Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and I want to take a moment to reflect on what that means, for me, but also for us as [what I see as] the Church in general.
Tomorrow we enter the desert with Jesus, on a forty-day pilgrimage toward the resurrection. We enter the desert to fast, to be tempted, to purify ourselves, to prepare.
What are you going to enter the desert with?
Today, I'm preparing to fast tomorrow. I had a good breakfast and have plans for good, healthy lunch and dinner. Partly this prepares me because it means if I eat three meals in the caf tomorrow I won't have enough meals for the rest of the week. Partly, this prepares me in that it nourishes me for the fasting tomorrow. I'm filling my canteen for the journey.
I'm also spending a good deal of today in physical preparation, outside my body. I'm cleaning and organizing my room, reorganizing my music lockers, and doing laundry. I'm finishing up paperwork and organizing and simplifying my to-do list. I'm simplifying my backpack for the journey.
Tomorrow we don our ashes and begin our trip. What will we take with us into the desert? What is our desert?
People often give something up for lent. They give up sweets, recreational computer use, watching television. Or they add something of importance to their lives: free reading time, daily devotionals, lima beans. My lenten journey this year is going to be somewhat different, and I hope to come out the other side carrying with me what I have learned. I have a list of twenty-some small tasks. For the most part, these are little things ("wake up early enough to wash my face every morning"), little things that I want to add (or remove) to my lifestyle. Some are daily ("practice!"), some are weekly ("laundry"), some are general, some are specific, but I've divided up the list into small components, and will add one every other day-ish. A big task, perhaps, but I'm about to enter the Real World, and I want to enter it to the fullest of my potential.
What is your desert going to be? What are you going to enter it with? I know couples or groups of friends that are going to enter lent together. Together they are going to do daily devotionals, give up sweets, whatever.
Isn't that what we, as Church, do anyway? We enter lent together. We no longer don ashes in the privacy of our homes and wear them into public. We recieve ashes in the public of the sanctuary and walk home with them. We don our shame, our sin, opur humanity, together as one people and take our shame into the world beyond.
Whatever you take with you into the desert, remember that you do not take it alone. For Christ is in the desert already, waiting for us.
Also, remember to close your eyes when you're being ash-ed. Keeps it from getting in your eyes.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Saturday, September 13, 2008
today's thoughts: ecumenism
What does it matter what a person believes or not? We are saved by grace through faith. Works DO NOT MATTER. Through faith. Crap. Does that mean what a person believes does matter? But what is doctrinal belief than the written works of men to quantify and qualify God into understanding? FAITH is not work. A set of bleliefs is HUMAN WORK. Faith can BE work. But it is not WORKS. Beliefs are works. Works like opuses. Works like dissertations. Works like... well, works like college, really.
Faith takes work but is not a work.
Beliefs systems are works. They are defined by actions, by words (which are works, actions), defined by humans and human things. Faith is of God. Works, bleiefs systems, denominations, sparations, deliniations, sects, synods, religions, separations, schisms, and all else in between... those are human inventions for the comfort of human ways. And yes, while they are indeed sometimes necessary for the continuation of human faith (faith without expresion dies), and the deliniations mayeven be holy Spirit-inspired... separation is NOT of God. God is like a herd of wild mustang roaming across the plains... doesn't know or care if they are in Wyoming, Utah, or Nebraska... it's all the same field. We are all the same people to God. Expressed in different ways, or, better put: VIEWed in different ways.
Which is all well and good, but what does that mean for ecumenism? What does that mean for Christian unity (or human unity for that matter)? There is the key question.
But what really is the questions is: what is the point of ecumenism. What is the goal toward which unity is aimed. It is NOT an option to try to make one, single relion/denomination out of the entire world. That's just ridiculous. There are too many cultures and languages and classes and systems and.... well, it would take a god to bridge all those layers into one whole. Oh, wait. God does.
Faith takes work but is not a work.
Beliefs systems are works. They are defined by actions, by words (which are works, actions), defined by humans and human things. Faith is of God. Works, bleiefs systems, denominations, sparations, deliniations, sects, synods, religions, separations, schisms, and all else in between... those are human inventions for the comfort of human ways. And yes, while they are indeed sometimes necessary for the continuation of human faith (faith without expresion dies), and the deliniations mayeven be holy Spirit-inspired... separation is NOT of God. God is like a herd of wild mustang roaming across the plains... doesn't know or care if they are in Wyoming, Utah, or Nebraska... it's all the same field. We are all the same people to God. Expressed in different ways, or, better put: VIEWed in different ways.
Which is all well and good, but what does that mean for ecumenism? What does that mean for Christian unity (or human unity for that matter)? There is the key question.
But what really is the questions is: what is the point of ecumenism. What is the goal toward which unity is aimed. It is NOT an option to try to make one, single relion/denomination out of the entire world. That's just ridiculous. There are too many cultures and languages and classes and systems and.... well, it would take a god to bridge all those layers into one whole. Oh, wait. God does.
But what is the point? For, me, I see the point as tolerance. Tolerance, tolerance, tolerance. Not ignorance, not people saying "well they believe such-and-such, which is WRONG!" Because what does "wrong" mean in a religious context. Well, usually (from what I've seen), it means that the person who is wrong is going to hell.
And, for that matter, what is "heresy" except the A's saying the B's have got it all wrong and are going to hell for it. So the A's kick out the B's, burn their villages and corner them in a castle for two years until they all walk into the fire, just because they couldn't agree on a silly little thing like how much money to give the leader of the A's, or whether or not B women could hold religious positions.
I'll say this once, and I'll say it again:
JUST FREAKING LOVE EACH OTHER ALREADY PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Friday, May 23, 2008
Sermon (the first)
So... I probably should have posted this ages ago, but I guess I always thought that I did and never actually did. Anyhow. It's the first sermon I gave this summer, way back in June.
In our scripture readings today we heard the stories of two grieving widows who lost their only sons.
