The other day I opened up my daily devotional book (the one I call "Spiritual But Not Religious") and this was its first line: "Perhaps we all sound better on paper."
For more than one reason, that sentence seemed oddly appropriate for me.
Of course, I couldn't help thinking of the blog that I have been keeping, lo these many years, where I have written about my life as a pastor and a step-mom and a wife and a lover of dogs, and knitting and good books. I have worked hard at good writer, which includes (to me) being truthful and vulnerable and honest, and trying to write a few shimmery sentences along the way.
And yet, if I am truthful, my life on paper sounds at least somewhat better than the life I know I am leading.
For example, I will admit that my life and my house (and my brain) is messy, but I am not (for the most part) showing you pictures. I do keep some secrets.
I don't think this is necessarily a bad thing. I think it is good to have boundaries around our lives, to be able to choose what we will share and what we will not, what becomes public and what remains a secret. Some things it is not wise or safe to share, for our own sake, as well as others.
It's just good to be aware that we are doing it: that we are, in fact, carefully curating our image of ourself, for others, even for ourself, sometimes. Because it's not even just safety or privacy: maybe just a wee part of myself thinks If they knew that about me, they wouldn't think quite so well of me.
"Perhaps we all sound better on paper."
While I was in seminary, I interviewed for a summer job at the congregation where I was doing my field work. It was an activities program for the children in the neighborhood of this inner city church. I loved children, I was idealistic about inner city ministry. It had not seemed that long ago that I had been a missionary in Japan. I really wanted this job. I wrote up my application, interviewed with the two pastors who oversaw the program and got the job.
After the first week, it was clear to me that I was in over my head. I was much less sure of my qualifications than I had been the week before that. When I mentioned my misgivings to one of the pastors who hired me, she said, "Well, you interviewed really well."
"Perhaps we all sound better on paper."
In the end, the job didn't go as well as I had (in my starry-eyed way) hoped, but probably not as badly as I had feared, either. My perception of myself probably needed adjustment at both ends.
We all sound better on paper. There is no perhaps about it. And as I round the corner into Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent, it is here where I begin: with the confession that my truthfulness is approximate, that while I strive to be vulnerable and give to the world an honest representation of myself, for a variety of reasons, I leave things out: abject failures, wincing moments of ugliness, some of the darkest of self-doubts, even successes.
I may curate my self-image, but that is not all that I am.
That is my confession, for Ash Wednesday.
And it is also my glory.
If only I remember.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Monday, March 17, 2014
Who Do I Think I Am?
Today, I got my knitting magazine in the mail. I am always excited to get the new issue, but a little wistful by the time I am done. In the whole array of possible knitting magazines, I chose this one for its title. "Knit Simple", it is called. And yet, truth be told, I can very very rarely find a pattern that is not beyond me.
Still, every other month, I look forward to paging through the magazine, looking at all of the designs for sweaters and scarves and gifts for the children in my life. Sometimes, I muster up a sigh. "Someday," I think. "It's possible that someday I will be able to knit this." Other times, I am in a darker mood, and think, "I cannot imagine ever being able to knit these. Why do I continue to waste my money on this magazine?"
Last week, my husband and I were in an historic small town not far from where we live. On my recommendation we stopped for a bit in a local arts center. The wonderful old refurbished buildings host art galleries and classes, and even an alternative high school. There are sometimes concerts as well, and, when the weather is nicer, the sculpture garden is an attractive destination.
But I wanted to stop in at the arts center because I had learned that a well-respected regional literary journal was published here. It is called the "Great River Review", and, for some reason or another, I wanted to subscribe. I had been thinking about it for awhile, actually.
So we went out to the arts center one afternoon. We took a short tour through one of the galleries. We found out some of the things we could do if we came back in another, better season. I told them that the real reason I was there was to subscribe to their literary magazine.
They gladly took my check of course, and even gave me a free sample of the journal.
But then one of the managers at the center, perhaps even the director, turned to me and asked, bluntly, "So, why do you want to subscribe to the Review?"
There was an awkward pause, and then he added, "Are you a writer?"
There was another awkward pause, after which I mumbled a few words of aspiration.
"Ah," he said, sympathetic. "That describes many of us."
I felt that I hadn't really adequately accounted for the hope that is in me, perhaps because I still don't know exactly what it is. I used to want to be a writer; somehow I still aspire to that, not just to write sermons, but something more, my reach exceeding my grasp. I know that I like to fit words together as if they were part of a jigsaw puzzle, for the fun of it. But I don't know what the whole picture should be, even now, even with the years of ministry, even with all of the funerals, all the prayers and all of the baptisms, and the daily mystery of the love of God in the most ordinary moments.
Who do I think I am? I'm not exactly sure. Am I a writer who preaches, a preacher who writes? Am I a prayer who works, or a worker who prays? All I know is that, somedays I look at glossy pictures and stories and poems, and I sigh, "Perhaps someday I will be able to do that." And other days, I cannot even imagine it.
Still, every other month, I look forward to paging through the magazine, looking at all of the designs for sweaters and scarves and gifts for the children in my life. Sometimes, I muster up a sigh. "Someday," I think. "It's possible that someday I will be able to knit this." Other times, I am in a darker mood, and think, "I cannot imagine ever being able to knit these. Why do I continue to waste my money on this magazine?"
Last week, my husband and I were in an historic small town not far from where we live. On my recommendation we stopped for a bit in a local arts center. The wonderful old refurbished buildings host art galleries and classes, and even an alternative high school. There are sometimes concerts as well, and, when the weather is nicer, the sculpture garden is an attractive destination.
But I wanted to stop in at the arts center because I had learned that a well-respected regional literary journal was published here. It is called the "Great River Review", and, for some reason or another, I wanted to subscribe. I had been thinking about it for awhile, actually.
So we went out to the arts center one afternoon. We took a short tour through one of the galleries. We found out some of the things we could do if we came back in another, better season. I told them that the real reason I was there was to subscribe to their literary magazine.
They gladly took my check of course, and even gave me a free sample of the journal.
But then one of the managers at the center, perhaps even the director, turned to me and asked, bluntly, "So, why do you want to subscribe to the Review?"
There was an awkward pause, and then he added, "Are you a writer?"
There was another awkward pause, after which I mumbled a few words of aspiration.
"Ah," he said, sympathetic. "That describes many of us."
I felt that I hadn't really adequately accounted for the hope that is in me, perhaps because I still don't know exactly what it is. I used to want to be a writer; somehow I still aspire to that, not just to write sermons, but something more, my reach exceeding my grasp. I know that I like to fit words together as if they were part of a jigsaw puzzle, for the fun of it. But I don't know what the whole picture should be, even now, even with the years of ministry, even with all of the funerals, all the prayers and all of the baptisms, and the daily mystery of the love of God in the most ordinary moments.
