Have you ever found yourself with about a million things to say and about 15 minutes to say them in? I can now tell you from first hand experience what that feels like.
Today I am delivering my final address to you, this lovely congregation at the top of a hill. Behind us lay six weeks of laughter and growth. For while I cannot speak for the lot of you, I can tell you that I have grown in ministry. And for that I thank you from the deepest, most sacred place in my heart.
On the first Sunday that I stood before you, I spoke about Journeys; traveling far from home, being nervous about being here and how wondrous it all was. The next Sunday was Father’s Day and I shared with you the story of my friendship with Wallace Rusterholtz, and the importance of nurturing the world around us. On Sunday number three I wrote about doubt and it’s role in faith development. Next came Flower Sunday where the youth of our congregation presented the theme “Diversity in flowers and people,” which I thought was a brilliant theme.
And now we’ve come to this, the final address.
You might notice that I’m standing up here in the high pulpit. Something I never thought I would never do, I assure you, even though it was requested and joked about. I’m a little nervous about heights, you see…. but more importantly, when I practiced preaching from up here in my first week, it felt too distant from the pews.
Since my arrival six short weeks ago I have been asking you gently, or at least I hope gently, to look at the way things are done here in Old Chapel. And you put up with my questions quite nicely. You moved to the front of the church, something that every person I spoke to, couldn’t believe. The kids and I brought in a computer, a projector and a screen and provided a mulit-media service for the congregation. This was also a radically new idea.
By standing here in this pulpit, I hope to demonstrate several things.
The first is that while the minister is the spiritual leader of a congregation, that is not the only job of a minister. Ministers and congregations must work together in concert to deepen the connectivity within the congregation, between the members who are already here; and also they work to show the world outside our walls, what an example of a deeply caring community can look like. On the sign out front, you have boldly placed a quote by Francis David “We need not all think alike to love alike.” And together you demonstrate this admirably.
A minister must also follow their congregation. We cannot charge ahead, sure that we alone know what’s best for the congregation, or without regard to the congregation’s concerns and place in the world.
We can however, agitate and try to massage the congregation into a position that we, with our academic training and preparation, might think is best.
No relationship, of course, is perfect.
And so, today, I’m up here because people in the congregation thought it would be good for my growth as a minister to preach from this position. I’m here because I thought the congregation was most likely right. Although I’m still a little nervous about being locked in up here.
Another reason that I chose to preach from here is out of my profound respect for this congregation and it’s history. It has been an honor to be here with you since 6 June of this year. I will never forget this experience.
The third reason I chose to come up here was to demonstrate my belief that we are all capable of evolving as beings until our very last breath. Earlier this afternoon I led a short worship service to begin Fun Day, it contained the Native American story of the Two Wolves. What’s important to me about that story is that each moment, we are given chances to choose to do the more correct thing. That even if we’ve made a string of mistakes and bad decisions, still, just around the corner is the chance to make a good decision.
Around every corner lies a chance to make a better life.
And also though, there is the lesson that even if you’ve made 1 million good decisions in a row, you can’t rest on your laurels. You must be ever aware of how your choices affect the people around you and the people you’ll never meet.
Obviously, mistakes will be made along the way, as no one is perfect, and it seems the more sophisticated our understanding of the world becomes, the less clear the line between right and wrong becomes.
This evolution of the individual also applies to evolution of organizations, and yes, congregations. I was speaking with a member of this congregation about change a few weeks ago, and she spoke about a resistance to change and a loss of comfort. I am aware of the comfort of some routines and rituals. I have my own. But what came out in our conversation was the idea that change is constant. Even if we dig our heels in and promise to fight the good fight to keep things the way they have been for as long as we can remember, or for as long as it’s been the way WE like it, change comes.
It comes in the form of the death of a beloved member of your church. It comes with a parliamentary vote in which few could’ve predicted the outcome. It comes in the form of a minster in training from a far-off, former colony.
What matters is not change itself, for we can not stop change, it is a force of the universe. And really, if we didn’t change, on some level, we’d still be in the stone age. What matters is how we engage change.
Anatoloe France tells us: All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.
Change can be very exciting for some, and for those who like change, we must remember that others will mourn, and if we are to be our best selves, we must do more than tolerate their mourning, we must make time and space for them. We must lovingly walk with those mourners of the old ways, even as inside, our hearts are leaping ahead.