In our gospel lesson, Jesus and his disciples were headed to a small town that really isn't known for much of anything, and they were stopped by a funeral procession. They probably felt much the same way that drivers do today when having to stop for a funeral. They may have been wondering how long it would take for them to get on the road again, how much would this delay their schedule, and so on. And maybe they begin pushing their way through… when Jesus stops. Probably not too happy with this further delay, I can almost picture the disciples trying to urge Jesus along so they can make it to their destination before it gets too late. And then Jesus says, "Do not weep." What? Come on, Jesus, it's just a funeral, they happen all the time, what makes this one so special?
Here we have a woman, known only to us by her position as a mother and a widow, who has lost her only son. In those days, a woman was taken care of by her father until she was married, and then by her husband. If she was fortunate enough to have a son that could take care of her once her husband died, her son then became her supporter. This woman had lost her one last support, and would most likely become impoverished, alone, and excluded from society. What sort of burdens was she carrying down the road that day? Loneliness? Grief? Fear? Jesus saw that in her. "Do not weep." A wisp of hope for her to set her burdens down on. And a command that would probably have been reacted to with confusion.
Why not weep? She just lost her only son, she has no support… of all the people in that funeral procession, she has every reason to cry. And then Jesus doesn't just give her words of encouragement, he takes away her reason for weeping. Jesus raises her son from the dead, giving her back what she had lost, restoring her sense of balance in the world, easing the burdens from her shoulders. Because God in Jesus knew her burdens and knew what those around her could only imagine. It would be well known to the other mourners in the funeral procession how difficult life would be for this woman, and presumably they were sad at the loss of the young man as well. But only Jesus could really know what she was carrying with her to the full extent that it was affecting her.
God knows what hurts us. The difficulties we carry in our hearts, the burdens we haul in our backpacks and what rain storms have drenched us, adding more weight than we ever thought we'd have to carry. God sees us walking down the street in a crowd of people and knows what inner turmoil we bear and what each forward step means to us and costs us.
Yet what about the other widows that day? What about the mothers whose sons stayed dead? What about the funeral processions that Jesus didn't run into? What about the burdens that went uneased? What does the story of the widow of Nain mean for them? For us? Is it telling us, oops, sorry, you missed it, Jesus isn't exactly walking around in a robe these days, you'll just have to deal with your backpack on your own? No, not at all. The widow of Nain is both a reminder of the past and a hope for the future.
Our first reading today told nearly the same story: a widow looses her only son, only to have Elijah, a messenger of God this time, and not Jesus who is God, raise him from the dead and restore hope. The people Luke wrote his gospel to would have been very familiar with the stories of Elijah, including this one. Our gospel is a retelling, a remake of a favorite movie, reminding us of the God who sees and knows, of the God who restores and heals. Our gospel is also a promise for the future: a foretaste of the cross when a different son will die and rise. A promise that God does see into our backpacks and the into smallest corners of our hearts and God hears our silent cries and knows our deepest pains. It's a promise that our God who sees and knows will restore and heal each and every one of us of each and every grain of sand we carry.
I am here at St. Paul's for an internship this summer as a part of a program designed to help young adults figure out if they want to be pastors. I am learning by participation and observation what exactly it is that pastors do all week. And while this is now only my second Sunday here at St. Paul's, I have already learned quite a bit about what a pastor's life is like.
Once, what now feels like long ago, I thought that pastors just spent their entire week writing a sermon for Sunday, visiting and meeting with people and committees, and maybe writing an article for the church newsletter. And yes, all that definitely happens, but there are also electrical, air conditioning, and elevator people to talk to, youth group trips to plan, vacation bible school to organize, and always the random but not infrequent other crisis to handle. I will admit that I spent quite a bit of time sitting at a desk this week. (Sermons aren't all that easy to write, it turns out.) But any previous ideas I had about pastors sitting in their offices all day have gone. Pastors are busy people. And I, at least, think it's pretty cool.
Jesus stopped outside Nain to comfort a widow. Any day there might be a widow of Washington who needs comforting. Or a runaway youth. Or any other burden-bearer who sees our steeple and seeks solace. And that's what your pastors do all week in and around and during the "other stuff" of air conditioning repairs and summer event coordinating.
And that is really what we are all called to do. Jesus stopped on the streets outside a city to comfort a woman in pain. Would you stop on your commute to comfort another person? To ease the weight of their journey?
God doesn't sit in the office all the time either. God doesn't only hear about the rest of the universe through lonely phone calls or the internet. God doesn't watch someone else's interpretation of events on the television or TiVo screen. God doesn't just watch the news or report on the news; God is the news. God is where the news happens and God is where secrets hide and where tears are born and where hugs begin, God is where grief is masked and where Tidy Cat is hidden in backpacks.
It turns out that my friend's husband is getting ready for a backpacking trip with his brother and needed the extra weight to get ready for the trip. His backpack is making him stronger, and making him able to be a help for others on the trip. We don't ask to haul around incredible loads that make travel difficult. But we have them, nonetheless, and we hide them. By bearing these loads and not giving up, and by helping others to bear theirs, and by remembering and relying on God's promise of hope and comfort, we become stronger. Because God does know. And God does hear. And God does raise up. Amen.
The readings were:
1 Kings 17:17-24
Galatians 1:11-24
Luke 7:11-17
A few weeks ago as I was talking to a friend on the phone, we began to discuss her husband's interesting antics. He was busy wrestling a 20 lb bag of Tidy Cat into a backpack. As she watched him struggle in this endeavor, she and I discussed what possible reasoning he could have for doing this. Was he testing the size and the strength of the backpack? Was he planning to kidnap the cat to his office for an extended period of time? Finally, he explained that he was simply going out to exercise and needed the extra weight, and that with the backpack zipped, only his wife and I would really know what he was carrying.
How often do we find ourselves doing exactly that? How often do we take something unsightly or embarrassing or painful and hide it away in a bag that we carry with us? How often do we pack away the hurt of being in a relationship that just doesn't seem like it's going to work? Or the confusion of feeling alone or abandoned? How many lost dreams do we shove to the bottom of our bags, convincing even ourselves that they don't exist? How many times do we close away our grief, pretending we have recovered from a loss, even when we haven't? In our scripture readings today we heard the stories of two grieving widows who lost their only sons.
