back to school,” as it were, September nevertheless feels like a return to schooling after summer, in which stasis and idleness is forgiven, even rewarded, as one tries to conserve energy and juiciness under the hot suns of the bright months.  I’m not sure how much I evolved spiritually this past summer.  I read over a thousand pages of Anne Brontë in the long heat of July, which, given their almost relentless and irredeemable bleakness, I do not recommend; I delayed completing my already-long-delayed draft of a novel I’ve been trying to write for the better part of five years; and, of course, if you’ve been keeping up with this blog (which of course you have), you’ve noticed I’ve been a little quiet here as I try to figure out how to keep sharing my creative offerings but also look into sharing my work with larger audiences.  So I returned to church this morning after (another) two-week absence for what many churches call “Rally Day”: the return of Sunday School for children, and, for the adult spiritual truants, a return to the Psalms and the prayers and the quiet anxiety of sitting with our own hearts in the space of the Meeting Room, under the new lights we haven’t gotten used to yet, wondering what might be revealed.

If I sound tired before the “new school year,” so to speak, is even a week old, I don’t think I’m alone.  “What most of us want,” Donna said in her sermon, “is to just not lose anything else.”  It’s no way to receive the great gift of salvation, we all know, but that doesn’t make it any easier, not in the face of so much disaster.  As I try to write this, Bahamians trying to come to the United States to take refuge with family and friends from the wreckage of Hurricane Dorian are being turned away without the visas they’ve never been required to have before.  Is everything going to be all right?  Can it be?  Who knows?

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Poem: Last Fruits

I haven’t posted a poem in a while; I’m slowly trying to submit pieces to publications and competitions, and some guidelines around previous publishing are pretty strict.  But I’m going to share this one because I’m sure the end of Labor Day weekend has us all contemplating the approach of autumn, and one of the first signs is likely to be at your local fruit stand.

Photo credits: top, Photo by Roman Davayposmotrim on Unsplash; bottom, photo by Josefin on Unsplash.

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Take Me to the Beach 8/25/19: And Also Much Plushies

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Beach at North Wildwood looking south.

I accidentally re-discovered a consistently brilliant part of summer two summers ago: I secretly planned a trip to Wildwood, New Jersey for Dakota’s birthday over Labor Day weekend, and we had so much fun that we’ve gone back for the subsequent two summers.  The key here is giving yourself over to the entire idea of fun, and a very specific kind of it: you need to roll the quarters you’ve saved all year for the arcade games that still accept quarters and not a prepaid card; you need to accept the idea that you are not going to eat anything healthy for a couple of days; you need to not get too attached to the particular look and shape of any individual plushie and allow yourself to be delighted by whatever the claw picks up and drops down the hatch.  (Succeed at the latter and you, too, can be an adult hauling home fourteen stuffed animals.)

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Including two different Hello Kitties.

Continue reading “Take Me to the Beach 8/25/19: And Also Much Plushies”

Take Me to Church 8/18/19: Living Under a Rock

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Photo by Lesly Juarez on Unsplash

August is a month for losing your place: in all the books you’ve been meaning to read all summer, in your inbox or your Twitter feed, in the TV series you’ve been binging.  (Don’t sleep on Derry Girls!)  But God goes looking for us, and in her great love discerns, from moment to moment, if we need to stay hidden or if we need to come out.

Come out about what’s important to you, come out from your hiding place.  Find yourself.  Find the place from which it is safe to come out, find the place into which it is safe to enter.  Donna spoke of the ways in which church can be this place, even and maybe especially for the unbelievers and the maybe-believers: without an explicit or even implicit mission to persuade or convert, we nevertheless stand for what church can be and what the love of God is when we create a place for people in which to take sanctuary and from which to emerge.  The cleft in the Rock of Ages is both a hiding place and a point of egress.

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Take Me to Church 8/11/19: Crime…Boy, I Don’t Know

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Photo by Dev on Unsplash

It probably says more about me than about the relative memorability of Sunday’s service that I wanted to run right home and watch Season 3, Episode 23 of The West Wing, “Posse Comitatus.”  I’d forgotten how great, and momentous, this particular episode is.  Exit Mark Harmon as Secret Service Agent Simon Donovan, the only man worthy of C.J. Cregg (sorry, C.J./Danny shippers); enter Lily Tomlin as eventual Secretary to the President Deborah Fiderer.  There are about six plots going on—a night at the theatre, an assassination, the search for a new Secretary, the tension between C.J. and Simon, a major domestic bill in consideration and wreaking havoc with Josh’s love life, a pissing match between President Bartlet and his Republican rival Governor Ritchie involving a Yankees game and a traffic jam on the Major Deegan (reminiscent, now, of the traffic problems in Fort Lee)—and a recurring motif of the white and red roses of the houses of Lancaster and York, respectively.  Throw in some Gilbert and Sullivan and it would really have been Peak Sorkin.

I digress.  The episode was alluded to in our Modern Testimony, an excerpt from Megan Garber’s Atlantic essay, “How Trump Obscures Mass Shootings with Doublespeak.”  The essay alluded to Governor Ritchie’s flaccid response to Agent Donovan’s death in an armed robbery: “Crime…boy, I don’t know.”  It’s not so different from the responses of too many of our elected officials to mass shootings, not so distant from thoughts and prayers.  

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Take Me to Church 8/4/19: A Rich Fool and Her Smoked Cheddar

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Photo by Melissa Walker Horn on Unsplash

The first Sunday of the month so often finds me wearing disposable food safety gloves and parceling out a box of fifty Munchkins across the eight or ten tables around which we gather for our monthly Agape communion meal.  Nothing changes this ritual, not even the uniquely and appallingly American ritual of mass gun violence, in which we remember the humanity of Jesus as much as his divinity: his friends and his religious practice; his eating and drinking; his fragility and fear.  These were shared by the thirty-two (as of this writing) people in El Paso, Texas and Dayton, Ohio, who had so much in common with Jesus, so much in common with all of us gathered around those tables and wondering which Munchkins had a jelly center.  In the wake of all this death, we remembered Jesus’s, and we looked for the way forward.

Or did we?  If there is a way, I’m no authority on it.  During the meal, I wrapped a tangy-sweet chunk of applewood smoked Cheddar around the crusty bread meant to represent the body of Christ and thought of the thirty-two people who will never enjoy bread and cheese again.  Then, too, after church, we rode the train uptown and took in a Broadway musical.  Then, too, it just happened to be the revival of Oklahoma!, which interrogates, and none too gently, the American lust for both violence and happy endings.

Valerie preached on the parable of the rich fool: “You fool!” God says to a rich man who, like many of us here in New York, has a little storage problem, “this very night your life is demanded of you. And the things you have prepared—whose will they be?”  It was the lectionary text, and a painful coincidence for the dead of El Paso, stocking up at a back-to-school sale.  There is no way forward for those who abandoned the markers and notebooks, socks and hair ties in the aisles of the Walmart.  And there is no way forward for those enjoying one last drink with their friends, just as Jesus did, in Ned Pepper’s bar in Dayton.

For the living, it has to consist, Valerie offered, in gratitude, in not losing sight of the other.  The rich fool eats, drinks, and makes merry alone; God reminds her that her plenty won’t count for much when her life is demanded of her when she is alone.  God gave Jesus friends with whom to share a last meal, erstwhile though they may have been.
God gave the world Jesus, and God gave the world Glendon Oakley, who saved several children during the shooting.

The rich fool is rich in examples of how to do better.  The rich fool washes her hands and passes out the Munchkins.