I’ll be leaving behind a document for the congregation to read about my experiences and observations here in Old Chapel. I hope that when it’s widely read, those aching for change and those who aren’t, will walk together in the loving way that I have seen you doing since I arrived here.
The time for our walking together is almost complete.
As I look from here into the faces of the people I have come to have genuine affection for, I offer a silent prayer of gratitude to the Spirit of Life, the God of Love, un-nameble and wholly unknowable.
Our lives are not complete. Here are the words of John Dewey, American Unitarian and educator “Where everything is complete, there is no fulfillment.” Individually, it is my hope that each day you will carry the story of the little boy, his grandfather and the two wolves with you. That you remember from the tiniest child to the eldest sage, you have agency in your life. Your life can be and will be affected by the choices you make, from stealing a cookie to reaching out for help.
As a congregation it is my greatest hope that you will find the strength, courage and mutual affection, to boldly step into your future. A future where you show Dukinfield, Tameside and the world, the human miracle of a loving community. Our world needs your example. Blessed be.
Please join me in this, what will become our final prayer together.
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Journeys (A Sermon)
The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.
Saint Denis of Paris was said to have walked and preached two miles, all the while holding his head in his hand. Reflecting on this tale at seminary, an observer said “It’s really the first step that’s impressive.”
I took my first step toward Dukinfield nine days ago when my Mom and I drove to the airport in Detroit, Michigan, my plane ticket in my hand. I guess it could be argued that perhaps my first step toward Dukinfield was taken when I met the Reverend Doctor Ann Peart, Principal of the Unitarian College of Manchester, while she visited my seminary.
Or maybe my journey began when I entered seminary, or even further back than that. Perhaps my entire life has been in preparation for this very moment.
Earlier this week, I had the distinct pleasure of attending some events at the Unitarian College of Manchester. I’d like to share a moment of one of those events with you. There is a tradition when the Past and Present Students of the College toast and respond with each other. I was honored to be asked to take part in the event.
I was most impressed by the eloquence of the ministers gathered there. So much so that upon completion of the ceremony, I asked several members for a copy of their remarks.
Here are some of the words of the Reverend David Shaw, delivered under the topic of Civil and Religious Liberty:
“How easy it is to raise a glass to Civil and Religious Liberty in a comfortable setting such as this, and how uncomfortable it is to spare a thought to those of the past who struggled and suffered and to those of the present who are struggling today.
"There are people today—upon our doorstep—locked into a system of uncompromising religion that holds them fast in fear…
"It is a hard world in which Civil and Religious liberties are hard won. In a moment I shall ask you to rise with me and give a toast to Civil and Religious Freedom the world over, and as you do I ask you to bear in mind that we not only raise our glasses to aspirations embedded in history, but to so much of the very real world around us today.
"It is more—more much than raising of a glass—it is a thank you, for what has been achieved, a recognition of the much that still needs to be achieved, and a commitment that we will—however we can—in whatever way we can—however small—be part of striving for the achievements yet to be.”
Here the Reverend Shaw speaks of a journey, too. It is the journey of a people of faith. A journey, if we are truthful with ourselves, that is far from complete.
And it is a journey that includes others of us. In America there are close to a million Unitarian Universalists who are walking this journey, too.
And there is me, just one man who flew across the Atlantic Ocean because of your generous offer of a summer placement.
I stand here before you, a man on a journey.
A few words from the well-known author and philosopher, Unknown.
“A person’s journey through life is somewhat like a long walk through a forest on a dark night. Part of the way a companion carries a lantern, but then the path divides and one must go alone. If one carries his own lantern—an inner light of faith—he need not fear the darkness.”
My Unitarian Universalist faith, my faith in God, and my faith in the core of goodness in humanity is my lantern.
Possibly never before have I been more confused by my surroundings. People I meet tell me that they live in Bolton or Stalybridge or just up the road in some town. I have no idea what they’re talking about. I’ve just arrived this week. It took me until Friday to venture by train to Manchester!
Oh, and the words we use that have different meanings! I was taught in school that we all spoke English, but clearly hundreds of years of separation have taken their toll on our shared mother tongue!
On a bit more of a serious note, my time in the UK has brought an even deeper sympathy for the immigrants in our world. Until yesterday, I didn’t know how to ring the police. But sadly yesterday, I had to learn. While having breakfast in a café down the hill there, someone stole my rucksack. I lost a pair of books in it and nothing more, thankfully. But still I lost a book lent to me and the personal journal I’ve been keeping for this journey.
