Ponderings

As I left the hospital Monday afternoon I was surprised to see that night had fallen while I’d been visiting. I was struck by the thick darkness which shrouded the earth. Walking to my car in the unfamiliar parking lot I was appreciative of the lighting, aware of my vulnerability. Moments later I was driving down the street, struck by the lights reflecting off one another in the darkness. Their dance was mimicked by the swirl of emotions that I felt deep within. Not fear or even really dread, but definitely something heavy. Yet at the same time the swirl was laced with something almost like excitement, anticipation even. As I pondered the feeling on the stage of dancing lights I remembered this feeling, having been here before. Many times.
One of my first memories of this feeling was when I was 17 and working at the newspaper in the city late on Friday nights after the football games. Feeling some bravery and even more pride I declined an escort and made my way gingerly across the darkened parking lot. When he stepped out from the shadows my heart stopped, suspended. I screamed. His round white eyes flinched as he said, “Katy, it’s me.” My scream and his flinch spoke more than any words could. He was my latest beau, kind and smart and cute; a sensitive soul that I’d met working at summer camp. But he was forbidden fruit. The possibility of romance was as frightening as it was tantalizing.
By the time I was 31 and felt the familiar swirl on another dark and snowy night I knew the feeling well. We were in the car with baby Winnie in the back, Gary at the wheel and I breathing with forced concentration; the contractions were close together and our family was about to become a foursome. We pulled into Grandma Q’s (our babysitter and adopted family) and I remember vividly how Winnie ran happily towards the glowing warmth, then we were back into the dark night and my stomach churned with more than physical rhythm of the contractions. Between me and the long awaited baby lay the terror of the birth. The weighty joy of anticipation was met with an equal force of well reasoned fear.
Each year as I hear the first strains of Jingle Bells and see the lights at Tilles Park my stomach begins its gymnastics. No season is as filled with wonder and joy and anticipation and all things wonderful; no season is as rife with landmines and grief and sorrow and loss. In the coming days and weeks we lace our festive preparations with a reasoned amount of melancholy, a season filled with emotional edges. We might prefer simple joy. We might even take the consistency of melancholy to the unpredictable swing of the season. But so much is beyond our control.
This is the season we call “Advent”. Long before Jesus was born and the word “Advent” was coined there was a celebration of Winter Solstice with decorated trees, gift giving, and mistletoe. Long before we had liturgical calendars we knew the feeling of this season by the tilt of the sun. This is the long night bearing down before the dawn. We have been here before.
Come then, gingerly perhaps or with fleeting feet. Come you who are burdened and you who are filled with child-like joy. Come with us into the night… for it is in the darkness that we will discover the light.

The American myth of Thanksgiving is one of religious freedom, peace, and prosperity. On the eve of Thanksgiving, the news brings stories of a polygamist on trial in Utah, airlines pulling folk for being “Muslim while flying”, and the countdown of St. Louis’ 100 Neediest Cases. In truth we know it never was so rosy or so simple. The Pilgrims were in search of religious freedom for themselves but not as a general concept, the Wampanoag people were largely destroyed by the immigration, and even our prosperous nation has never known a time when hunger didn’t plague our most vulnerable. But still we cling to the myth of smiling family gathered and peace amongst all.

No single artist has captured the myth more nostalgically than Norman Rockwell. Rockwell’s own life, however, was not quite so mythical. Both he and the women he loved battled with depression and some of them lost. Real life for Rockwell was laced with grief, demons, and compromise. And still he painted pictures of an elusive myth.

The abiding gift in Rockwell’s pictures and in our Thanksgiving story are not in their historicity but rather in their in their hope. From the ground of reality, with the bramble of thorn strewn rose buds, we chose where to write our story. The thorns are every bit as real as the roses, we cannot have one without the other. To celebrate the rose is not to deny the thorn, but rather to chose to write about hope. Rockwell chose hope, so did the story tellers who framed our Thanksgiving story. Hope is vulnerable and risky, but it is the invitation of this amazing season. Hope beckons.