In our gospel lesson, Jesus and his disciples were headed to a small town that really isn't known for much of anything, and they were stopped by a funeral procession. They probably felt much the same way that drivers do today when having to stop for a funeral. They may have been wondering how long it would take for them to get on the road again, how much would this delay their schedule, and so on. And maybe they begin pushing their way through… when Jesus stops. Probably not too happy with this further delay, I can almost picture the disciples trying to urge Jesus along so they can make it to their destination before it gets too late. And then Jesus says, "Do not weep." What? Come on, Jesus, it's just a funeral, they happen all the time, what makes this one so special?
Here we have a woman, known only to us by her position as a mother and a widow, who has lost her only son. In those days, a woman was taken care of by her father until she was married, and then by her husband. If she was fortunate enough to have a son that could take care of her once her husband died, her son then became her supporter. This woman had lost her one last support, and would most likely become impoverished, alone, and excluded from society. What sort of burdens was she carrying down the road that day? Loneliness? Grief? Fear? Jesus saw that in her. "Do not weep." A wisp of hope for her to set her burdens down on. And a command that would probably have been reacted to with confusion.
Why not weep? She just lost her only son, she has no support… of all the people in that funeral procession, she has every reason to cry. And then Jesus doesn't just give her words of encouragement, he takes away her reason for weeping. Jesus raises her son from the dead, giving her back what she had lost, restoring her sense of balance in the world, easing the burdens from her shoulders. Because God in Jesus knew her burdens and knew what those around her could only imagine. It would be well known to the other mourners in the funeral procession how difficult life would be for this woman, and presumably they were sad at the loss of the young man as well. But only Jesus could really know what she was carrying with her to the full extent that it was affecting her.
God knows what hurts us. The difficulties we carry in our hearts, the burdens we haul in our backpacks and what rain storms have drenched us, adding more weight than we ever thought we'd have to carry. God sees us walking down the street in a crowd of people and knows what inner turmoil we bear and what each forward step means to us and costs us.
Yet what about the other widows that day? What about the mothers whose sons stayed dead? What about the funeral processions that Jesus didn't run into? What about the burdens that went uneased? What does the story of the widow of Nain mean for them? For us? Is it telling us, oops, sorry, you missed it, Jesus isn't exactly walking around in a robe these days, you'll just have to deal with your backpack on your own? No, not at all. The widow of Nain is both a reminder of the past and a hope for the future.
Our first reading today told nearly the same story: a widow looses her only son, only to have Elijah, a messenger of God this time, and not Jesus who is God, raise him from the dead and restore hope. The people Luke wrote his gospel to would have been very familiar with the stories of Elijah, including this one. Our gospel is a retelling, a remake of a favorite movie, reminding us of the God who sees and knows, of the God who restores and heals. Our gospel is also a promise for the future: a foretaste of the cross when a different son will die and rise. A promise that God does see into our backpacks and the into smallest corners of our hearts and God hears our silent cries and knows our deepest pains. It's a promise that our God who sees and knows will restore and heal each and every one of us of each and every grain of sand we carry.
I am here at St. Paul's for an internship this summer as a part of a program designed to help young adults figure out if they want to be pastors. I am learning by participation and observation what exactly it is that pastors do all week. And while this is now only my second Sunday here at St. Paul's, I have already learned quite a bit about what a pastor's life is like.
Once, what now feels like long ago, I thought that pastors just spent their entire week writing a sermon for Sunday, visiting and meeting with people and committees, and maybe writing an article for the church newsletter. And yes, all that definitely happens, but there are also electrical, air conditioning, and elevator people to talk to, youth group trips to plan, vacation bible school to organize, and always the random but not infrequent other crisis to handle. I will admit that I spent quite a bit of time sitting at a desk this week. (Sermons aren't all that easy to write, it turns out.) But any previous ideas I had about pastors sitting in their offices all day have gone. Pastors are busy people. And I, at least, think it's pretty cool.
Jesus stopped outside Nain to comfort a widow. Any day there might be a widow of Washington who needs comforting. Or a runaway youth. Or any other burden-bearer who sees our steeple and seeks solace. And that's what your pastors do all week in and around and during the "other stuff" of air conditioning repairs and summer event coordinating.
And that is really what we are all called to do. Jesus stopped on the streets outside a city to comfort a woman in pain. Would you stop on your commute to comfort another person? To ease the weight of their journey?
God doesn't sit in the office all the time either. God doesn't only hear about the rest of the universe through lonely phone calls or the internet. God doesn't watch someone else's interpretation of events on the television or TiVo screen. God doesn't just watch the news or report on the news; God is the news. God is where the news happens and God is where secrets hide and where tears are born and where hugs begin, God is where grief is masked and where Tidy Cat is hidden in backpacks.
It turns out that my friend's husband is getting ready for a backpacking trip with his brother and needed the extra weight to get ready for the trip. His backpack is making him stronger, and making him able to be a help for others on the trip. We don't ask to haul around incredible loads that make travel difficult. But we have them, nonetheless, and we hide them. By bearing these loads and not giving up, and by helping others to bear theirs, and by remembering and relying on God's promise of hope and comfort, we become stronger. Because God does know. And God does hear. And God does raise up. Amen.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Religious Intolerance, part I
I've decided that one of the things in life that I absolutely cannot stand... the thing that I hate more than peanut butter, lima beans, sticky fingers, and false love... the thing I hate as much as I love spring rain, the sound of an orchestra tuning, hymnals, the smell of appledirt, and a good friend's hug... the thing that makes my skin crawl and my blood pressure rise (which is hard to do!)... the thing that I would do anything to completely eradicate from the planet, solar system, and entire universe if I could... is religious intolerance.