And yet I have never been more sure that I am on my correct journey. My lantern, though sometimes it feels a fragile light, is helping guide my way.
My theology professor at Meadville Lombard Theological School is Dr. Michael S. Hogue. Last year, he was named a Templeton scholar, an honor focusing on young, rising academic theologians. Mike holds a theology lab each week at the school for no credit for us and no pay for him. It’s just his way of giving the students a chance to work out ideas. My first class with Mike Hogue was Liberal Theology, and I wasn’t sure I was going to live through it! In a ten week quarter we read 14 full books and dozens of articles about liberal theology. In my second year of seminary, I asked Mike in theology lab, what did theology really mean? We’d studied Schlieirmacher and Kant and Derrida and Heidegger, but really, beyond tracing the back and forth arguments of these academics, what does it mean?
Dr. Hogue told me that the meaning of theology could be better answered through the question, “How does your belief system influence the way in which you engage with the world?”
And I’ll ask you a similar question: “How do your values and belief system influence the way in which you engage with the world?”
On the journey that is your life, what does your theology do for you and for others? For Reverend Shaw, clearly it means taking into account the privileges he enjoys and using them as a strength as he challenges the systems of oppression he sees in the world around him; “a recognition of the much that still needs to be achieved, and a commitment that we will—however we can—in whatever way we can—however small—be part of striving for the achievements yet to be.”
My theology, my relationship with what is ultimate and divine, calls me to be my best self. This, in part, means that I must strive to grow as a human being, and as a minister. Even if this means that I wind up in a town called Dukinfield, in the United Kingdom, for a good part of a summer, far from home, far from my loved ones and my family.
These weeks are a big challenge to me. I enjoy knowing where I’m going. I enjoy being able to speak the version of English where I know what all the words mean, and I enjoy walking along next to the street on a sidewalk--sorry, "pavement"--knowing that the cars are going along on the correct side of the road.
Naturally, I’m teasing a little here. But all kidding aside, for me it was a daunting idea to come here, to meet a whole new group of people. To practice a version of Unitarianism that is related to, but not wholly, my own.
But I took a leap of faith, because that is what my best self wanted to do. It is what my theology called me to do.
And look what’s happened! I have met dozens of lovely people! I have seen the world’s oldest railroad station.
I have eaten fish and chips.
I got my rucksack stolen.
You take the bad with the good, right? From the reading that Claire shared earlier “Today, this hour, this minute is the day, the hour the minute for each of us to sense the fact that life is good, with all of its trials and troubles, and perhaps more interesting because of them.”
I took what felt to me like a big chance in accepting your most gracious invitation. Change is difficult for me. Perhaps it is also difficult for you. But change we must, or we’ve stopped our journey.
My theology called me to risk just about everything, and fly to the Old World from the New to practice ministry. Each of us is on our own individual journey. But happily we walk with comrades.
What does your theology call you to do?
I know so few things for certain, but this I believe to be true: A life lived on the growing edge of being the best one can be is a life well lived.
I invite you to live such a life.
Blessed be.
Saint Denis of Paris was said to have walked and preached two miles, all the while holding his head in his hand. Reflecting on this tale at seminary, an observer said “It’s really the first step that’s impressive.”
I took my first step toward Dukinfield nine days ago when my Mom and I drove to the airport in Detroit, Michigan, my plane ticket in my hand. I guess it could be argued that perhaps my first step toward Dukinfield was taken when I met the Reverend Doctor Ann Peart, Principal of the Unitarian College of Manchester, while she visited my seminary.
Or maybe my journey began when I entered seminary, or even further back than that. Perhaps my entire life has been in preparation for this very moment.
Earlier this week, I had the distinct pleasure of attending some events at the Unitarian College of Manchester. I’d like to share a moment of one of those events with you. There is a tradition when the Past and Present Students of the College toast and respond with each other. I was honored to be asked to take part in the event.
I was most impressed by the eloquence of the ministers gathered there. So much so that upon completion of the ceremony, I asked several members for a copy of their remarks.
Here are some of the words of the Reverend David Shaw, delivered under the topic of Civil and Religious Liberty:
“How easy it is to raise a glass to Civil and Religious Liberty in a comfortable setting such as this, and how uncomfortable it is to spare a thought to those of the past who struggled and suffered and to those of the present who are struggling today.