Proving that truth is stranger than fiction, MSNBC publicized the plight of a young mom from Santa Fe who was kicked off an airplane last month for breastfeeding her child. The woman was nursing the baby by the window with her husband between her and the aisle and being, she thought, discreet. The flight attendant handed her a blanket and ordered her to “cover up” and when she refused she was escorted off the plane. Amazing. We can advertise on prime time television for erectile dysfunction (try explaining that to your kids!) but we are supposed to be offended by a woman’s breast offered to a hungry kid?

This one is personal. Having been a nursing mother while serving as pastor in a small town parish (with no other nursing mothers in town!), I am well acquainted with the problem of balancing discretion and a baby’s need. Basically I subscribed to the theory that I wouldn’t allow myself (and thereby my baby) to be put in the closet (literally!); I knew that if I couldn’t make peace with nursing them in public, I wouldn’t enjoy nursing and they wouldn’t get the nutrition they deserved. Although I attempted discretion, I nursed the kids when they were hungry (except while leading worship!) and undoubtedly I ruffled feathers.

As I ponder our congregation’s commitment to extend welcome and expand the “safe zone” in our culture, I propose that we delcare our church a “safe nursing zone”. Of course, that’s pretty easy since we already are… for which I give thanks. But we can share that good news with others. And we can also share information about La Leche League, a group which offers education and support for nursing mothers. We actually have a La Leche group that meets in our church on Fridays. Many of our members participate and both Alyssa Schnell and Laurie Shornick are leaders in this important work.

And as for the television ads… well, that’s a problem bigger than I can tackle this week!

We are all longing to go home to some place we have never been — a place half-remembered and half-envisioned we can only catch glimpses of from time to time. Community.

This year has been filled for me with glimpses of coming home. I felt it working with a Laura, Mike, Al, and Erik this spring as we worked through the definitions of Shared Ministry. I felt it during the incredible ‘homecoming’ of Peace Trail in August. I felt it in the community’s outpouring of love when Tommy was sick, in Roger’s joy in planning the Harvest dinner, indeed each Sunday morning in the swirl of emotions in our Narthex. And I felt it in Cindy’s gentle laughter and Nick’s encouragement as our annual Pledge Drive became not a plea for money but a celebration of our community. The Starhawk quote (repeated here) speaks to the incredible community that we have discovered together. Our community.

Somewhere, there are people to whom we can speak with passion without having the words catch in our throats. Somewhere a circle of hands will open to receive us, eyes will light up as we enter, voices will celebrate with us whenever we come into our own power.

One member last year asked, “Can I be a conservative and be welcome here?” Another pulled me aside to say, “I’m not so sure about things like the resurrection.” Still another asked, “Can we talk about the words we use at baptism?” And all are welcome, each of us has come home, we belong.

Community means strength that joins our strength to do the work that needs to be done. Arms to hold us when we falter. A circle of healing. A circle of friends. Someplace where we can be free.

We have much work still to do. Hands to hold, arms to extend, and doors to open. For this we depend upon each other to pledge our money, our time, our prayerful support. Please join us for a time of celebration and pledging on Sunday. If you are not able to be with us, please do share your pledges by mailing (204 E. Lockwood, 63119), calling (314/968-1727) or emailing (dhubatka@evangelicalucc.org or nickgilham@gmail.com).

After two glasses of wine last night I went to bed, unpersuaded that the wind could move. When I awoke this morning, it was to the news that my yard signs matched the election results. I don’t honestly know if this has ever happened. I do know that I’ve voted for a winning candidate at least once in my life, but it is rare.

The tragedy is that though my ‘circle’ is dancing today, giddy with hope and the promise that we can indeed initiate change, half of Americans are once again grieving. The tint of the purple may have shifted, but the divisiveness is just as sharp, especially in our state (Missouri).

Was it always this way? I remember my parents talking about “them” (the Democrats) with a particular kind of tone. They weren’t particularly politically active, but were very serious about their civic duty to make an educated and thoughtful vote. They were even proud of my brother when, as a young teen, he campaigned for George McGovern. They were crystal clear about their disdain for my brother’s choice, but there was no passion in their disagreement. Was it really a time of less rancor? Or is it because I am now a parent that my own parents’ calm seems so remarkable?

Regardless, the people with whom I live and work are happy today and so am I. For this little moment in time, possibility is alive. After the glow wears off, I’ll return to the harder questions.

P.S. Rumsfield just resigned – the wind really has shifted!