Who do I think I am? I'm not exactly sure. Am I a writer who preaches, a preacher who writes? Am I a prayer who works, or a worker who prays? All I know is that, somedays I look at glossy pictures and stories and poems, and I sigh, "Perhaps someday I will be able to do that." And other days, I cannot even imagine it.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Of Making Many Books
Last week I stumbled into a very large used book sale. It was set up at an old Border's bookshop, a huge building that has not yet found a new tenant. For the past couple of weeks, this empty store has been filled with tables and and unimaginable number of cheap books. Former bestsellers. Novels. Books on prayer (there was a very large religion section). Cookbooks. Self-help. History. You name it. Most of the books were fairly recent titles, but there were a few of the older and most interesting vintage editions scattered about as well.
Once in awhile I will go into an antique store that has a large book section, and be overwhelmed with the number of old books, most of them old books that I have (often) never heard of before. A few may have enjoyed a brief celebrity; most of them were deeply obscure to me.
There are so many books in the world.
I didn't grow up around a lot of books. At least, there weren't a lot of books in our house. There were a couple of Bibles, a couple of books of Fairy Tales, a few little golden books. It's not that my parents didn't value reading: we went to the library a lot; we just didn't own most of the books.
The library then was an amazing place to me. There were so many books, so many stories, and I wanted to write them too. I wanted to write stories like the ones about Betsy and Tacy, or the ones about Jo and Meg and Beth and Amy. I wanted to write stories like the ones about Pippi and the Moffats and the Nancy Drew.
I always thought it was the stories, or the words, or the knowledge that attracted me. That's why I liked books so much. I liked the infinity of what you could discover inside a book. I liked the worlds that opened when you opened the covers. I liked the sentences that piled up, one after another.
But, as it turns out, it's more complicated than that.
I spent last Wednesday evening making books: small books, it's true, but making small blank books out of paper and waxed thread. I simply folded and poked holes and stitched together simple covers and pages. I used simple tools: an awl, a needle, a bone folder, and paper. I learned that books had a head and a tail, a signature or a section, leaves and volumes. I learned a pamphlet stitch and a Japanese stitch.
I loved making books.
I always thought it was the contents that I loved: the stories, the sentences, the knowledge, the images. But I loved the covers and the spine, the stitches and the thread, the paper and the feel of everything in my hand. I imagined how the structure of the book and the contents are inextricably connected. For example, the simple folded book that folds out like an accordion: that should be a story about a journey, perhaps, or a treasure map.
As it turns out, I love the whole book: body, soul and spirit: the weight of it in my hand, the stitches, the paper, the words and sentences too.
Body soul and spirit, it is all art. We are not containers; we are whole and holy, stitched together with care, every single last atom of us.
Once in awhile I will go into an antique store that has a large book section, and be overwhelmed with the number of old books, most of them old books that I have (often) never heard of before. A few may have enjoyed a brief celebrity; most of them were deeply obscure to me.
There are so many books in the world.
I didn't grow up around a lot of books. At least, there weren't a lot of books in our house. There were a couple of Bibles, a couple of books of Fairy Tales, a few little golden books. It's not that my parents didn't value reading: we went to the library a lot; we just didn't own most of the books.
The library then was an amazing place to me. There were so many books, so many stories, and I wanted to write them too. I wanted to write stories like the ones about Betsy and Tacy, or the ones about Jo and Meg and Beth and Amy. I wanted to write stories like the ones about Pippi and the Moffats and the Nancy Drew.
I always thought it was the stories, or the words, or the knowledge that attracted me. That's why I liked books so much. I liked the infinity of what you could discover inside a book. I liked the worlds that opened when you opened the covers. I liked the sentences that piled up, one after another.But, as it turns out, it's more complicated than that.
I spent last Wednesday evening making books: small books, it's true, but making small blank books out of paper and waxed thread. I simply folded and poked holes and stitched together simple covers and pages. I used simple tools: an awl, a needle, a bone folder, and paper. I learned that books had a head and a tail, a signature or a section, leaves and volumes. I learned a pamphlet stitch and a Japanese stitch.
I loved making books.
I always thought it was the contents that I loved: the stories, the sentences, the knowledge, the images. But I loved the covers and the spine, the stitches and the thread, the paper and the feel of everything in my hand. I imagined how the structure of the book and the contents are inextricably connected. For example, the simple folded book that folds out like an accordion: that should be a story about a journey, perhaps, or a treasure map.
As it turns out, I love the whole book: body, soul and spirit: the weight of it in my hand, the stitches, the paper, the words and sentences too.
Body soul and spirit, it is all art. We are not containers; we are whole and holy, stitched together with care, every single last atom of us.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
6 Monologues from John's Passion: #1
"A Disciple"
I have never felt so close to Jesus as I did on that night. It was a calm and peaceful evening, full of prayer and singing, full of light and teaching. Jesus told us many things that evening, while we ate and after dinner. He even prayed for us. I remember that he prayed for our protection, and he prayed that we would be united with one another. I remember that he also told us always to abide in his love -- to love one another. I remember later thinking it was so strange, how he prayed for us. We should have been praying for him! Of course, we never would have thought of that. We left our dinner with a warm glow in our hearts, but also with some uneasiness. It was a beautiful, clear evening as we crossed the Kidron Valley. Then I saw him. Judas. And he had with him soldier and police officers from the chief priests. Their torches lit up the night.
Looking back, you would think that Judas, walking with all those soldier, would have been the strong one, and Jesus the weaker. But that has never been my impression. Even when he was arrested, Jesus seemed to be in charge. And Judas just keeps getting smaller and smaller whenever I remember him. It didn't take courage to betray Jesus. It was really an act of a coward -- someone who saw where everything was headed and wanted to cash in early. He was afraid of what following Jesus really meant, and decided to follow something else.
But we were all afraid of following Jesus at one time or another. We just didn't take such drastic measures as Judas did. Some disciples fell away early. Something Jesus said or did offended them, and they just stopped listening. Others hung around, but kept their distance. But Jesus still saw something in us, something worth protecting, something worth saving. I'll never forget his words that evening, when the soldiers and the police came. We were all so frightened, wondering what would happen to us. We we all be arrested, and beaten or killed? We weren't sure about the intentions of the soldiers. Then Jesus said, "If you are looking for me, let these men go." We were free! We would not be put on trial -- only Jesus would.
Now I hear them saying about Jesus, that he died for me, that he is the Lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world. I know just one thing for sure -- he died for me. His word set me free. That's how I felt that night. And later on, when he returned, he told us that us that we still had a job to do -- to set other people free as well.
I have never felt so close to Jesus as I did on that night. It was a calm and peaceful evening, full of prayer and singing, full of light and teaching. Jesus told us many things that evening, while we ate and after dinner. He even prayed for us. I remember that he prayed for our protection, and he prayed that we would be united with one another. I remember that he also told us always to abide in his love -- to love one another. I remember later thinking it was so strange, how he prayed for us. We should have been praying for him! Of course, we never would have thought of that. We left our dinner with a warm glow in our hearts, but also with some uneasiness. It was a beautiful, clear evening as we crossed the Kidron Valley. Then I saw him. Judas. And he had with him soldier and police officers from the chief priests. Their torches lit up the night.