"There are people today—upon our doorstep—locked into a system of uncompromising religion that holds them fast in fear…
"It is a hard world in which Civil and Religious liberties are hard won. In a moment I shall ask you to rise with me and give a toast to Civil and Religious Freedom the world over, and as you do I ask you to bear in mind that we not only raise our glasses to aspirations embedded in history, but to so much of the very real world around us today.
"It is more—more much than raising of a glass—it is a thank you, for what has been achieved, a recognition of the much that still needs to be achieved, and a commitment that we will—however we can—in whatever way we can—however small—be part of striving for the achievements yet to be.”
Here the Reverend Shaw speaks of a journey, too. It is the journey of a people of faith. A journey, if we are truthful with ourselves, that is far from complete.
And it is a journey that includes others of us. In America there are close to a million Unitarian Universalists who are walking this journey, too.
And there is me, just one man who flew across the Atlantic Ocean because of your generous offer of a summer placement.
I stand here before you, a man on a journey.
A few words from the well-known author and philosopher, Unknown.
“A person’s journey through life is somewhat like a long walk through a forest on a dark night. Part of the way a companion carries a lantern, but then the path divides and one must go alone. If one carries his own lantern—an inner light of faith—he need not fear the darkness.”
My Unitarian Universalist faith, my faith in God, and my faith in the core of goodness in humanity is my lantern.
Possibly never before have I been more confused by my surroundings. People I meet tell me that they live in Bolton or Stalybridge or just up the road in some town. I have no idea what they’re talking about. I’ve just arrived this week. It took me until Friday to venture by train to Manchester!
Oh, and the words we use that have different meanings! I was taught in school that we all spoke English, but clearly hundreds of years of separation have taken their toll on our shared mother tongue!
On a bit more of a serious note, my time in the UK has brought an even deeper sympathy for the immigrants in our world. Until yesterday, I didn’t know how to ring the police. But sadly yesterday, I had to learn. While having breakfast in a café down the hill there, someone stole my rucksack. I lost a pair of books in it and nothing more, thankfully. But still I lost a book lent to me and the personal journal I’ve been keeping for this journey.
And yet I have never been more sure that I am on my correct journey. My lantern, though sometimes it feels a fragile light, is helping guide my way.
My theology professor at Meadville Lombard Theological School is Dr. Michael S. Hogue. Last year, he was named a Templeton scholar, an honor focusing on young, rising academic theologians. Mike holds a theology lab each week at the school for no credit for us and no pay for him. It’s just his way of giving the students a chance to work out ideas. My first class with Mike Hogue was Liberal Theology, and I wasn’t sure I was going to live through it! In a ten week quarter we read 14 full books and dozens of articles about liberal theology. In my second year of seminary, I asked Mike in theology lab, what did theology really mean? We’d studied Schlieirmacher and Kant and Derrida and Heidegger, but really, beyond tracing the back and forth arguments of these academics, what does it mean?
Dr. Hogue told me that the meaning of theology could be better answered through the question, “How does your belief system influence the way in which you engage with the world?”
And I’ll ask you a similar question: “How do your values and belief system influence the way in which you engage with the world?”
On the journey that is your life, what does your theology do for you and for others? For Reverend Shaw, clearly it means taking into account the privileges he enjoys and using them as a strength as he challenges the systems of oppression he sees in the world around him; “a recognition of the much that still needs to be achieved, and a commitment that we will—however we can—in whatever way we can—however small—be part of striving for the achievements yet to be.”
My theology, my relationship with what is ultimate and divine, calls me to be my best self. This, in part, means that I must strive to grow as a human being, and as a minister. Even if this means that I wind up in a town called Dukinfield, in the United Kingdom, for a good part of a summer, far from home, far from my loved ones and my family.
These weeks are a big challenge to me. I enjoy knowing where I’m going. I enjoy being able to speak the version of English where I know what all the words mean, and I enjoy walking along next to the street on a sidewalk--sorry, "pavement"--knowing that the cars are going along on the correct side of the road.
Naturally, I’m teasing a little here. But all kidding aside, for me it was a daunting idea to come here, to meet a whole new group of people. To practice a version of Unitarianism that is related to, but not wholly, my own.
But I took a leap of faith, because that is what my best self wanted to do. It is what my theology called me to do.
And look what’s happened! I have met dozens of lovely people! I have seen the world’s oldest railroad station.
I have eaten fish and chips.
I got my rucksack stolen.