Why? Why do you hate someone just because they believe something different from you? Why are you so sure that what you believe is right, is right? Are you just that full of yourself? Or has the higher power spoken to you and told you that you are right and everyone else is wrong? And, if the later is the case, how sure are you that you weren't just hallucinating? How can you so absolutely judge something that you know nothing about? Take a walk in their dogma for a few moments, will ya? Maybe you'll understand that what they believe is just plain what they believe! It's got nothing to do with you and your god.
Now, I'm not just talking about the idea that "my religion is right, and everyone who doesn't believe what I believe is going to my idea of hell." I'm talking about "we believe that your religion is a cult," and "we believe that if you don't believe what we believe, then you are not only going to hell, but we are going to make fun of you and torment you and exclude you. Because my idea of heaven forbid that I try to welcome you because we don't want any of your kind sneaking in to our idea of heaven." JERKS!
Want to know how many hymns are shared among the major denominations these days? Hey, do you even want to know how many of "your" (and, for the moment, I'm addressing the mainstream Christians out there) hymns are sung by Mormons, Unitarian Universalists, and "fundamentalists"? Yes, that's right, the Mormons have "A Mighty Fortress" in their hymnal. Can you Lutherans shut the front door about them being a cult, now?
What is a "cult" anyway? Dictionary.com defines it as "a particular system of religious worship, esp. with reference to its rites and ceremonies." Well, then. You are all members of cults! Second definition (same source) is, "A religion or religious sect generally considered to be extremist or false, with its followers often living in an unconventional manner under the guidance of an authoritarian, charismatic leader." Ah, well, that's a little harder to pin on Christianity.
But let me interject a story.
Once upon a time, there was this dude. Let's call him Joe. Joe was a pretty charismatic fellow, who attracted some pretty interesting sorts into his group. Got thieves and prostitutes and women who slept with other women's husbands to hang out with him. Got them to change their ways and become "good, upstanding citizens." Then Joe got together a group of followers to live with him. He traveled around, never staying in one place, ate funky stuff, and required some fairly unconventional acts from his cronies. Joe and his peeps didn't really follow the normal pattern of beliefs and were considered quite extremist and false. Sound like a cult? Sound like we could rename Joe as Jesus and be talking about a rather familiar fellow?
You may think that religious intolerance isn't a big deal today, and especially not here in America. I mean, we're not witnessing people getting burned at the stake or crosses being lit on fire or whole television specials making fun of an entire denomination... oh, wait. There was that special on the Phelps family. What are they doing to you? Well, okay, the protests at soldier's funerals is a bit extreme, I'll give you that. But that's religious intolerance, too. They are intolerant of you, so you scream about how stupid it is to be intolerant. Welcome to "I'm rubber, you're glue."
Another story.
So there was an accident on a deserted state highway. And this guy in his car is in a ditch. He got run off the road by some maniac in a yellow sports car. And the lady with the "love Jesus" bumper sticker drives by, 'cause she's late to Bible Study, you know. And the teacher with the cross around his neck, well, he's gotta be up early in the morning... someone will stop for the car. Besides, the guy's already got help on the way with his cell phone, right?
Hours go by. He's stuck in his car, can't reach the cell phone, and it's getting late, and cold.Then
he feels the door next to him open, and hands feel for his pulse, he tries to talk, but his throat is too dry. He drinks the water offered to him, relaxes as he hears the word, "it's okay, buddy, help's on the way. Mind if I offer a prayer while we wait here?" He nods, the best he can. He'd promise to listen to an hour of bagpipe music, just to not be alone anymore. He hears an odd sort of praying, multiple voices... speaking in... tongues? No, that can't be right. And the voice that belongs to the water-giver, praying "Mother Earth you give us life, sustain us here..."
His rescuer, a group of college-age Wiccans, each praying in their own style, and the one next to him stays with him the whole ride to the hospital, calling his wife for him, making sure he's okay, returning the next day to ensure his comfort...
Why? Why do you hate someone just because they believe something different from you? Why are you so sure that what you believe is right, is right? Are you just that full of yourself? Or has the higher power spoken to you and told you that you are right and everyone else is wrong? And, if the later is the case, how sure are you that you weren't just hallucinating? How can you so absolutely judge something that you know nothing about? Take a walk in their dogma for a few moments, will ya? Maybe you'll understand that what they believe is just plain what they believe! It's got nothing to do with you and your god.
Now, I'm not just talking about the idea that "my religion is right, and everyone who doesn't believe what I believe is going to my idea of hell." I'm talking about "we believe that your religion is a cult," and "we believe that if you don't believe what we believe, then you are not only going to hell, but we are going to make fun of you and torment you and exclude you. Because my idea of heaven forbid that I try to welcome you because we don't want any of your kind sneaking in to our idea of heaven." JERKS!
Want to know how many hymns are shared among the major denominations these days? Hey, do you even want to know how many of "your" (and, for the moment, I'm addressing the mainstream Christians out there) hymns are sung by Mormons, Unitarian Universalists, and "fundamentalists"? Yes, that's right, the Mormons have "A Mighty Fortress" in their hymnal. Can you Lutherans shut the front door about them being a cult, now?
What is a "cult" anyway? Dictionary.com defines it as "a particular system of religious worship, esp. with reference to its rites and ceremonies." Well, then. You are all members of cults! Second definition (same source) is, "A religion or religious sect generally considered to be extremist or false, with its followers often living in an unconventional manner under the guidance of an authoritarian, charismatic leader." Ah, well, that's a little harder to pin on Christianity.
But let me interject a story.
Once upon a time, there was this dude. Let's call him Joe. Joe was a pretty charismatic fellow, who attracted some pretty interesting sorts into his group. Got thieves and prostitutes and women who slept with other women's husbands to hang out with him. Got them to change their ways and become "good, upstanding citizens." Then Joe got together a group of followers to live with him. He traveled around, never staying in one place, ate funky stuff, and required some fairly unconventional acts from his cronies. Joe and his peeps didn't really follow the normal pattern of beliefs and were considered quite extremist and false. Sound like a cult? Sound like we could rename Joe as Jesus and be talking about a rather familiar fellow?