Looking back, you would think that Judas, walking with all those soldier, would have been the strong one, and Jesus the weaker. But that has never been my impression. Even when he was arrested, Jesus seemed to be in charge. And Judas just keeps getting smaller and smaller whenever I remember him. It didn't take courage to betray Jesus. It was really an act of a coward -- someone who saw where everything was headed and wanted to cash in early. He was afraid of what following Jesus really meant, and decided to follow something else.
But we were all afraid of following Jesus at one time or another. We just didn't take such drastic measures as Judas did. Some disciples fell away early. Something Jesus said or did offended them, and they just stopped listening. Others hung around, but kept their distance. But Jesus still saw something in us, something worth protecting, something worth saving. I'll never forget his words that evening, when the soldiers and the police came. We were all so frightened, wondering what would happen to us. We we all be arrested, and beaten or killed? We weren't sure about the intentions of the soldiers. Then Jesus said, "If you are looking for me, let these men go." We were free! We would not be put on trial -- only Jesus would.
Now I hear them saying about Jesus, that he died for me, that he is the Lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world. I know just one thing for sure -- he died for me. His word set me free. That's how I felt that night. And later on, when he returned, he told us that us that we still had a job to do -- to set other people free as well.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Call and Response
My congregation charged me with coming up with some liturgical pieces to use outdoors for more informal worship (and so people would not have to have so much "paper" in their bulletin. Here are two that I came up with. I taught the congregation (in three sections) the three responses, and alternated with pieces that I wrote. See what you think:
LITANY OF THANKSGIVING
Responses:
A The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases
B God's mercies never come to an end
C Great is Your Faithfulness, O God.
In the morning and the evening, in the stars and the sun and the rain
A,B,C
In the strm and in the rainbow after a storm, in the song of birds, iin the beauty of flowers bursting with colors
A
In the springtime and in the winter, at harvest and during summer
B
In the wandering in the wilderness, in the manna you provide us, in the waysy ou sustain us throughout our lives
C
In our families and in the strangers who are your gift to us, in our neighbors near or far
A
In good times and in hard times, in joy and in sorrow, for richer, for poorer
A, B
In the water that washes over us, in the name of Jesus who claims us, in the bread and wine that feed us
B,C
In the man of sorrows who was acquainted with grief, who forgave his enemies, and who promised us paradise
A
In the empty tomb and the words, "He is risen,", in the appearances to his disciples, as he promised, "I am with you always"
A,B,C
AMEN
LITANY OF CALL
Responses:
A Now you are the body of Christ, and individually members of it
B And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your strength and all your mind (okay, that one was hard, but they rose to the occasion!)
C And you shall love your neighbor as yourself
God calls our feet "beautiful" and urges us forward to make God's name known in the world.
A,B,C
God has given us eyes so that we can see the beauty in creation, and the beauty in our neighbor
A
God has given us eyes so that we can see the pain in the world, and hands to reach out to give comfort and to work for justice
B,C
God has given us ears to hear God's word of promise and grace, and God has given us ears to hear cries of joy and cries of sorrow
B
God calls us to use our hands to comfort, heal, serve and left each other up
A
God calls us to raise our voices in praise, and to raise our voices to speak up for the powerless
B, C
God calls us to kneel, to run, to stand up, to sit down, to carry each other's burdens, to use our whole bodies to show God's love and care for the world
A,C
God calls our feet "beautiful," and urges us forward to make God's name known in the world.
A,B, C
LITANY OF THANKSGIVING
Responses:
A The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases
B God's mercies never come to an end
C Great is Your Faithfulness, O God.
In the morning and the evening, in the stars and the sun and the rain
A,B,C
In the strm and in the rainbow after a storm, in the song of birds, iin the beauty of flowers bursting with colors
A
In the springtime and in the winter, at harvest and during summer
B
In the wandering in the wilderness, in the manna you provide us, in the waysy ou sustain us throughout our lives
C
In our families and in the strangers who are your gift to us, in our neighbors near or far
A
In good times and in hard times, in joy and in sorrow, for richer, for poorer
A, B
In the water that washes over us, in the name of Jesus who claims us, in the bread and wine that feed us
B,C
In the man of sorrows who was acquainted with grief, who forgave his enemies, and who promised us paradise
A
In the empty tomb and the words, "He is risen,", in the appearances to his disciples, as he promised, "I am with you always"
A,B,C
AMEN
LITANY OF CALL
Responses:
A Now you are the body of Christ, and individually members of it
B And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your strength and all your mind (okay, that one was hard, but they rose to the occasion!)
C And you shall love your neighbor as yourself
God calls our feet "beautiful" and urges us forward to make God's name known in the world.
A,B,C
God has given us eyes so that we can see the beauty in creation, and the beauty in our neighbor
A
God has given us eyes so that we can see the pain in the world, and hands to reach out to give comfort and to work for justice
B,C
God has given us ears to hear God's word of promise and grace, and God has given us ears to hear cries of joy and cries of sorrow
B
God calls us to use our hands to comfort, heal, serve and left each other up
A
God calls us to raise our voices in praise, and to raise our voices to speak up for the powerless
B, C
God calls us to kneel, to run, to stand up, to sit down, to carry each other's burdens, to use our whole bodies to show God's love and care for the world
A,C
God calls our feet "beautiful," and urges us forward to make God's name known in the world.
A,B, C
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Why I Read Memoirs
I'm reading another memoir now, one I picked up in a local used (mostly) bookstore. It's called Let's Take the Long Way Home, a book about the friendship of two women writers. They meet because they also have new puppies. On the docket after that is another memoir, Ashes to Ashes, by Benjamin Busch, as well as a novel, Ella Minnow Pea.
Why do I read memoirs? Until a few years ago, I was barely aware that memoirs existed. I was an English Major, which meant that I read literature and poetry, and liked it. I even started a book club here at my church, "Faith and Fiction," because I was convinced that God was lurking around any good story, in some way or another. I remember hearing novelist Alice McDermott interviewed on the radio a few years ago. Perhaps the memoir was just becoming popular, but I remember that she was quite critical of the genre at the time. Fiction is rigorous; you are really creating something, not simply re-shaping a part of your own story. (I believe she has softened her critique somewhat.)
There is something a little unsettling about looking through the Biography section at the bookstore, and seeing all of the people telling all of their different stories, some of them sordid, some strange, some exotic, some even ordinary. A part of me wonders if the writing and reading of all of these memoirs is really a healthy sign. The other part of me reads memoirs, anyway, for these reasons:
1. Some of them are extremely well-written. I'll admit it, I love reading good sentences like some people like eating chocolate. No kidding. It's great to have a good message, but I'll take a well-tempered sentence over a too-righteous message any day. I picked up A Three Dog Life almost entirely because of the beauty of the sentences.
2. There is an experience foreign to me that I want to know something about. This is one of the reasons I picked up the book The Latehomecomer. It is the story of a Hmong family's journey from the refugee camps of Thailand to St. Paul, Minnesota, told through the eyes of one of the daughters. This is a perspective entirely foreign to me. And yet....
