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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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 8/4/19: 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.

Take Me to Church 7/28/19: Particularity in the Lions’ Den

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Photo by Francesco De Tommaso on Unsplash

The king caved in, and ordered Daniel brought and thrown into the lions’ den.  But he said to Daniel, “Your God, to whom you are so loyal, is going to get you out of this.”
Daniel 6:16

 

Daniel’s true crime might be described as what Community Minister André Daughtry described in his sermon today as “particularity.”  Daniel worships the God of Israel, quietly but openly flouting a decree that Darius be worshipped as a God (a decree that Daniel’s enemies connive Darius into signing).  Darius is reluctant to sentence Daniel to the lions’ den, urging Daniel to call on his God to save him.

The artistlike the exile, like the spiritual leaderis someone who answers the call to particularity.  André shared his photographs of Rev. Jeff Mansfield, a former community minister at Judson, which included an action shot of Jeff leading a Moral Mondays protest in Albany.  (“Leading,” it should be noted, is not the word Jeff himself would use.  Reflecting on the picture, Jeff instead described a sense of feeling steered by the protesters, of being in front “not because [he] knew the way, but because [he] knew they needed to get there.”)  Protesting systemic racism and poverty is, in these darkening days, still particular.

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Take Me to Church 7/14/19: Welcome Back to the Light

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Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

 

On the 42nd anniversary of the 1977 blackout, New York City experienced another (albeit much smaller and briefer) blackout last night. It was a strange epoch in an already-unsettling weekend that began, for me, with standing vigil at Foley Square as part of Lights for Liberty, holding up my phone along with nearly three thousand other phones, candles, and flashlights in the shadow of 26 Federal Plaza. Saturday morning found me chasing our friends’ toddler around the Elevated Acre and watched the helicopters and ferries bouncing along the East River with him and his parents; I went home and followed stories of the ICE raids, starting earlier than the projected date of today, on Twitter. That flowed into news of the blackout, and in an apophenic moment, I wondered if one had anything to do with the other.

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Take Me to Church/Art 6/23/19: Heaven Is a Place on Earth

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The first panel on the AIDS Quilt was made by activist Cleve Jones in memory of his friend Marvin Feldman.  Photo by me.

Heaven?  I’m in heaven?
Prior Walter in Act V of Angels in America: Perestroika, Tony Kushner

We sang Vaughan Williams’s “O how amiable” surrounded by dozens of panels of the AIDS Quilt, we noshed on Keen’s oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, we contemplated Paul’s cryptic “I heard it from a cousin who told his friend” commentary on “the third heaven,” whatever that is—that is to say, I was back at church for the first time in a month, my longest stretch without church proper in years, and it was as good and jarring of a homecoming as I could have wanted.

I had actually been in the courts of the Lord already the previous evening for Quilt: A Musical Celebration, Judsonite Mark Perry’s benefit show for the Callen-Lorde Health Center and Frontline AIDS.  Mark had arranged for a sizable showing of the quilt itself, which I’d never seen in person.  I texted a picture of Freddie Mercury’s panel to MaryBeth; I shuddered with a sort of bilious grief at Roy Cohn’s, emblazoned with the legend “BULLY-COWARD-VICTIM.”  But the panel I won’t be able to forget is the very first one that was made, Marvin Feldman’s, by Cleve Jones, who conceived the quilt and the NAMES Project.  In the panel, Johnson is slight and serious, with round glasses and a moustache; he is surrounded by a Keith Haring-esque corona of bold dashed gray lines; and he holds a small gray tabby cat.

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Take Me to Church 5/19/19: Have You Ever Thought about Just Shutting Your Mouth?

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Photo: freestocks.org on Unsplash

It might surprise you to learn that I don’t always want to come to church.  I frequently, even usually, get myself to church more or less of my own accord, and once I’m there, snickering with Jessica while we mark up the scores during choir practice or serving snacks during Coffee Hour or, well, taking notes on the sermon, I’ve long forgotten my reluctance to peel myself out of bed.  But today I woke up with a headache, and the thought of staying in bed, complete with the cat perched on my chest, was terribly tempting.  The only thing that got me moving was remembering that it was New Member Sunday.  I’ve been involved in the process of inviting the nine wonderful folks who officially joined Judson today through my work on the Membership Committee, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to be with them as they, to borrow Lyla’s words, made their relationships with and accountability to Judson official.  So I took a quick shower, popped a few Advil, poured my coffee in my travel mug, and headed out.

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