You take the bad with the good, right? From the reading that Claire shared earlier “Today, this hour, this minute is the day, the hour the minute for each of us to sense the fact that life is good, with all of its trials and troubles, and perhaps more interesting because of them.”
I took what felt to me like a big chance in accepting your most gracious invitation. Change is difficult for me. Perhaps it is also difficult for you. But change we must, or we’ve stopped our journey.
My theology called me to risk just about everything, and fly to the Old World from the New to practice ministry. Each of us is on our own individual journey. But happily we walk with comrades.
What does your theology call you to do?
I know so few things for certain, but this I believe to be true: A life lived on the growing edge of being the best one can be is a life well lived.
I invite you to live such a life.
Blessed be.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Flying Across "The Pond"
My flight from Detroit to New York’s JFK airport was uneventful, though a bit crowded. But that’s what you get when you fly coach, I guess.
By the time I arrived at JFK I was not quite hungry, but knew the food places would be closing at 8Pm, so I grabbed some Burger King. I’d read that the State of New York had passed a law requiring all restaurants to publish, on their menu, the number of calories a given item had. Well, I can now say, having seen it in action, that it was a horrifying experience. I had no idea that a Double Whopper with cheese was over a thousand calories.
I think of eating as sort of a budget, a loose budget it’s true, but a budget nonetheless. I allow myself about 1,500 to 1,700 calories each day. I do this in a very unscientific way. I know the value of some foods (an apple, a piece of bread, about 100 calories) etc. This is part of why I cut down dramatically on my soda intake. But to see even the single Whopper (no cheese) clock in near 750 calories was almost enough to make me not eat dinner. Except that I knew I’d be flying for the next 9 hours, and I needed something in my stomach. And the Sam Adams restaurant around the bend started at about $19 for the cheapest item. So I opted for the Whopper and promised myself at least a week of extra-healthy eating to make up for it. (So far, I’ve done pretty well!)
Once we boarded the plane--only about 30 minutes behind schedule, which I didn’t think was very bad--the seat next to me was empty and the seat next to it was occupied by a young twenty-something woman named Courtney who was on her way to England to play Playstation 3 with an online friend she’d never met before. She had just come from some major gaming convention. She freely admitted that she was traveling from Los Angeles to Manchester “just to play video games on someone else’s couch.” I hoped, silently, that she’d get more out of the experience than that.
The flight was largely uneventful until we started our descent into Manchester. At this point we hit some major turbulence, more than I’d ever experienced in a plane before. I can’t estimate drops and jolts, but it was very similar to riding a roller coaster--except, of course, with no rails beneath us.
And then it happened. Again.
In the middle of my day, someone asks me to help them. A young-ish mother and her two children were in the row in front of the row I shared with Courtney. She put her right hand on the seat in front of hers, to stabilize herself (I thought) and then she put her left hand behind her, into our row, also I thought as for stability. And then she looked me in the eye, and said the in the most polite British accent flavored with panic, “Would you mind holding my hand?” I could feel a warm smile come to my face and I took her hand. “Of course I’d be glad to.”
So here I was, holding the hand of this stranger, during a very turbulent descent, and I felt wonderful.
Connectivity is a major theme in my spiritual path. We are each looking for ways to feel connected to each other in our increasingly busy lives. I lead as busy a life as almost anybody, I’m sure, and there are plenty of times when I feel utterly alone, even in the middle of a city of six million people, like Chicago.
Why do we wait until crisis comes to reach out? Is it because at that moment our twin fears of vulnerability and rejection are finally outweighed by our need to know we are not alone?
We are not alone. We are tied, for better or worse, to our families, our neighborhoods, our places of work and study. We need only to find the connections that are healthy, joyful, and growth inspiring, to make our lives wealthy with living.
Find those people, forge those connections with them, and be filthy-rich beyond your wildest dreams.
By the time I arrived at JFK I was not quite hungry, but knew the food places would be closing at 8Pm, so I grabbed some Burger King. I’d read that the State of New York had passed a law requiring all restaurants to publish, on their menu, the number of calories a given item had. Well, I can now say, having seen it in action, that it was a horrifying experience. I had no idea that a Double Whopper with cheese was over a thousand calories.