3. There is something with which I can make a connection. I do not know the immigrant experience of the Hmong, but my family has its own immigrant story, so I want to make the connection with others who have been displaced in other ways. In the same way, I chose Michelle Norris' book about her experience growing up African American in Minneapolis, The Grace of Silence, both because her experience was so different from my own, and also because her address was so jarringly close to mine.
4. They are stories about God, somehow. Sometimes it is overt, as in In the Sanctuary of Outcasts, which is a story of a man who went to prison for check-kiting. He happens to be imprisoned in Lousiana, in a place which is also a leper colony. At the same time that he studies the inmates there, learns the history of the prison and the people, he also comes to terms with himself as a criminal in need of redemption: an outcast. Most of the stories I read are not conversion stories in any way, but there are stories of grief and loss and failure and transformation, which means that faith or doubt or unbelief reside there.
The first memoirs, long ago, were written by generals telling stories of their battles, and by religious, telling stories of their conversion. We've come a long way since then, but in this secular, individual era of ours, I think that memoirs are still, at their heart, faith stories. In them, people take their lives, or bits of them, anyway, and make them into something that is bigger, and about more than themselves. And the best ones are both strange and familiar, a window into an exotic world where we still see ourselves.
.
Why do I read memoirs? Until a few years ago, I was barely aware that memoirs existed. I was an English Major, which meant that I read literature and poetry, and liked it. I even started a book club here at my church, "Faith and Fiction," because I was convinced that God was lurking around any good story, in some way or another. I remember hearing novelist Alice McDermott interviewed on the radio a few years ago. Perhaps the memoir was just becoming popular, but I remember that she was quite critical of the genre at the time. Fiction is rigorous; you are really creating something, not simply re-shaping a part of your own story. (I believe she has softened her critique somewhat.)
There is something a little unsettling about looking through the Biography section at the bookstore, and seeing all of the people telling all of their different stories, some of them sordid, some strange, some exotic, some even ordinary. A part of me wonders if the writing and reading of all of these memoirs is really a healthy sign. The other part of me reads memoirs, anyway, for these reasons:
1. Some of them are extremely well-written. I'll admit it, I love reading good sentences like some people like eating chocolate. No kidding. It's great to have a good message, but I'll take a well-tempered sentence over a too-righteous message any day. I picked up A Three Dog Life almost entirely because of the beauty of the sentences.
2. There is an experience foreign to me that I want to know something about. This is one of the reasons I picked up the book The Latehomecomer. It is the story of a Hmong family's journey from the refugee camps of Thailand to St. Paul, Minnesota, told through the eyes of one of the daughters. This is a perspective entirely foreign to me. And yet....
3. There is something with which I can make a connection. I do not know the immigrant experience of the Hmong, but my family has its own immigrant story, so I want to make the connection with others who have been displaced in other ways. In the same way, I chose Michelle Norris' book about her experience growing up African American in Minneapolis, The Grace of Silence, both because her experience was so different from my own, and also because her address was so jarringly close to mine.
4. They are stories about God, somehow. Sometimes it is overt, as in In the Sanctuary of Outcasts, which is a story of a man who went to prison for check-kiting. He happens to be imprisoned in Lousiana, in a place which is also a leper colony. At the same time that he studies the inmates there, learns the history of the prison and the people, he also comes to terms with himself as a criminal in need of redemption: an outcast. Most of the stories I read are not conversion stories in any way, but there are stories of grief and loss and failure and transformation, which means that faith or doubt or unbelief reside there.
The first memoirs, long ago, were written by generals telling stories of their battles, and by religious, telling stories of their conversion. We've come a long way since then, but in this secular, individual era of ours, I think that memoirs are still, at their heart, faith stories. In them, people take their lives, or bits of them, anyway, and make them into something that is bigger, and about more than themselves. And the best ones are both strange and familiar, a window into an exotic world where we still see ourselves.
.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Pity the Poor Typewriter
In our Leadership Board meeting last week, we continued to talk about how to use technology effectively and efficiently in our congregation. It's a stewardship issue (among other things): how can we be most effective in our use of technology so that we have time to do what is most important in the life of our congregation and community.
I freely admit that though I know a lot about computers and the internet and email, my knowledge is spotty and incomplete. Though I was a little taken aback with the vehemence with which one member of the Board pointed out how backward we are: "You still have a TYPEWRITER."
It's true. There is a typewriter in our office, although, to be honest, we don't really use it. Much. We type names in Wedding Certificates and those baptismal cards, and that's pretty much It. And (to give the particular typewriter all the credit it is due) it is one of those huge, semi-computerized typewriters. It can remember whole lines of type before it writes anything down. (I always hated those.)
I learned to type in junior high, two summers in a row, in summer school. The first summer I took typing on a manual typewriter, slamming down the keys and using the return lever. The second summer they had at least semi-electric typewriters, and I got better. My mother tricked me into learning to type by telling me, "if you want to be a writer, you will need to be able to type your manuscripts." I have never come out and asked her this, but I suspect that she was actually more interested in the idea that I would actually have a Marketable Skill.
When I got to college, my parents bought me my own Smith-Corona portable electric typewriter. I was thankful, but in my heart of hearts I coveted the Selectrics I typed on when I went to work in offices. I could type much faster, and I loved how heavy the machines were. The little portable typewriter sort of bounced around on the table when I got going too fast.
When I was growing up, we had an old manual typewriter just sitting around our house. No one ever used it, but it was sturdy and gleaming. Until I learned to type, it seemed as mysterious to my as a computer would have been. For many many years people typed on something very similar to that old typewriter, and not much changed.
In recent years, things have moved much faster. First typewriters re-invented themselves as electric. Electric typewriters then took many forms. Typewriters had self-correction devices in them, and then there were "memory typewriters" (I always hated those.) It wasn't long before computers took center stage.
There is a typewriter in our office, but I'm thankful that I don't have to use it. I haven't used a typewriter for a long time. Pretty soon, no one will.
Still, the computers I have used are not so sturdy as that old manual typewriter, or even the Smith-Corona that I had in college. My first computer as a pastor was a desktop varietry of Mac; I loved it dearly, but it was obsolete not long after I got it. It was not capable of email or internet connections. Now the computers I am interested in are ever lighter and more portable. I suspect the latest variety will too soon be old.
I'd like to think this: that hidden inside each one of those sleek new laptops and tablets is an old sturdy manual typewriter, the parent from which all of this communication was born. I'd like to think this: that nothing of the past is really lost, that somewhere the things we throw away are cherished, that their stories are told, typed out on old typewriters by strong fingers, and saved for another time.
I freely admit that though I know a lot about computers and the internet and email, my knowledge is spotty and incomplete. Though I was a little taken aback with the vehemence with which one member of the Board pointed out how backward we are: "You still have a TYPEWRITER."
It's true. There is a typewriter in our office, although, to be honest, we don't really use it. Much. We type names in Wedding Certificates and those baptismal cards, and that's pretty much It. And (to give the particular typewriter all the credit it is due) it is one of those huge, semi-computerized typewriters. It can remember whole lines of type before it writes anything down. (I always hated those.)