You may think that religious intolerance isn't a big deal today, and especially not here in America. I mean, we're not witnessing people getting burned at the stake or crosses being lit on fire or whole television specials making fun of an entire denomination... oh, wait. There was that special on the Phelps family. What are they doing to you? Well, okay, the protests at soldier's funerals is a bit extreme, I'll give you that. But that's religious intolerance, too. They are intolerant of you, so you scream about how stupid it is to be intolerant. Welcome to "I'm rubber, you're glue."
Another story.
So there was an accident on a deserted state highway. And this guy in his car is in a ditch. He got run off the road by some maniac in a yellow sports car. And the lady with the "love Jesus" bumper sticker drives by, 'cause she's late to Bible Study, you know. And the teacher with the cross around his neck, well, he's gotta be up early in the morning... someone will stop for the car. Besides, the guy's already got help on the way with his cell phone, right?
Hours go by. He's stuck in his car, can't reach the cell phone, and it's getting late, and cold.Then
he feels the door next to him open, and hands feel for his pulse, he tries to talk, but his throat is too dry. He drinks the water offered to him, relaxes as he hears the word, "it's okay, buddy, help's on the way. Mind if I offer a prayer while we wait here?" He nods, the best he can. He'd promise to listen to an hour of bagpipe music, just to not be alone anymore. He hears an odd sort of praying, multiple voices... speaking in... tongues? No, that can't be right. And the voice that belongs to the water-giver, praying "Mother Earth you give us life, sustain us here..."
His rescuer, a group of college-age Wiccans, each praying in their own style, and the one next to him stays with him the whole ride to the hospital, calling his wife for him, making sure he's okay, returning the next day to ensure his comfort...
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Band Devo
I'm going to talk about fear today.
What were you afraid of as a child? The dark? Spiders? School?
What about high school? What were you afraid of in high school? Bad hair days? Embarassment? Not getting into college? The dark? Spiders?
What about now, in college? What are you afraid of? School? Spiders, the dark, bad hair days, grades?
I have a theory that all fears can be traced back to the fear of being alone. Embarassment, the dark, failure... variations on a theme, yes?
So what are you afraid of in band? Being out of tune? Coming in late? Coming in early? Getting it right, getting it wrong?
I googled "the opposite of fear" and you know what I found? Not courage or bravery or fearlessness. But hope. And in band speak, that's CONFIDENCE. Because I think "hope" is sort of a wishy-washy word. You can hope to do something, or you can know that you are going to do something. You can hope that you are going to do your best in band today, or you can be confident and do your best.
If our goals are up there (point to goal arrow near the top of the very high ceiling), how confident do we have to be in order to get there?
If Doc got up here and conducted like this (conduct timidly), how would that affect our playing? How does it affect our audience when we play "wimpy wimpy wimpy" (done in hefty commercial voice)?
What difference would it make if Doc conducted like this? (Conduct strongly, confidently) What difference does it make to our audience when we play hefty hefty hefty Confidently?
How do you want to be heard today?
What were you afraid of as a child? The dark? Spiders? School?
What about high school? What were you afraid of in high school? Bad hair days? Embarassment? Not getting into college? The dark? Spiders?
What about now, in college? What are you afraid of? School? Spiders, the dark, bad hair days, grades?
I have a theory that all fears can be traced back to the fear of being alone. Embarassment, the dark, failure... variations on a theme, yes?
So what are you afraid of in band? Being out of tune? Coming in late? Coming in early? Getting it right, getting it wrong?
I googled "the opposite of fear" and you know what I found? Not courage or bravery or fearlessness. But hope. And in band speak, that's CONFIDENCE. Because I think "hope" is sort of a wishy-washy word. You can hope to do something, or you can know that you are going to do something. You can hope that you are going to do your best in band today, or you can be confident and do your best.
If our goals are up there (point to goal arrow near the top of the very high ceiling), how confident do we have to be in order to get there?
If Doc got up here and conducted like this (conduct timidly), how would that affect our playing? How does it affect our audience when we play "wimpy wimpy wimpy" (done in hefty commercial voice)?
What difference would it make if Doc conducted like this? (Conduct strongly, confidently) What difference does it make to our audience when we play hefty hefty hefty Confidently?
How do you want to be heard today?
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Pillow V. Backpack
Disclaimer: MINE! Written around, oh, say... April? May? Ish? Some year in high school.
I’ve been cheating on my pillow with my backpack.
Pillow found out and has been treating me coldly ever since. He’s threatening to leave—I don’t know what I’ll do! I can’t sleep without him, and now I’ve gone and messed the whole thing up.
I remember the first night I spent with Backpack. Oh how smart he was, so strong and so full. I didn’t realize I had spent the whole night until my alarm went off and I hadn’t seen Pillow at all.
It was like that the first few times—I’d be so engrossed in Backpack’s smooth talking that I’d lose all track of time. Then, slowly but surely, every time I was with Backpack, I’d think about Pillow. The late night meetings weren’t as fun, and all I could concentrate on was how Pillow had treated me. Pillow had been so kind, so nurturing, always supporting me and helping me relax after a long day. At first, Backpack was exciting, and could offer me the things Pillow couldn’t—trips to far away place, amazing pieces of trivia, sometimes even food and money!
But eventually he turned abusive. Oh the fool I was! I thought he truly cared! Really he is just a dead weight on my shoulders. He hounds me with his constant hunger, and keeps me from my family and friends. He even tells me what to wear when I’m around him. See, he can’t handle my bare shoulders, And the physical control! If I try to move him the wrong way—well, let’s just say I’ve got enough sore muscles and bruised limbs to last a lifetime.
Oh Pillow, why didn’t I stay with you? I was such a fool, could you ever take me back? I… I’ll find someway to break it off with Backpack. He’s leaving for three months soon anyways, and when he comes back… Don’t worry Pillow; nothing will ever come between us again.
I’ve been cheating on my pillow with my backpack.