I think of eating as sort of a budget, a loose budget it’s true, but a budget nonetheless. I allow myself about 1,500 to 1,700 calories each day. I do this in a very unscientific way. I know the value of some foods (an apple, a piece of bread, about 100 calories) etc. This is part of why I cut down dramatically on my soda intake. But to see even the single Whopper (no cheese) clock in near 750 calories was almost enough to make me not eat dinner. Except that I knew I’d be flying for the next 9 hours, and I needed something in my stomach. And the Sam Adams restaurant around the bend started at about $19 for the cheapest item. So I opted for the Whopper and promised myself at least a week of extra-healthy eating to make up for it. (So far, I’ve done pretty well!)
Once we boarded the plane--only about 30 minutes behind schedule, which I didn’t think was very bad--the seat next to me was empty and the seat next to it was occupied by a young twenty-something woman named Courtney who was on her way to England to play Playstation 3 with an online friend she’d never met before. She had just come from some major gaming convention. She freely admitted that she was traveling from Los Angeles to Manchester “just to play video games on someone else’s couch.” I hoped, silently, that she’d get more out of the experience than that.
The flight was largely uneventful until we started our descent into Manchester. At this point we hit some major turbulence, more than I’d ever experienced in a plane before. I can’t estimate drops and jolts, but it was very similar to riding a roller coaster--except, of course, with no rails beneath us.
And then it happened. Again.
In the middle of my day, someone asks me to help them. A young-ish mother and her two children were in the row in front of the row I shared with Courtney. She put her right hand on the seat in front of hers, to stabilize herself (I thought) and then she put her left hand behind her, into our row, also I thought as for stability. And then she looked me in the eye, and said the in the most polite British accent flavored with panic, “Would you mind holding my hand?” I could feel a warm smile come to my face and I took her hand. “Of course I’d be glad to.”
So here I was, holding the hand of this stranger, during a very turbulent descent, and I felt wonderful.
Connectivity is a major theme in my spiritual path. We are each looking for ways to feel connected to each other in our increasingly busy lives. I lead as busy a life as almost anybody, I’m sure, and there are plenty of times when I feel utterly alone, even in the middle of a city of six million people, like Chicago.
Why do we wait until crisis comes to reach out? Is it because at that moment our twin fears of vulnerability and rejection are finally outweighed by our need to know we are not alone?
We are not alone. We are tied, for better or worse, to our families, our neighborhoods, our places of work and study. We need only to find the connections that are healthy, joyful, and growth inspiring, to make our lives wealthy with living.
Find those people, forge those connections with them, and be filthy-rich beyond your wildest dreams.
Just One Key
When I started working in high school, the manager of the restaurant I worked in had a set of keys to the store. Each manager did. The key not only gave them access to the “store” but allowed them to control the cash registers.
Those keys became the symbol of power and authority for me. I saw that set of keys as some sort of affirmation of earned responsibility. Perhaps in the way many people who take up smoking see it as a “grown up” activity, I saw those keys as a trapping of adulthood. And I really wanted a set.
There are a lot of keys I’ve wanted over the years: the key to my first car, my first apartment, the key to a certain man’s heart. And yes, even work keys.
I’ve developed quite a key-ring over the years.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday I gave back the keys to my house; my congregation; my friends’ keys for when I would cat-sit (three sets); the keys to my seminary, too. I have one key left--to a seven-year old Honda Civic with 118,563 miles on it.
My life is in transition right now. I believe that everyone’s life is in transition at this very moment, but sometimes it’s more obvious than others. Like when all of your possessions fit into a car because you’ve given up everything else.
There was another time in my life when everything I owned fit into my car, and I had only one key left. It was a far less happy time. For a period of a couple of months, after my brother and I lost our apartment, we were homeless. My car became my shelter, my storage locker, my way of moving from place to place. It was a very scary time for me. With help I was able to recover from it, but it took years and years to repair my credit and has left me scarred for life.
This time, though, is much different.
For the next 24 months I will be in transition. Moving from Chicago to Dukinfield UK and then to Amarillo, Texas and then back to Chicago, with a potential summer 2010 in Germany.
Whereas before I looked at my single key as a symbol of powerlessness, this time my single key is empowering.
I have chosen to have only one key this time. I have leapt full-force into the future, with few guarantees. It’s different this time because I have faith and a goal, and faith in my goal.
Those keys became the symbol of power and authority for me. I saw that set of keys as some sort of affirmation of earned responsibility. Perhaps in the way many people who take up smoking see it as a “grown up” activity, I saw those keys as a trapping of adulthood. And I really wanted a set.