I learned to type in junior high, two summers in a row, in summer school. The first summer I took typing on a manual typewriter, slamming down the keys and using the return lever. The second summer they had at least semi-electric typewriters, and I got better. My mother tricked me into learning to type by telling me, "if you want to be a writer, you will need to be able to type your manuscripts." I have never come out and asked her this, but I suspect that she was actually more interested in the idea that I would actually have a Marketable Skill.
When I got to college, my parents bought me my own Smith-Corona portable electric typewriter. I was thankful, but in my heart of hearts I coveted the Selectrics I typed on when I went to work in offices. I could type much faster, and I loved how heavy the machines were. The little portable typewriter sort of bounced around on the table when I got going too fast.
When I was growing up, we had an old manual typewriter just sitting around our house. No one ever used it, but it was sturdy and gleaming. Until I learned to type, it seemed as mysterious to my as a computer would have been. For many many years people typed on something very similar to that old typewriter, and not much changed.
In recent years, things have moved much faster. First typewriters re-invented themselves as electric. Electric typewriters then took many forms. Typewriters had self-correction devices in them, and then there were "memory typewriters" (I always hated those.) It wasn't long before computers took center stage.
There is a typewriter in our office, but I'm thankful that I don't have to use it. I haven't used a typewriter for a long time. Pretty soon, no one will.
Still, the computers I have used are not so sturdy as that old manual typewriter, or even the Smith-Corona that I had in college. My first computer as a pastor was a desktop varietry of Mac; I loved it dearly, but it was obsolete not long after I got it. It was not capable of email or internet connections. Now the computers I am interested in are ever lighter and more portable. I suspect the latest variety will too soon be old.I'd like to think this: that hidden inside each one of those sleek new laptops and tablets is an old sturdy manual typewriter, the parent from which all of this communication was born. I'd like to think this: that nothing of the past is really lost, that somewhere the things we throw away are cherished, that their stories are told, typed out on old typewriters by strong fingers, and saved for another time.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
The Gospel In Seven Words
Because so many others have put it simply, I tried my hand at this:
In Christ, God is joined to us.
(And we are joined to God. Irrevocably. Inexplicably. And God wouldn't have it any other way. We tried everything to stop him.)
In Christ, God is joined to us.
(And we are joined to God. Irrevocably. Inexplicably. And God wouldn't have it any other way. We tried everything to stop him.)
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
On the Road Again
After a brief stop in Albuquerque where I met friend and blogger Paul and had yummy appetizers, we are back on the road again, headed out to Mesa Verde, somewhere I have heard about for many years, but never seen.
Last night we also had a dinner (which I for one didn't really need) at the Church Street Cafe in Old Town. We walked around the town (most places were closed, but a few were still open), and found a little shop that featured artists from New Mexico, especially as they painted religious folk themes. I was captivated by a little display for Vicente Telles, and had to buy a tiny piece of art by him, called Mater Dolorosa.
As we exited, the shopkeeper called out, "thanks for supporting local artists!"
Yes.
We watched fireworks from our hotel room.
Got up early to eat a little breakfast in the downstairs cafe, and listen to the latest on the Casey Anthony trial.
Now we will be traveling scenic routes all day, cameras and journals in hand, until we get to our scenic destination.
My hope during the next few days: that I will see the beauty in the local artistry, that I will support local artists, and that I will find freedom to be one.
Last night we also had a dinner (which I for one didn't really need) at the Church Street Cafe in Old Town. We walked around the town (most places were closed, but a few were still open), and found a little shop that featured artists from New Mexico, especially as they painted religious folk themes. I was captivated by a little display for Vicente Telles, and had to buy a tiny piece of art by him, called Mater Dolorosa.
As we exited, the shopkeeper called out, "thanks for supporting local artists!"
Yes.
We watched fireworks from our hotel room.
Got up early to eat a little breakfast in the downstairs cafe, and listen to the latest on the Casey Anthony trial.
Now we will be traveling scenic routes all day, cameras and journals in hand, until we get to our scenic destination.
My hope during the next few days: that I will see the beauty in the local artistry, that I will support local artists, and that I will find freedom to be one.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Authors
Today I got up early, grabbed a bowl of cereal and went to a stately old Presbyterian church in St. Paul for a one day conference on faith and writing. I had gone to the same conference last year, and especially was intrigued to hear that Billy Collins and Clyde Edgerton would be there.
When I got there, I remembered the one thing I didn't like about the conference last year: going by myself.
I sat in the large, beautiful, somewhat dark sanctuary, and wondered if the pastor of the congregation still really preaches from that high pulpit. It must seem like preaching from midair. I noted with interest the different materials in the pews, especially the notepads for kids, and the stickers that visitors are invited to wear. But mostly, I felt lonely sitting there alone, wishing to share the experience with someone.
The first speaker, Azar Nafisi (Reading Lolita in Tehran
) was passionate, and I enjoyed her immensely. I loved what she said about how stories help make us free, and how freedom is something that we don't just "have", it's something we continually strive for.
Two older women sat with me at lunch. They are in a book group together, and both talked about their church experiences as well. One sang in the choir, and the other said she grew up Pentecostal, and got enough church for the rest of her life. They are active in the League of Women Voters organization and told me about a fund-raiser they were planning for a local domestic abuse center: a pajama party. I told them I was very interested in having my church involved.
This experience was the highlight of my day.
Clyde Edgerton had a readers theatre version of his book The Bible Salesman
. Hilarious. really, but for some reason I was yawning, and my eyes filled with tears.
I drove home, picked up my husband and we both had the treat of going to supper at a nice cafe on Grand avenue in St. Paul and hearing Billy Collins speak. My husband's favorite poem was the one about the angels dancing on the head of a pin, the one that ends with the angel dancing forever, and the bass player wondering when it will end, because it is late, even for musicians.
Tomorrow our interim pastor will help us remember the importance of listening to one another. I'll preside, and, in the crisp autumn afternoon, will bless a few animals. Perhaps afterwards, I'll drink hot cider or cocoa.
It is late, even for poets, or musicians. Or pastors.
When I got there, I remembered the one thing I didn't like about the conference last year: going by myself.
I sat in the large, beautiful, somewhat dark sanctuary, and wondered if the pastor of the congregation still really preaches from that high pulpit. It must seem like preaching from midair. I noted with interest the different materials in the pews, especially the notepads for kids, and the stickers that visitors are invited to wear. But mostly, I felt lonely sitting there alone, wishing to share the experience with someone.
The first speaker, Azar Nafisi (Reading Lolita in Tehran
) was passionate, and I enjoyed her immensely. I loved what she said about how stories help make us free, and how freedom is something that we don't just "have", it's something we continually strive for.Two older women sat with me at lunch. They are in a book group together, and both talked about their church experiences as well. One sang in the choir, and the other said she grew up Pentecostal, and got enough church for the rest of her life. They are active in the League of Women Voters organization and told me about a fund-raiser they were planning for a local domestic abuse center: a pajama party. I told them I was very interested in having my church involved.