Pillow found out and has been treating me coldly ever since. He’s threatening to leave—I don’t know what I’ll do! I can’t sleep without him, and now I’ve gone and messed the whole thing up.
I remember the first night I spent with Backpack. Oh how smart he was, so strong and so full. I didn’t realize I had spent the whole night until my alarm went off and I hadn’t seen Pillow at all.
It was like that the first few times—I’d be so engrossed in Backpack’s smooth talking that I’d lose all track of time. Then, slowly but surely, every time I was with Backpack, I’d think about Pillow. The late night meetings weren’t as fun, and all I could concentrate on was how Pillow had treated me. Pillow had been so kind, so nurturing, always supporting me and helping me relax after a long day. At first, Backpack was exciting, and could offer me the things Pillow couldn’t—trips to far away place, amazing pieces of trivia, sometimes even food and money!
But eventually he turned abusive. Oh the fool I was! I thought he truly cared! Really he is just a dead weight on my shoulders. He hounds me with his constant hunger, and keeps me from my family and friends. He even tells me what to wear when I’m around him. See, he can’t handle my bare shoulders, And the physical control! If I try to move him the wrong way—well, let’s just say I’ve got enough sore muscles and bruised limbs to last a lifetime.
Oh Pillow, why didn’t I stay with you? I was such a fool, could you ever take me back? I… I’ll find someway to break it off with Backpack. He’s leaving for three months soon anyways, and when he comes back… Don’t worry Pillow; nothing will ever come between us again.
Friday, September 28, 2007
The Lass from the Low Countree
Note: This is my own personal story. There is NO factual basis for this to be the backstory of this piece. If you wish to use this story, contact me for permission. That being said, you might want to read up on your smallpox and cowpox facts before beginning. Also, a note: it's not quite all that beautifully polished, but you'll get the idea easily enough.
“Annabel, get your head out of the clouds.” Oh, how often had she heard those words lately? She wasn’t focused, she wasn’t practical. How did it matter to them where her mind went while she peeled potatoes? Alright, maybe she missed a few spots here and there, but a little potato skin wouldn’t harm a person. That sickness she had heard Him speak about… now that would do some harm.
“Father’s never going to send you back to the market, you know. Not after the way you’ve been dreaming your days away since he let you go last week. Jane’s been having to do nearly all of your chores over again.” Her sister, Clare, the eldest of the three, was prone to exaggeration, and was always trying to look after young Jane. Clare had more practical matters to think of, as she was to be married in a year. Her future was set, no more time for daydreams. How could she understand Annabel’s love of the village, where so much happened… where He was? “What happened last week that you are so far away?” But no, Annabel smiled simply and shrugged, moving on to the next task, ignoring Clare’s question, resolving to focus more on her chores.
For she had similarly resolved not to tell her family what events had transpired at the market last week. She was sure that they would worry and fret. Hadn’t He warned the crowd of the sickness spreading across the land? Her parents would simply hold her and her sisters close to home, and then she might never see Him. They wouldn’t believe the most important part. That as their handsome Lord spoke to the crowd, warning them to stay away from the nearby villages that the sickness had already been to, he had looked straight at her and promised to do his noble best to keep their tiny village safe and healthy. He promised to keep her safe. Well, perhaps he didn’t say that, exactly. But oh, he meant it. She could tell. How often did Father say one thing and mean another? It was just the same.
A dusty cloud on the horizon, moving quickly. She continued her sweeping of the porch, using her curiosity to slow down, reasoning that she was simply taking the time to make sure she did her job well. A few moments later, she identified the little bay pony as her uncle’s and the rider as Robin, her cousin. Adorable little Robin had grown up to be quite the adventurous young man, although usually her uncle did not let him go so far from home on his own. It was a shame that they lived too far away to visit more often. Still, they were close to enough to see once in a while… her heart froze. Robin was dismounting and she could see the shadows in his eyes. No, there were shadows in his face, too. She was frozen. She couldn’t move. It didn’t matter. His too-thin body, worn from more than just the long ride, had swept past her, calling out for her mother. She could hear them moving around, her mother gathering up herbs and having Robin repeat back her instructions, word for word.
Before she knew it, Robin and his little bay were racing away again, and her mother was standing on the porch steps, watching him disappear over the horizon. When not even a speck of dust trail was visible, she turned back toward the house, giving Annabel a weak smile and saying, “finish soon, dear one, then come help me with dinner,” before disappearing herself into the house once more. Father would be back from the market with Jane soon, and at dinner they would all surely find out what Robin’s hasty visit was about.
Annabel sat numb as her mother recounted Robin’s visit. Her father then spoke of the market, how everyone was afraid of any strangers. And how, living so far from the village himself, many had regarded him with veiled fear in their eyes. At least Jane had been spared that, for she had been at her singing lesson and then with her friends at the dressmaker’s shop. A simple comment that they had had no visitors at home lately had spared her the fear that Father had been victim of.
“You didn’t mention His Lordship speaking last week, Annabel,” Father was asking her. She should have realized that he would have heard about it this week. She should have mentioned it, for then maybe Robin wouldn’t have come in the house. But no, had was just tired from the ride, he couldn’t have brought the sickness to her home. Everything would be fine. She swallowed her own fear and replied that she had noticed a crowd, but had been trying to finish her shopping and not return home late, so she had not paid much mind. Jane looked at her oddly, for she had always been able to tell when Annabel was being untruthful, had always been able to tell what she was really thinking. A quick glare and Jane turned back toward her food, as Father began speaking of other events of the day, people he had run into and the price of flour, allowing Annabel’s mind to wander.
He would come to save her soon. He said he would. He would come—“…will be making his spring tour of the country this week,” Father was saying, looking at each of his children in turn, as Annabel’s attention snapped back toward reality, “so be sure you mind your manners should His Lordship stop by here.” He was coming. A tour of the countryside was a perfect excuse to come take her away. Oh, to even see him again would bring her such great joy. The rest of the night’s chores were only half-done at best, as Annabel’s mind thought ahead to the coming week, when he might arrive, and all manner of other dreams.