There are a lot of keys I’ve wanted over the years: the key to my first car, my first apartment, the key to a certain man’s heart. And yes, even work keys.
I’ve developed quite a key-ring over the years.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday I gave back the keys to my house; my congregation; my friends’ keys for when I would cat-sit (three sets); the keys to my seminary, too. I have one key left--to a seven-year old Honda Civic with 118,563 miles on it.
My life is in transition right now. I believe that everyone’s life is in transition at this very moment, but sometimes it’s more obvious than others. Like when all of your possessions fit into a car because you’ve given up everything else.
There was another time in my life when everything I owned fit into my car, and I had only one key left. It was a far less happy time. For a period of a couple of months, after my brother and I lost our apartment, we were homeless. My car became my shelter, my storage locker, my way of moving from place to place. It was a very scary time for me. With help I was able to recover from it, but it took years and years to repair my credit and has left me scarred for life.
This time, though, is much different.
For the next 24 months I will be in transition. Moving from Chicago to Dukinfield UK and then to Amarillo, Texas and then back to Chicago, with a potential summer 2010 in Germany.
Whereas before I looked at my single key as a symbol of powerlessness, this time my single key is empowering.
I have chosen to have only one key this time. I have leapt full-force into the future, with few guarantees. It’s different this time because I have faith and a goal, and faith in my goal.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
What is the Point?
This morning I took a walk with a beloved friend to Lake Michigan. In the neighborhood where I live for now, there is an artificially created point into the Lake, known as “the point” locally. She and I have walked dozens of times to the point and back home again.
This was to be our final time.
We talked the whole way about Life and the questions and challenges it brings. It was a good conversation.
And then I stood at the edge of the breakwater for a while, alone. I watched a seagull gracefully floating along the water. I saw two little birds playing tag. I heard the waves crash against some rocks, and I looked at the water intake station, a mile out. And I began to cry.
In a class I took in seminary, I was introduced to the idea of God as the God of a certain place. That a place itself is sacred, because God was there. I believe that God is everywhere, but that doesn’t make this place, this City any less sacred to me because it shares God.
This is the place I came, or more accurately, ran away from home to, when I was 28. I have been here a long time. Here is where I became me. And I am tied to this place. To the Lake, to the neighborhood of Hyde Park.
I tried to soak up as much of the Lake as I could this morning. Deep breaths through my mouth to taste the moist air. Eyes, made blurry by tears, trying to memorize the glorious wonder and size of Lake Michigan.
It’s rare that we know we’re doing something for the last time. I tried to take advantage of it. As I was standing there at the edge of the water a single word entered my consciousness: exile.
Self-imposed and temporary, only 12 months, but exile none the less. Forced out of my home for academic training.
Every step on the way evoked memories. Here’s where Greg and I, young and in love, had a picnic. This is where I first met Wallace, and here’s where he died at age 94, almost 95, 8 years later. Here’s where I lived with Karen and Stephanie. Karen died 8 years go at age 33. Here is the church where I found my spiritual home and path. The very path that is leading me away, walking slowly in grief.
Before my friend and I left the Point, we met an African-American woman, no odd occurrence in Hyde Park, who was also leaving the Park. She commented on my friend’s sweatshirt and we got to talking. She’s not from here, but from Ohio. She’s here with her daughter, who is dealing with 4th stage breast cancer at the University Hospital.
Ministry calls.
We spoke for a while. Her daughter’s name is Carole. I said a silent prayer for Carole and her Mom, who never gave us her name.
As I had experienced during my chaplaincy, a person needing an ear to hear them is a gift to me. The Universe is saying “You can help this person, remember your purpose.”
And so, in a morning of grieving and thinking about all I am losing, it's a little reminder that I have a place in the world.
Even if that place isn’t the neighborhood I’ve come to love.
God is everywhere, and God is Love.
This was to be our final time.
We talked the whole way about Life and the questions and challenges it brings. It was a good conversation.
And then I stood at the edge of the breakwater for a while, alone. I watched a seagull gracefully floating along the water. I saw two little birds playing tag. I heard the waves crash against some rocks, and I looked at the water intake station, a mile out. And I began to cry.
In a class I took in seminary, I was introduced to the idea of God as the God of a certain place. That a place itself is sacred, because God was there. I believe that God is everywhere, but that doesn’t make this place, this City any less sacred to me because it shares God.