This experience was the highlight of my day.
Clyde Edgerton had a readers theatre version of his book The Bible Salesman
. Hilarious. really, but for some reason I was yawning, and my eyes filled with tears. I drove home, picked up my husband and we both had the treat of going to supper at a nice cafe on Grand avenue in St. Paul and hearing Billy Collins speak. My husband's favorite poem was the one about the angels dancing on the head of a pin, the one that ends with the angel dancing forever, and the bass player wondering when it will end, because it is late, even for musicians.
Tomorrow our interim pastor will help us remember the importance of listening to one another. I'll preside, and, in the crisp autumn afternoon, will bless a few animals. Perhaps afterwards, I'll drink hot cider or cocoa.
It is late, even for poets, or musicians. Or pastors.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
faith in community, in so many ways
I thought I had a pretty good sermon on Sunday, if I do say so myself. It was called "faith in community", and I made reference to this very blog, as I talked about the body of Christ, and in what ways we need each other. Toward the end of the sermon, I hit one verse pretty hard, the one where Paul says, "the parts of the body that appear to be weakest are indispensable."
At 10:00, the Senior Pastor called the 5th and 6th graders up to the front fo the children's message. There were just three of them on Sunday, a small (but quality) group of young people. He told them about Jesus preaching his first sermon in the synagogue where he had grown up and where people had known him as a child. He asked each of them if they had one thing they would like to tell the congregation, what would it be? They whispered in his ear, and he wrote a few scratches on three pieces of notbook paper. Then he numbered them -- 1, 2 and 3.
He gave each one the paper with their words recorded, and invited them to take their place at the pulpit, behind the microphone, and speak their words.
The first child said, "Jesus loves you."
The second said, "Obey the adults in the church."
The third said, "Everyone has a certain gift."
Brilliant.
****
Today I held the early morning Matins service at the church. It is a small group of (mostly) elderly people who meet together to pray and sing the matins service. There is a short homily. I looked ahead to find some Epiphany lessons that we wouldn't be using this year, and finally settled on Genesis 45 (the end of the story of Joseph) and Luke 6:27-38 (which starts with "Love your enemy" and includes the "golden rule.") For some reason I find this section of Luke's gospel kind of heart-breaking.
Everything that Jesus says seems so out-of-reach, and everything that Jesus says seems so necessary for our survival as humans. "Do unto others..." seems the epitome of essential, good advice, the sort of thing you can clip and put in your pocket; I always think that I'm doing a pretty good job with the golden rule, until I find another instance where I have been insensitive and unintentially cruel.
I'm still thinking about these scripture passages, long after I have had to say something about them, can you tell?
At the close of the service, we sang the old familiar gospel hymn, "I Love to Tell the Story." And two women, a mother and a daughter, always kind of sneak out of the door at this point in the service, because they are in charge of putting out the coffee and treats.
Only today, they lingered for most of the song.
It was the theme song for Sunday School many years ago, when the mother had been in charge of Sunday School.
She's practically blind now, but she can still sing it by heart.
****
In the meantime, I seem to be inordinately concentrated on knitting. I have finished now my first pair of mittens, a short keyhole scarf for myself, and am still working on the prayer shawl for my dad. I am nervously looking around for the next project, paging through books in the book store, looking at yarns, wondering what I want to create, what skill I want to learn. There are so many patterns I don't know yet.
For most of my life I've felt awkward and clumsy. I have attributed this to being left-handed, although I don't think I can totally blame my feeling on this; I know plenty of left-handed people who have discovered that they are adept at something.
But for me, I finally feel like I have something to give, however small, other than words.
At 10:00, the Senior Pastor called the 5th and 6th graders up to the front fo the children's message. There were just three of them on Sunday, a small (but quality) group of young people. He told them about Jesus preaching his first sermon in the synagogue where he had grown up and where people had known him as a child. He asked each of them if they had one thing they would like to tell the congregation, what would it be? They whispered in his ear, and he wrote a few scratches on three pieces of notbook paper. Then he numbered them -- 1, 2 and 3.
He gave each one the paper with their words recorded, and invited them to take their place at the pulpit, behind the microphone, and speak their words.
The first child said, "Jesus loves you."
The second said, "Obey the adults in the church."
The third said, "Everyone has a certain gift."
Brilliant.
****
Today I held the early morning Matins service at the church. It is a small group of (mostly) elderly people who meet together to pray and sing the matins service. There is a short homily. I looked ahead to find some Epiphany lessons that we wouldn't be using this year, and finally settled on Genesis 45 (the end of the story of Joseph) and Luke 6:27-38 (which starts with "Love your enemy" and includes the "golden rule.") For some reason I find this section of Luke's gospel kind of heart-breaking.
Everything that Jesus says seems so out-of-reach, and everything that Jesus says seems so necessary for our survival as humans. "Do unto others..." seems the epitome of essential, good advice, the sort of thing you can clip and put in your pocket; I always think that I'm doing a pretty good job with the golden rule, until I find another instance where I have been insensitive and unintentially cruel.
I'm still thinking about these scripture passages, long after I have had to say something about them, can you tell?
At the close of the service, we sang the old familiar gospel hymn, "I Love to Tell the Story." And two women, a mother and a daughter, always kind of sneak out of the door at this point in the service, because they are in charge of putting out the coffee and treats.
Only today, they lingered for most of the song.
It was the theme song for Sunday School many years ago, when the mother had been in charge of Sunday School.
She's practically blind now, but she can still sing it by heart.
****
In the meantime, I seem to be inordinately concentrated on knitting. I have finished now my first pair of mittens, a short keyhole scarf for myself, and am still working on the prayer shawl for my dad. I am nervously looking around for the next project, paging through books in the book store, looking at yarns, wondering what I want to create, what skill I want to learn. There are so many patterns I don't know yet.
For most of my life I've felt awkward and clumsy. I have attributed this to being left-handed, although I don't think I can totally blame my feeling on this; I know plenty of left-handed people who have discovered that they are adept at something.
But for me, I finally feel like I have something to give, however small, other than words.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
A faith in community book?
Off and on, for awhile, I've been thinking of making a little book of some of the best blog posts in the last two odd years or so that I've been writing. My dream is to print up a small book, and have it hand bound and give it as a gift to a few people.
Maybe my sister could do some line illustrations, maybe not.
What do you think?
And, if by any chance you remember a post that sticks out for you, what is it?
Thank you.
P.S. this is my 746th post.
Maybe my sister could do some line illustrations, maybe not.
What do you think?
And, if by any chance you remember a post that sticks out for you, what is it?
Thank you.
P.S. this is my 746th post.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
A Few Small, Good Things
It was just another normal Sunday in October: on Saturday morning, it suddenly became autumn, the temperature dipping below freezing. There was just enough snow to get the dog all excited, but it was gone by the evening. On Sunday, I noticed a curb full of leaves. We sang the hymn "Sing to the Lord of Harvest" this morning: part of our month-long Stewardship Emphasis.
