Ponderings

Sometimes I wish my eyes hadn’t been opened.
Sometimes I wish I could no longer see
All of the pain and the hurt and the longing of my
Sisters and me as we try to be free.

Sometimes I wish my eyes hadn’t been opened,
Just for an hour, how sweet it would be
Not to be struggling, not to be striving,
But just sleep securely in our slavery.

But now that I’ve seen with my eyes, I can’t close them,
Because deep inside me somewhere I’d still know
The road that my sisters and I have to travel:
My heart would say, “Yes” and my feet would say “Go!”

Sometimes I wish my eyes hadn’t been opened,
But now that they have, I’m determined to see:
That somehow my sisters and I will be one day
The free people we were created to be.
(Words and Music By Carol Etzler, 1974 published by Sisters Unlimited, RR 1 Box 1420, Bridgeport, VT 05734)

These words are the lyrics to a folk song written by Carole Etzler three decades ago, just as edgy today as they were when first sung. Although Carole is writing about the specific awareness of her lesbian sisters, she speaks to a truth that is much broader. Inclusion begets inclusion.

At their most recent congregational meeting, Epiphany UCC (Benton Park) adopted a statement becoming a “Whole Earth” church. As their pastor, Mary Albert was sharing, they have discovered that becoming open to one arena of justice, additional vistas came into view. Epiphany is an Open and Affirming, Just Peace, Whole Earth congregation. Although the labels are a bit daunting, the commitments to which they bear testimony are laudable.

In fact, in our own journey as a congregation we have discovered this same truth about the effects of inclusion. Wanting to be inclusive of our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters, we realized that we were excluding those in wheelchairs. Out came a pew, and then another. Committed to making our facilities accessible, we discovered that our operating structure needed to shift to be more inclusive of folk not able to make monthly meetings. As we prepare for our sixth year at Pride (amazing!), we are intentional about not GLB and T (transgender) concerns, but have found a new way to be inclusive of our kids with Children’s Bulletins (thank you, Leslie!!!).

One of the most challenging areas is that of theological inclusivity. The desire to have an open table theologically may itself be the gift of liberalism, but our table is not complete unless and until a range of perspectives have gathered. For some of us the sacred is “Christ”, for some a higher power suffices, for still others Yahweh or Holy One are most comfortable. Although we come to the table experiencing the presence of the sacred in our midst, for some it is the body and blood and for some the bread and cup represent the community gathered.

Every time I begin whine about being stretched, I am reminded of Jesus’ friends. Surely, they were made of rubber as they learned to stretch and grow. Following their example, folk like Carole Etzler (now Eagleheart) continued to push the boundaries. Now it is our turn.

Immersed in another election cycle (which started much too soon!), we are being invited to again bludgeon one another in the name of God. The witness of communities like ours will be incredibly important as we seek to move through this season with a modicum of grace. Each week we gather and practice holding our stones, learning to live with ambiguity and dissonance, discovering beauty in diversity.

But now that I’ve seen with my eyes I can’t close them… my heart would say, “Yes!” and my feet would say, “Go!”

Confessions may be in order. I took Winnie and her friend to see Sex and the City yesterday, and I inhaled.

As gratuitous sex goes, it was a pretty mild offering. The fairy tale offering of happy ever after, however, was over the top. As my colleague said, “it leaves you with the impression that the two choices in life are to find the love of your life or be alone.”

Given that I enjoyed the series immensely (at least the belated Blockbuster version), cotton candy or no I was destined to see this one on the big screen. Despite the predictability, my 3rd quarter bathroom dash was as quick as ever, fearful as I was that I might miss a drop of candy.

Occasional pieces of chocolate, like good red wine, can be delectable and do not on their own lead to the cardiac surgeon. Indulgence in an afternoon matinee does not necessitate the confessional.

Indulging in this particular candy, however, without a chaser of something substantive can erode one’s sense of self-confidence. As Samantha’s friends express shock at her “gut”, subliminally we are all hearing that the only acceptable size is emaciated. Any hint of curvature is a sign of emotional weakness.

Although Carrie has now apparently kicked the cigarette habit, each encounter with stress necessitates an open bottle and a new cocktail. Worth is measured with jewels, waxes, and handbags; shame in bodily functions.

I wonder at the basic character flaw that allows me to enjoy something so fundamentally at odds with my professed worldview.

Given that the messages of this flick are at odds with almost everything I claim to believe, why did I inhale? I new what it would be. I could have said no. I could have dropped them off at the door. I could have hung out at the video games. I could have at least disapproved. But no. I loved every minute.

The dilemma, as it unfolds, is tragically simple. The more I inhale the candy, the less satisfied I am with life. Entranced with the drama, I find myself clinging to the speeding train of life. I fantasize about finding a way into the safety of the interior, sometimes even of finding the engine room. As I try to hold on, even the caboose looks amazingly appealing.

Clinging to the train, my goal is to find a way in.

But what if the train itself is the problem? What if the spirit’s call is to the bike trail or the walking path? Perhaps the calm I crave is not to be found on OR in this train. Maybe the peace that passes understanding is not found with happy ever after’s, gourmet bags, and best selling books. Could it be that my imbibing at the cinema only perpetuates my grip on a train that offers no life?

And so to the confessional I head. The good news, though, is that I did succumb at least long enough to have something juicy of which to repent.

For weeks, I have been holding my breath, waiting for this school year to close. Summer’s welcome reprieve is especially sweet this year. It has been an emotional ride and as I look around and see all of us still standing, I am grateful. I think I might be able to breathe.