This is the place I came, or more accurately, ran away from home to, when I was 28. I have been here a long time. Here is where I became me. And I am tied to this place. To the Lake, to the neighborhood of Hyde Park.
I tried to soak up as much of the Lake as I could this morning. Deep breaths through my mouth to taste the moist air. Eyes, made blurry by tears, trying to memorize the glorious wonder and size of Lake Michigan.
It’s rare that we know we’re doing something for the last time. I tried to take advantage of it. As I was standing there at the edge of the water a single word entered my consciousness: exile.
Self-imposed and temporary, only 12 months, but exile none the less. Forced out of my home for academic training.
Every step on the way evoked memories. Here’s where Greg and I, young and in love, had a picnic. This is where I first met Wallace, and here’s where he died at age 94, almost 95, 8 years later. Here’s where I lived with Karen and Stephanie. Karen died 8 years go at age 33. Here is the church where I found my spiritual home and path. The very path that is leading me away, walking slowly in grief.
Before my friend and I left the Point, we met an African-American woman, no odd occurrence in Hyde Park, who was also leaving the Park. She commented on my friend’s sweatshirt and we got to talking. She’s not from here, but from Ohio. She’s here with her daughter, who is dealing with 4th stage breast cancer at the University Hospital.
Ministry calls.
We spoke for a while. Her daughter’s name is Carole. I said a silent prayer for Carole and her Mom, who never gave us her name.
As I had experienced during my chaplaincy, a person needing an ear to hear them is a gift to me. The Universe is saying “You can help this person, remember your purpose.”
And so, in a morning of grieving and thinking about all I am losing, it's a little reminder that I have a place in the world.
Even if that place isn’t the neighborhood I’ve come to love.
God is everywhere, and God is Love.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
What's in a Name?
I thought I was just being clever in naming my blog "Humble Pie a la Mode." I really didn't know that origin of "humble pie." So I did what all good people of an academic bent do, I went to the Oxford English Dictionary. But by the time I'd found out the beginnings of humble pie, I'd already found this cool photograph through flickr* and I couldn't give it up. So, the name stayed. And with apologies to the vegetarians and the squeamish of stomach in my life, I'll share with you what I found out.
Humble Pie, according to the OED.a1648 DIGBY Closet Open. (1677) 203 To season Humble-Pyes. [1822 T. L. PEACOCK Maid Marian 241 Robin helped him largely to numble-pie..and the other dainties of his table.]1830 Forby's Voc. E. Anglia App. 432 ‘To make one eat humble pie’ i .e. To make him lower his tone, and be submissive. It may possibly be derived from the umbles of the deer, which were the perquisite of the huntsman; and if so, it should be written umble-pie, the food of inferiors. 1847-78 HALLIWELL s.v., To eat humble pie, to be very submissive, var. dial. 1855 THACKERAY Newcomes I. xiv. 136 You must get up and eat humble pie this morning, my boy. 1863 READE Hard Cash xlii, ‘The scornful Dog’, had to eat wormwood pudding and humble pie. 1871 J. C. JEAFFRESON Ann. Oxford I. xiv. 224 The town had..to eat a considerable amount of humble pie. 1883 HOWELLS Register ii, Trying to think what was the very humblest pie I could eat.1862 SALA Seven Sons II. ix. 217 The staple in the bill of fare was Humble Pie. 1895 Times 9 Jan. 4/1 To sue for peace when further resistance becomes hopeless is a kind of ‘humble pie’ that fate has condemned all vanquished nations to swallow from time immemorial.
I promise you I was completely unaware of the first definition.
My intention was more the latter definitions, but not entirely. I also meant to reference humility and taking what you've got and doing the best with it that you can. Humility with ice cream.
I guess the joke's on me with that innards bit, huh?
In a funny way though, the definition demonstrates my point beautifully. I was being cheeky, and I got served my very own plate of humble, from the first entry.
*photo credit to cobalt123
Humble Pie, according to the OED.
2. to eat humble pie: to be very submissive; to apologize humbly; to submit to humiliation.
[From
b. In other analogous expressions.
I promise you I was completely unaware of the first definition.
My intention was more the latter definitions, but not entirely. I also meant to reference humility and taking what you've got and doing the best with it that you can. Humility with ice cream.
I guess the joke's on me with that innards bit, huh?
In a funny way though, the definition demonstrates my point beautifully. I was being cheeky, and I got served my very own plate of humble, from the first entry.
*photo credit to cobalt123
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