The next day Mother collapsed in the yard. Thankfully Father was at home, working in the barn, and he picked her up and carried her into the house. He sent Jane out to the barn, as if the cows would keep her safe. Although, perhaps it was true. Jane did love the animals so much. Then again, Jane had been sick with the cowpox only a few months ago, and was perhaps not quite recovered yet. Father instructed Annabel and Clare to continue about their chores as usual, and he cooked dinner, and cared for Mother so carefully. Jane slept that night in the barn.
The next day Clare stayed in the house. She tried to get her work done, but Annabel found herself working harder than ever to make sure everything got done. Father had not gotten up yet, and was sicker than Mother had been. When Jane tried to come in and help with the chores, Annabel gave her some quick food and sent her back out to care for the animals. If she was harsh with Jane, it was for her own good. No sense in them all taking ill, now.
The sun rose merrily on the fourth day after Mother’s collapse. As the fields filled with the golden rays, and Mother was able to get up and help a bit with the chores, Annabel began to feel a bit of hope. Until she noticed the rash on herself. She kept quiet about it. It was probably just because of the new fabric her dress was made of. Mother would never notice, since her eyesight seemed to be failing a bit since she had taken ill. And she was only so tired because she had been working so hard for the past few days. A little extra sleep and she would be fine. But why was it so cold?
Annabel took a few extra moments while sweeping again, this time to try to absorb some of the sun’s warmth into her body. She had been chilled all night, and the day’s light wasn’t helping her to feel any warmer. The realization that Father was not going to get better only added to the cold seeping into every part of her body.
Another dust cloud bloomed on the horizon. Robin again, she mused, and returned to sweeping. When she next looked up, however, she realized that the horse and rider couldn’t possibly be Robin. It was, instead, a full-grown man, on a magnificent white stallion. Only a person of high birth could have such a glorious horse. Oh, joy of joys! Him! Could it really be him? And, of course, it was.
Horse and rider slowed and stopped just inside of speaking range of the horse. He stared at her in calloused indifference as she curtsied, smiled, and spoke to him. “Oh, good sir, how good of you to stop by our quiet home. My Father is not able to come speak with you right now—" but he was turning away, quickly. Annabel called after him, “No, wait! I can come with you, I’m not sick, only Father—" but it was too late, he was gone. How could he leave her so harshly, so quickly?
As she turned back toward the house, her legs gave out from under her. Jane was there, quickly, quietly, giving her a warm drink, and singing a quiet lullaby. She struggled against her younger sister’s arms, but Jane had always been able to tell what was she was really thinking, and no amount of protest would convince her that Annabel was just tired. As Jane helped her into the house, still singing, Annabel wondered if the flowers were sleepy today, too, or if the wind was singing with Jane, or Jane with the wind.
Father and Annabel were buried next to each other in the meadow behind the house. Annabel used to love to sit out where the flowers grew free and talk to them. Maybe they could hear her, for they always seemed to be answering, nodding in agreement, or shaking with laughter. Clare recovered except for some scarring, and when her fiancée was taken by the sickness just before the wedding, she moved in with his family, to care for his aging parents. Mother’s eyesight never did return fully, and I stayed with her, caring for her, and singing to her as often as she asked. His Lordship never did get the sickness, and he ruled fairly, but without sympathies, to the full extent of his days. Annabel never told me specifically how she felt about him, but then again, I always was able to tell what she was really thinking no matter what face she put on to the world.
Oh, he was a lord of high degree,
And she was a lass from the Low Countree,
But she loved his lordship so tenderly!
Oh, sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.
One morn, when the sun was on the mead,
He passed by her door on a milk-white steed;
She smiled and she spoke, but he paid no heed.
Oh, sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.
If you be a lass from the Low Countree,
Don't love of no lord of high degree;
They hain't got a heart for sympathy.
Oh sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.
(Song by John Jacob Niles)
“Annabel, get your head out of the clouds.” Oh, how often had she heard those words lately? She wasn’t focused, she wasn’t practical. How did it matter to them where her mind went while she peeled potatoes? Alright, maybe she missed a few spots here and there, but a little potato skin wouldn’t harm a person. That sickness she had heard Him speak about… now that would do some harm.
“Father’s never going to send you back to the market, you know. Not after the way you’ve been dreaming your days away since he let you go last week. Jane’s been having to do nearly all of your chores over again.” Her sister, Clare, the eldest of the three, was prone to exaggeration, and was always trying to look after young Jane. Clare had more practical matters to think of, as she was to be married in a year. Her future was set, no more time for daydreams. How could she understand Annabel’s love of the village, where so much happened… where He was? “What happened last week that you are so far away?” But no, Annabel smiled simply and shrugged, moving on to the next task, ignoring Clare’s question, resolving to focus more on her chores.
For she had similarly resolved not to tell her family what events had transpired at the market last week. She was sure that they would worry and fret. Hadn’t He warned the crowd of the sickness spreading across the land? Her parents would simply hold her and her sisters close to home, and then she might never see Him. They wouldn’t believe the most important part. That as their handsome Lord spoke to the crowd, warning them to stay away from the nearby villages that the sickness had already been to, he had looked straight at her and promised to do his noble best to keep their tiny village safe and healthy. He promised to keep her safe. Well, perhaps he didn’t say that, exactly. But oh, he meant it. She could tell. How often did Father say one thing and mean another? It was just the same.
A dusty cloud on the horizon, moving quickly. She continued her sweeping of the porch, using her curiosity to slow down, reasoning that she was simply taking the time to make sure she did her job well. A few moments later, she identified the little bay pony as her uncle’s and the rider as Robin, her cousin. Adorable little Robin had grown up to be quite the adventurous young man, although usually her uncle did not let him go so far from home on his own. It was a shame that they lived too far away to visit more often. Still, they were close to enough to see once in a while… her heart froze. Robin was dismounting and she could see the shadows in his eyes. No, there were shadows in his face, too. She was frozen. She couldn’t move. It didn’t matter. His too-thin body, worn from more than just the long ride, had swept past her, calling out for her mother. She could hear them moving around, her mother gathering up herbs and having Robin repeat back her instructions, word for word.