As I waited for the 8th Grade Graduation to start last night, I was reading an article by David Servan Schreiber on handling stress. The timing was perfect. Except that the message was tough. Schreiber is a French psychiatrist and a regular contribute to Ode, the magazine that I was reading. The title of his book, “Healing without Freud or Prozac” gives a hint about his biases and the articles I have read by Schreiber have been profound in their simplicity. If only simplicity were easy.

Schreiber challenges our vacation-focused culture as being a bulimic approach to stress management. We learn to expand our psychic stomachs to hold inordinate amounts of stress, holding our breath until the next vacation when we can release. Binge and purge. The problem, of course, is that a lifetime of stress with a couple escape valves leads to any number of health concerns. In other words, it doesn’t work.

Freud and Prozac have a place in helping us to manage the expanded psyche between purges, but Schreiber suggests something more basic and accessible. Breathing. Listening to our body as it begins to tense, to listen to our breathing, and choose a happy memory to place in our mind. This wisdom, of course, is what our parish nurse, Lisa, has been working with as she publishes weekly “relaxation techniques”. I read them, I use them, and I find myself looking for that piece in the bulletin each week. Breathe in, breathe out.

As I sit in the auditorium awash with feelings, I wonder not at the truth of Schreiber’s words but of the possibility. In a world where storms topple school buildings filled with children, where widowed mothers struggle with cancer, where children face nightmares that don’t stay in their closets… in this world I am sometimes afraid to breathe.

When hurts swells in my chest, my diaphragm has little room to expand. How do I disentangle the fingers of anxiety that clutch at my throat? Where do store the potted plant of my own self-loathing?

Prozac and Freud are both looking pretty good in light of chronic sadness and major anxiety. Both have a place on the shelves of healing tools. But after months of holding my breath, the oxygen coming into my lungs is intoxicating. The bulimic pattern of our stress management routines is overrated. The beauty of breath far surpasses the strength of character demonstrated while withholding it.

Of course, on this first day of summer vacation, I am undoubtedly reveling in the purge. The real challenge, of course, comes at the end of August. But for today, I am grateful for breath.

My church history professor warned us to be cautious of history textbooks, for the victors get to write the “official” version. To understand the whole story, she pushed; we would do well to read from the margins. She invited us to dig in the trenches and climb the poles of heresy for a better view of the world.

Life lived in the margins, however, can itself obstruct the view. My own poles of heresy at the moment keep me stretched between adolescent drama and the Obama-Clinton show down. Admittedly, I almost missed the historic birthday celebrations in Jerusalem last week.

In a world where friends are few, President Bush attended the celebration and assured the Knesset that the United States is Israel’s “best friend”. Given that both governments have outdone themselves in their abilities to create enemies, I suppose the “bff” designation is at least practical. As we encourage each other in the building of bigger walls, skilled weaponry, and the embrace of coercive interrogation, it may be true that we deserve each other. The ‘best friend’ language, however, is a guile intimation of childlike innocence.

Ridiculous becomes dangerous when we paint God’s name on our blessing. In reference to the founding of the nation state of Israel, President Bush said that it was, “more than the establishment of a new country. It was the redemption of an ancient promise given to Abraham and Moses and David — a homeland for the chosen people Eretz Yisrael.”

To be sure, Abraham’s children told their children that God promised the land on which they stood to them in much the same way that the children of the Mayflower Pilgrims told theirs. Handily Bush invoked this echo as he quoted from William Bradford, “Come let us declare in Zion the word of God.”

I have no doubt that Abraham, Bradford, and Bush claim God’s sanction on their land grabs. My concern is when we confuse their claim with God’s. Frankly, I am more likely to be moved by Ishmael’s hearing of God, or even Isaac’s than Abraham’s. Those who have been tied to the altar are much more likely to be listening for God’s compassion than those accustomed to wielding the sword.

Manifest destiny appears to be a gift from God if read from the perspective of the European settlers. The Native American version of that same chapter, however, gives God no credit for the Trail of Tears or Wounded Knee. This should serve as a cautionary note when we are tempted to put God’s name on our deeds.

In the face of the unrelenting genocides of the past century, I am loathe to cast stones towards any particular peoples struggling to defend a homeland. When it comes to Jerusalem, there are legitimate and competing claims. In the least, we whose European ancestors used God’s name to take Native American lands ought to leave God’s name off our rhetoric.

And who knows? Maybe refraining from putting God’s name on our claims might help as we manage the heresies closer to home.

Note: Revisiting Matthew’s remembrance of Jesus’ teaching on the law (Matthew 5), I was pondering what the parallels would be in our modern discourse. He named the legalism of the day, and then pushed beyond the legalism to the heart of the matter. Using a (preachable!) call-response motif, he was able to apparently embrace the law but challenge the hearers to a much more compelling (if difficult) response. Borrowing from this tradition, I began to wonder what Jesus might say about the legalisms of our day, the “wedge issues”. The following quotes were shared with our congregation (8:30am, 27 Apr 08) and then in a presentation to the Women’s Interfaith Conference of St. Louis (08 May 08).

You have heard it said, “You shall not kill unborn babies.”
But Jesus might say to us:

You shall not put women and children in positions of vulnerability,
economically and socially,
such that life is not welcomed and cherished.

You have heard it said that you shall not engage in homosexual affairs.
But Jesus might say to us:

You shall not close your minds or hearts to the possibilities
of loving and respectful covenants for yourself or others
that move beyond culturally defined norms.
You shall not limit liturgical celebrations nor define relationships
in ways that push people into closets and dark bars.

You have heard it said, “You shall have prayer in public schools.”
But Jesus might say to us:

You shall not implicitly or explicitly show preference
for any particular practice of prayer
such that would discourage any other practices.