One of our senior high students gave the "Stewardship Talk" this morning. I asked her if I could reprint her message here, but it turns out that she spoke virtually without notes, on the subject of stewardship, and on the mission trip this summer. She spoke about the ice cream she desperately wanted one evening, and the autistic boy who managed to communicate to her that he wanted ice cream as well, and how she decided to use the $5 for him rather than for herself. She talked about stewardship as the choices we make, and the lessons her parents have taught her, and about giving as "stimulating our faith economy." (I loved that little phrase.)
The Sunday School Children sang: "What can One Small person Do?"
At ten o'clock there was a baptism, an almost one-year-old girl who slept in her mother's arms throughout most of the baptism, even though the water was cold, if I do say so myself. She sleepily opened her eyes as the pastor showed her the candle and said, "Let your light so shine before others.... so that they may see your good works and glorify your father in heaven." Then she leaned back on her mother's shoulder.
Her big brother, four years old, was standing right underneath her, and watched her face in wonder and delight during the baptism. He looked positively entranced; he couldn't take his eyes off of her, almost proud, it seemed, of his little sister. Watching his face, I was aware that this was a view that only the worship assistant and I could glimpse.
I saw a family that I hadn't seen in several years at church this morning. I still remembered their names.
And I spoke with someone who is familiar with my blog, and has good things to say about my writing. If only my preaching could be as powerful as my writing. That is one thing what I'm musing about this evening.
And, do you think better preaching can transform a congregation?
One of our senior high students gave the "Stewardship Talk" this morning. I asked her if I could reprint her message here, but it turns out that she spoke virtually without notes, on the subject of stewardship, and on the mission trip this summer. She spoke about the ice cream she desperately wanted one evening, and the autistic boy who managed to communicate to her that he wanted ice cream as well, and how she decided to use the $5 for him rather than for herself. She talked about stewardship as the choices we make, and the lessons her parents have taught her, and about giving as "stimulating our faith economy." (I loved that little phrase.)
The Sunday School Children sang: "What can One Small person Do?"
At ten o'clock there was a baptism, an almost one-year-old girl who slept in her mother's arms throughout most of the baptism, even though the water was cold, if I do say so myself. She sleepily opened her eyes as the pastor showed her the candle and said, "Let your light so shine before others.... so that they may see your good works and glorify your father in heaven." Then she leaned back on her mother's shoulder.
Her big brother, four years old, was standing right underneath her, and watched her face in wonder and delight during the baptism. He looked positively entranced; he couldn't take his eyes off of her, almost proud, it seemed, of his little sister. Watching his face, I was aware that this was a view that only the worship assistant and I could glimpse.
I saw a family that I hadn't seen in several years at church this morning. I still remembered their names.
And I spoke with someone who is familiar with my blog, and has good things to say about my writing. If only my preaching could be as powerful as my writing. That is one thing what I'm musing about this evening.
And, do you think better preaching can transform a congregation?
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Having a Wonderful time; Wish You Were Here
So far, we have a great little room just north of Two Harbors, right on Lake Superior. Our room, as you can see, overlooks the outdoor pool and the woods (the rooms that overlook the Lake are significantly more expensive.)
I haven't been blogging, but I have been:
1. Eating breakfast at Betty's Pies;
2. Working on the shawl I started two winters ago;
3. Writing some unrhymed iambic pentameter (first exercise from Stephen Fry's book The Ode Less Travelled); (more on that later)
4. Hiking around Gooseberry Falls and Split Rock Lighthouse (we're about to embark on another hike even now as I type); (and more on that later, too!)
5. Reading Maisie Dobbs; she has become my new obsession! I am pleased to discover that ther are five more books! As my husband would say: "oh-uh".
6. Writing down snatches of dialogue, words I like, etc.
None of my couplets are "good"; I'm trying hard, via Stephen Fry's suggestion, not to try to be "good", but just to get the feel of the rhythm of the iamb:
For example:
The menu here is said to be so bland
A messy desk -- a more creative mind
four pencils, colored pens and books galore
erasers, scribbles, post-it notes and ink
A messy desk -- a coffee cup unfilled.
And this is a messy blog post! We're off
oh, and by the way, I think that Miss Rumphius has been here.
More on THAT later, too....
I haven't been blogging, but I have been:
1. Eating breakfast at Betty's Pies;
2. Working on the shawl I started two winters ago;
3. Writing some unrhymed iambic pentameter (first exercise from Stephen Fry's book The Ode Less Travelled); (more on that later)
4. Hiking around Gooseberry Falls and Split Rock Lighthouse (we're about to embark on another hike even now as I type); (and more on that later, too!)
5. Reading Maisie Dobbs; she has become my new obsession! I am pleased to discover that ther are five more books! As my husband would say: "oh-uh".
6. Writing down snatches of dialogue, words I like, etc.
None of my couplets are "good"; I'm trying hard, via Stephen Fry's suggestion, not to try to be "good", but just to get the feel of the rhythm of the iamb:
For example:
The menu here is said to be so bland
A messy desk -- a more creative mind
four pencils, colored pens and books galore
erasers, scribbles, post-it notes and ink
A messy desk -- a coffee cup unfilled.
And this is a messy blog post! We're off
oh, and by the way, I think that Miss Rumphius has been here.
More on THAT later, too....
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
too bad for me
i am typing this with my right hand. i'm really not supposed to use my left hand at all.
but i have not been good.
i typed my funeral sermon and my elbow ached.
don't feel too sorry for me. it's not such a bad break.
i need to be patient but i'm not
plus i am discovering how hard it is for me not to write
just notes doodles and stuff
it's like not eating potato chips.
i don't mean typing
there's something about feeling a pen in my hand
some things are hard like
driving
washing my hair
some things are impossible though
i.e. opening jars
can't do it
i will still read blogs but probably not comment
for awhile
maybe i'll write some
haiku
but i have not been good.
i typed my funeral sermon and my elbow ached.
don't feel too sorry for me. it's not such a bad break.
i need to be patient but i'm not
plus i am discovering how hard it is for me not to write
just notes doodles and stuff
it's like not eating potato chips.
i don't mean typing
there's something about feeling a pen in my hand
some things are hard like
driving
washing my hair
some things are impossible though
i.e. opening jars
can't do it
i will still read blogs but probably not comment
for awhile
maybe i'll write some
haiku
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A List I'm making on vacation
I usually don't make lists on vacation, but here's an exception:
Some things I want to do someday (some sooner/some later):
1. Go to the Revgals Event in April (if it is still possible)
2. Do a retreat at the Benedictine Center in St. Paul.
3. Take a summer writing class in Iowa City someday (I have wanted to do this for many years)
4. Go on sabbatical (right now, I'm thinking that my sabbatical theme might be Art and Spirituality, especially looking at folk art, things like the medieval books of Hours, Santeros, and other things. What do you think?)
5. Go to one of those camps where dogs and their people can go together and learn and have fun. (Has anyone here heard of them?)
