A Projection Project

The other day an email was sent to the church from a person saying they were leaving the church because of some things the priest said in his sermon. Two important things to note: no one remembers seeing this person in church in the last couple of years; my husband, the current priest, likely arrived after this person stopped attending, and he definitely never said the things this person believes they heard. This was a mere passing topic of conversation at the dinner table and not a major crisis or anything like that, but it did remind me of something that I really struggled with in ministry … and in life: losing control of people's perceptions of you.

At my last appointment (what we Methodists call churches where the Bishop assigns us) I remember going to a Clergy Day Apart a few months after I started, I had walked into a bit of a tumultuous situation at that church and so I was hanging on to every piece of wisdom, direction or advice I could get. So when Bishop Bruce Ough talked about perfectionists I was all ears. He said that perfectionists try to control the way others perceive them. Yes! That was/is/sometimes is me.

Trying to make sure everyone sees you in a positive light is incredibly frustrating and difficult in any role, and I felt this particularly in a public role as pastor. There was at least one person who would not even set foot in the church they had attended for years because there is an F instead of an M next to gender on my driver's license. The other thing that makes this even trickier for me is my need for honesty, being real. I am very vulnerable in sermons, newsletter articles, small groups, etc. For me sermons come from the places where I see Holy Spirit and life intersecting and often that involves sharing stories and feelings from my life. So sometimes I leave situations feeling weird, as if I overshared and lost sight of how I was being perceived by others.

There are times, when despite our best efforts at being likable people just don't like us. I have certainly had these experiences and I tell myself it doesn't matter, I tell myself it does not change who I am but it still doesn't feel good. There was a person in a congregation I pastored that said untrue things about me. I trusted this person and when I found out they were telling people these things about me it hurt. As a pastor I always try to love people and be careful with my words so I pushed away the temptation to talk badly about them right back or say the angry things I was saying in my head.

There was no happy, picture-perfect resolution to that situation as much as I tried for one and I have no idea how many people still think those bad things about me, but … I'm ok. There have been more personal and painful rejections in my life and in the end I survived them all. One day as I was driving home from work contemplating some church conflict or something I was listening to a book on CD by Eckhart Tolle and the thoughts spinning in my head came to a crashing halt when I heard these words “you are more than other people's projections of you.” I can't tell you how many times I have repeated those words to myself.

I am back in ministry now, although in a very different way. Now I am quarter time and not the person in charge of running the whole church, but I am so glad to have those lessons in my toolbox now. Especially in such divisive times.

I listened to this podcast the other day called On Being by Krista Tippett and it was a conversation (yes an actual conversation) between Sally Kohn, a liberal pundit, and Erik Erikson, a conservative pundit. It was the most refreshing thing I have heard in a long time. These people on opposite sides of so many issues were able to reveal their hearts, their experiences, their beliefs and find goodness in the other. They were able to shed all of the projections put on them for a moment and talk. So many times we think we know someone because of what they believe or how they vote. We project onto them all of our fears, our frustrations, our heartache and passion and under all of those projections the actual human person can no longer be seen. Maybe it is time to start throwing away the projections, the emotionally charged emails, the nasty comments and really try to see each other.

4 am

Suddenly someone in my dream is crying. My brain switches off sleep mode and it takes me a minute to realize I am in reality again and the crying is across the hall. Eyes barely able to open I stumble into my four-year-old's bedroom. He had a bad dream and he is shaking and sweaty. I climb into his bed and pull the puppy dog comforter onto both of us. He lays his head on me and wraps his arms desperately around me. I kiss his forehead and whisper reassuring words. His warm body nuzzles onto mine and his soft, fine hair tickles my chin. He lifts his sleepy head and gently places a tiny soft kiss on my cheek. After a whispered “I love you mommy” he stops shaking and I feel his body relax and sink into sweeter dreams. I enjoy a few minutes of snuggles before climbing into my own bed. Now I am awake. Often after one of my kids wakes me up in the night I can't sleep because my mind floods with things I need to do or remember, but this time is different. I look at the clock … 4 am.