Before she knew it, Robin and his little bay were racing away again, and her mother was standing on the porch steps, watching him disappear over the horizon. When not even a speck of dust trail was visible, she turned back toward the house, giving Annabel a weak smile and saying, “finish soon, dear one, then come help me with dinner,” before disappearing herself into the house once more. Father would be back from the market with Jane soon, and at dinner they would all surely find out what Robin’s hasty visit was about.
Annabel sat numb as her mother recounted Robin’s visit. Her father then spoke of the market, how everyone was afraid of any strangers. And how, living so far from the village himself, many had regarded him with veiled fear in their eyes. At least Jane had been spared that, for she had been at her singing lesson and then with her friends at the dressmaker’s shop. A simple comment that they had had no visitors at home lately had spared her the fear that Father had been victim of.
“You didn’t mention His Lordship speaking last week, Annabel,” Father was asking her. She should have realized that he would have heard about it this week. She should have mentioned it, for then maybe Robin wouldn’t have come in the house. But no, had was just tired from the ride, he couldn’t have brought the sickness to her home. Everything would be fine. She swallowed her own fear and replied that she had noticed a crowd, but had been trying to finish her shopping and not return home late, so she had not paid much mind. Jane looked at her oddly, for she had always been able to tell when Annabel was being untruthful, had always been able to tell what she was really thinking. A quick glare and Jane turned back toward her food, as Father began speaking of other events of the day, people he had run into and the price of flour, allowing Annabel’s mind to wander.
He would come to save her soon. He said he would. He would come—“…will be making his spring tour of the country this week,” Father was saying, looking at each of his children in turn, as Annabel’s attention snapped back toward reality, “so be sure you mind your manners should His Lordship stop by here.” He was coming. A tour of the countryside was a perfect excuse to come take her away. Oh, to even see him again would bring her such great joy. The rest of the night’s chores were only half-done at best, as Annabel’s mind thought ahead to the coming week, when he might arrive, and all manner of other dreams.
The next day Mother collapsed in the yard. Thankfully Father was at home, working in the barn, and he picked her up and carried her into the house. He sent Jane out to the barn, as if the cows would keep her safe. Although, perhaps it was true. Jane did love the animals so much. Then again, Jane had been sick with the cowpox only a few months ago, and was perhaps not quite recovered yet. Father instructed Annabel and Clare to continue about their chores as usual, and he cooked dinner, and cared for Mother so carefully. Jane slept that night in the barn.
The next day Clare stayed in the house. She tried to get her work done, but Annabel found herself working harder than ever to make sure everything got done. Father had not gotten up yet, and was sicker than Mother had been. When Jane tried to come in and help with the chores, Annabel gave her some quick food and sent her back out to care for the animals. If she was harsh with Jane, it was for her own good. No sense in them all taking ill, now.
The sun rose merrily on the fourth day after Mother’s collapse. As the fields filled with the golden rays, and Mother was able to get up and help a bit with the chores, Annabel began to feel a bit of hope. Until she noticed the rash on herself. She kept quiet about it. It was probably just because of the new fabric her dress was made of. Mother would never notice, since her eyesight seemed to be failing a bit since she had taken ill. And she was only so tired because she had been working so hard for the past few days. A little extra sleep and she would be fine. But why was it so cold?
Annabel took a few extra moments while sweeping again, this time to try to absorb some of the sun’s warmth into her body. She had been chilled all night, and the day’s light wasn’t helping her to feel any warmer. The realization that Father was not going to get better only added to the cold seeping into every part of her body.
Another dust cloud bloomed on the horizon. Robin again, she mused, and returned to sweeping. When she next looked up, however, she realized that the horse and rider couldn’t possibly be Robin. It was, instead, a full-grown man, on a magnificent white stallion. Only a person of high birth could have such a glorious horse. Oh, joy of joys! Him! Could it really be him? And, of course, it was.
Horse and rider slowed and stopped just inside of speaking range of the horse. He stared at her in calloused indifference as she curtsied, smiled, and spoke to him. “Oh, good sir, how good of you to stop by our quiet home. My Father is not able to come speak with you right now—" but he was turning away, quickly. Annabel called after him, “No, wait! I can come with you, I’m not sick, only Father—" but it was too late, he was gone. How could he leave her so harshly, so quickly?
As she turned back toward the house, her legs gave out from under her. Jane was there, quickly, quietly, giving her a warm drink, and singing a quiet lullaby. She struggled against her younger sister’s arms, but Jane had always been able to tell what was she was really thinking, and no amount of protest would convince her that Annabel was just tired. As Jane helped her into the house, still singing, Annabel wondered if the flowers were sleepy today, too, or if the wind was singing with Jane, or Jane with the wind.
Father and Annabel were buried next to each other in the meadow behind the house. Annabel used to love to sit out where the flowers grew free and talk to them. Maybe they could hear her, for they always seemed to be answering, nodding in agreement, or shaking with laughter. Clare recovered except for some scarring, and when her fiancée was taken by the sickness just before the wedding, she moved in with his family, to care for his aging parents. Mother’s eyesight never did return fully, and I stayed with her, caring for her, and singing to her as often as she asked. His Lordship never did get the sickness, and he ruled fairly, but without sympathies, to the full extent of his days. Annabel never told me specifically how she felt about him, but then again, I always was able to tell what she was really thinking no matter what face she put on to the world.
Oh, he was a lord of high degree,
And she was a lass from the Low Countree,
But she loved his lordship so tenderly!
Oh, sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.
One morn, when the sun was on the mead,
He passed by her door on a milk-white steed;
She smiled and she spoke, but he paid no heed.
Oh, sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.
If you be a lass from the Low Countree,
Don't love of no lord of high degree;
They hain't got a heart for sympathy.
Oh sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.
(Song by John Jacob Niles)
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