6. Go back to Paris, and/or go to London (maybe the fast trip like last year, with lots of down time).
7. Publish a memoir, or a book of reflections.
Right now we are still on the little break. We just got back from swimming. We have massages later today. We thought we had made the appontment for yesterday, but were mistaken. We've otherwise just been relaxing and reading and I've been trying (without much success) to write a little. I have a little half-done poem that I'm working on.
Good news: the sweater we thought we had lost at the YMCA has now been found. Bad news: it's raining. But maybe that's not such bad news? It is March, after all.
I'm not being totally successful at forgetting about work. But I'm dreaming, a little, and that's a good thing.
Some things I want to do someday (some sooner/some later):
1. Go to the Revgals Event in April (if it is still possible)
2. Do a retreat at the Benedictine Center in St. Paul.
3. Take a summer writing class in Iowa City someday (I have wanted to do this for many years)
4. Go on sabbatical (right now, I'm thinking that my sabbatical theme might be Art and Spirituality, especially looking at folk art, things like the medieval books of Hours, Santeros, and other things. What do you think?)
5. Go to one of those camps where dogs and their people can go together and learn and have fun. (Has anyone here heard of them?)
6. Go back to Paris, and/or go to London (maybe the fast trip like last year, with lots of down time).
7. Publish a memoir, or a book of reflections.
Right now we are still on the little break. We just got back from swimming. We have massages later today. We thought we had made the appontment for yesterday, but were mistaken. We've otherwise just been relaxing and reading and I've been trying (without much success) to write a little. I have a little half-done poem that I'm working on.
Good news: the sweater we thought we had lost at the YMCA has now been found. Bad news: it's raining. But maybe that's not such bad news? It is March, after all.
I'm not being totally successful at forgetting about work. But I'm dreaming, a little, and that's a good thing.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
A Small, Good Thing
Today was our annual meeting at church. Today I preached "When Did We See You?" and asked people to reflect about where they think they might see Jesus in our congregation, and in our community. I would like to know what some of them saw. I used part of Julia Dinsmore's poem, My Name is Not "Those People", and talked about the people that we do not see.
Today was our annual meeting at church. My report was written and in the book, but I chose to get up and talk about the work I have been doing (with a team of lay leaders) on Education in our community. I said, "(Our community) is changing." I hope we see Jesus in some of those changes. If that is too much, I hope we can see people, children of God, at least.
We have a large budget shortful for the coming year. We did not balance the budget today. We will be working on this and presenting another budget in early January. This could be a huge opportunity for us to change the conversation about what is means to be a congregation, a community of disciples in this place.
In the meantime, when I was going out of church this morning, greeting people, one woman shook my hand and told me that her daughter (a pastor) reads my blog every day. She says that her daughter also reads it to her over the phone. Like most of the people in our church, I suspect, she doesn't "do" computers. She said those words I have loved and wanted to hear, ever since the 4th grade, "You are a good writer."
I think we do catch a glimpse of Jesus, on occasion. But I wonder if we really ever will see Jesus in the poor much.
If we can minister to him anyway, that will be a large enough task.
Today was our annual meeting at church. My report was written and in the book, but I chose to get up and talk about the work I have been doing (with a team of lay leaders) on Education in our community. I said, "(Our community) is changing." I hope we see Jesus in some of those changes. If that is too much, I hope we can see people, children of God, at least.
We have a large budget shortful for the coming year. We did not balance the budget today. We will be working on this and presenting another budget in early January. This could be a huge opportunity for us to change the conversation about what is means to be a congregation, a community of disciples in this place.
In the meantime, when I was going out of church this morning, greeting people, one woman shook my hand and told me that her daughter (a pastor) reads my blog every day. She says that her daughter also reads it to her over the phone. Like most of the people in our church, I suspect, she doesn't "do" computers. She said those words I have loved and wanted to hear, ever since the 4th grade, "You are a good writer."
I think we do catch a glimpse of Jesus, on occasion. But I wonder if we really ever will see Jesus in the poor much.
If we can minister to him anyway, that will be a large enough task.
Monday, June 18, 2007
anonymity
I am not anonymous. When I started to "blog," I used "pastor diane" for a few days, then I dropped "pastor", but used my whole name in the "about me" section of my blog. When I first blogged, I even told people in my congregation about it, thinking they might read what I write. I think a few of them do, but I don't know for sure. I didn't really think about being "anonymous" then.
I thought about "blogging" for a long time before I started actually to do it. I started thinking about it because a) my step-son, who is a writer and journalism major, started talking about his blog, 2) I read about the "revgals", women in ministry who started a webring, 3) I read about "blogging" in a book called Writing to Change the World, by Mary Pipher, 4) I wanted a venue to get me writing again, 5) I wanted to "get out there" in some way. I didn't do it because 1) I didn't have any idea how to start a blog. I thought I needed special software and would be creating my own web-site. 2) I am not awfully computer literate. I know how to do word-processing. I don't know from hyper-links.
I bugged Journalism step-son for a long time, "teach me how to start a blog." Finally he gave me http://www.blogger.com/ I kept it on my desk for about 6 months, before one afternoon, I started. I started with an article I had submitted to our local newspaper. I had never done anything like that before, and of course, they didn't print it.
After blogging for oh, about 5 days, I discovered that many bloggers are anonymous. Maybe most are. So why didn't I think of that? Sometimes I kick myself now. There are things perhaps that I could write about if I were anonymous. It really would then be an on-line journal, and I could get advice from my new virtual friends. And I am enjoying the "virtual community" of bloggers I have discovered who read and encourage one another.
I tell myself that I chose to use my name because I think of this as a public venture. When you go pubic, you always have to choose -- what is safe to reveal (for yourself and for others) and what you need to hide. Those of us who use our names are still anonymous, in some ways. My secret desire has always been to write a book, and get it published. And of course, I would never use a pseudonym if I published a book. There's a part of me who wants to be famous -- maybe not with my picture on the book jacket, but at least with my name on the cover.
But RealLivePreacher went public too, but without his real name. His desire was purer, perhaps. His writing is strong, and poignant. I could have done that. I could have written for the pure desire of it, just put it out there without a name, and seen what happened.
But I didn't.
I think that all of us, whether we are "anonymous" or not, are always choosing: what will we share, and what will we hide? This is of course based both on considerations about ourselves and others. At a blog I discovered recently, the author pointed out that in order to remain anonymous, she needs to make sure she doesn't share certain things about herself. I had never thought of that before.
I still blog because I want to write, to go public with my thoughts, ideas, opinions. I fancy that others will find them edifying, maddening, enlightening. I hope so, anyway. And I remind myself that this task, done well, takes a certain amount of courage: whether I am anonymous or not. It takes courage to be honest, really honest about ourselves and about the world.
And I want to remind myself that there are people who are anonymous because nobody knows them or cares about their fate, because they don't have a voice in the world. They don't choose to be anonymous, and anonymity isn't safe for them. Think Darfur. There are times when it is safe to be anonymous (fleeing domestic violence). And there are times when it is dangerous. Help me to remember that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)