4 am … that hour that has no sound, only the deep silence of a world lost in hidden caverns of the brain called sleep. The sun has not yet given signs of rising and yet the newness of night is wearing away. I find myself remembering other 4 ams in my life. I close my eyes and remember 4 am in the rocking chair. A baby nursing until sleep overcomes and the milk drips down his tiny chin that is red and bumpy from teething drool. I remember looking out the window at darkened windows and a still city, hearing nothing but deep silence. I remember softly setting him in his crib, pausing for a moment of marvel before going back to bed. I remember waking up and knowing that while the world slept I put a special memory deep into my heart.

Then I start to remember 4 ams from many years before. I remember walking down a different hallway into a different darkened bedroom, tapping my mother on the shoulder and the next thing I know I am scooped up and taken care of. She sits in the rocking chair, whispers assuring words and rocks me until the fever releases me into dreamland. I even remember that the old TV was on, it was that weird digital video of “Money for Nothing” and honestly that song still makes me nostalgic. I don't remember how long that sickness lasted but I do remember that love and care.

It's 4 am and I am walking down a different darkened hallway. A hallway just as familiar as that of my home. It is the church where I was baptized and spent Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings. Where I cried when my mom left me in the nursery and played tic tac toe on unfolded offering envelopes in the balcony. My parents were the youth leaders which meant that even though I was still a small child I was at the youth group lock-in. After hours of running around giggling and avoiding Nerf darts I am tired. I turn the door handle. The room is empty except for my dad in a rocking chair watching Young Frankenstein. He was chaperoning the under used movie room which was a place of dark stillness in the midst of a church full of hyper teenagers. I climbed onto his lap, I remember being a little scared of the movie, and burying my face into his shoulder. I don't remember how much sleep I got that night but I do remember the way it felt to find a place of comfort and love in the dark stillness of night.

As my mind replays these images I tell myself to hurry up and fall asleep before my 6:45 am alarm goes off. But I have this pit in my stomach. The memories of love and warmth have not made me feel warm and cozy but rather some kind of deep ache in my stomach. My parents have recently turned 70 and I am now the age they were when they held me on those dark nights. Some day my boys will be on their own, out in the world and finding their own special 4 am memories. It is that ache that comes with the awareness of time, the sudden ability to see the vast space between our days and the knowledge of love so deep it hurts.

I picked up my son from school yesterday and he showed me a worksheet with apples, ants, alligators and the letter A colored green and red. My youngest is doing worksheets in school. More so than his first day of pre-K this made me realize how much he has grown. He is learning independently from me and preparing for the world. I start to feel that ache but I also feel such joy in seeing his confidence and abilities. Time is passing, but I get to watch and while I put away these memories deep into my heart I also get some souvenirs along the way. So I will keep that waxy worksheet and know that I have it, even at 4 am, as proof of this beautiful life I get to witness.

Questions Worth Asking

I was following my kids through the aisles of the kid's area at our library when I overheard a conversation happening next to me. Based on what I heard, my guess is the two women having the conversation are in a Bible study of some sort together and one is the teacher and the other one is new to it. The teacher announced that she had looked into the questions the other had asked and had the answers for her. At this point my kids had discovered that the library has CDs so they were occupied with that. I leaned in a bit to hear more of the women's conversation and noticed it followed a pattern. The teacher would say “you asked this … and here is the answer.” The first question was “how do we know the Bible is true” which was met with some scripture citations and talk about faith. I found myself really wanting to interject to affirm the questioner. I sensed her getting quieter with each answer and wished I could say “these are really thoughtful and good questions.” I believe that thinking critically and asking questions is a sign of a healthy, living faith and a genuine attempt to integrate one's practice of religion with one's lived faith. It was even harder to mind my own business when I heard the next question, “do we have to believe that all people of other religions will go to hell?” At that moment I looked up in horror … because both of my kids were proudly showing me their selections … Kidz Bop CDs.

I felt for the woman with the questions because I too have had those questions and still have questions. I love digging into the Bible, wrestling with it and deepening my faith. I am energized by conversations on theology and reflecting with others about life, faith and religion. I also remember how I felt when I was told that there was one clear answer to the question about people of other religions. I felt confused, upset, silenced and unsatisfied.

I grew up in a very open-minded, non-judgmental United Methodist Church and I remember when I asked my pastor during confirmation class why bad things happen to good people he sat with me in that question, affirmed me for asking it and never tried to silence me or offer easy answers. That was everything to me and it laid the foundation for my adult faith and my calling into ministry. But when I went to college I started to hear views that did not match mine but were labeled as the “Christian way.” I heard this at the church I worked at as a youth leader, the Christian groups on campus I explored, the staff on the mission trips I went on and also from people in my religion classes who weren't Christian. Those who weren't Christian labeled and identified a certain belief set as Christian and ripped it apart. I never doubted my faith or my commitment to the Church, but I did wonder where I fit.

Then I found a place where I fit. My first week at Drew Theological School was everything I hoped for and more than I thought possible. The deep questions were not just ok, they were necessary. People from all different backgrounds and with different beliefs were wrestling together with these topics and then kneeling down for Communion together. And when I signed up to go to India and met Dr. Ariarajah I finally found someone taking on the question of other religions in a way that was loving, honest, sincere, open and deep.

In his book Not Without My Neighbor Dr. Ariarajah talks about growing up in Sri Lanka and the close relationship he had with his neighbor. They welcomed him into their family practices of Hindu worship and while he was Christian this never seemed to be a problem. When he heard a missionary talking about people of other faiths going to hell and that heaven is a place only for Christians, he felt he didn't want to go there, he didn't want to go to this eternal resting place without his loving neighbors that he knew were good people. This began his exploration of a theology of religions, or how we as Christians can stay true to our own beliefs while also making sense of our relationship with our brothers and sisters of other faiths.

The idea of God tossing away wonderful and loving people into an eternal fire did not match with my understanding of a loving and compassionate God and I was so relieved to hear that there are other ways of looking at things theologically. Dr. Ariarajah explores the challenges and the possibilities through dialogue, scripture, Christian tradition and personal spiritual experiences. And in the end does not offer an easy answer but rather a path of honest exploration and deep faith questions.

All of this is to say what I did not say to that woman in the library … faith is a dynamic, living, enduring thing and if you ever want to explore those questions … I promise you aren't alone.   

Teddy Bear Picnics and Snoring Cathedrals

Every Sunday I worship in a great big beautiful stone church with breathtaking stained glass windows and an immaculately kept yard. One of the challenges of worshiping in a place like this is that you can't tell from the outside that there are actually people inside. The city has strict rules about hanging banners and so the church is left with small signs on the doors to let people know there are things happening there. It is a challenge to let people know it is a vibrant, welcoming congregation inside that intimidating building.

I thought about this on my recent pilgrimage to England. We toured many great big beautiful stone churches with breathtaking stained glass windows. Inside these cathedrals was a constant stream of tourists with cameras out as they half listened to tour guides. I wondered how these churches make the connection for people between the beautiful architecture and the lived mission and worship of Jesus Christ. As I kept watch for these connections and signs of life in the cold dark buildings I noticed some really beautiful things happening.

Like when my husband and I entered St. Peter Mancroft in Norwich and found ourselves in the midst of a teddy bear picnic. Two very friendly older women welcomed us, asked us where we were from and how our trip was going. They then told us stories from the church's past and present. One of the ladies let tears fall as she told us of their last priest's sudden departure. The whole time they were talking they were taping together little green paper teddy bears to hide around the worship space. They invited us to have a seat on the carpet and join the many running toddlers and chatting parents for juice boxes and games but as this was a rare time away from our little ones we declined. We left feeling welcomed and inspired by the Spirit's movement in that big stone building.

The choir I was traveling with (but not singing with) sang evensong in Norwich Cathedral four evenings that week. Each time I was in awe as I stepped into those ancient pews occupied by monks and bishops of the past and looked up to the boss coated ceiling that seemed to stretch for a mile. As I settled in and followed the words of worship I noticed the tourists that stopped, listened and sat down. I noticed the regular worshipers who prayed passionately as they knelt. I got to know the kind and welcoming clergy with fascinating stories of their own. And that cathedral became so much more than the Instagram pictures I posted.

On a free day in London my husband and I stopped at a market to buy an overpriced bobby teddy bear for our youngest and then wandered into the open church door behind it. We were in St. James Piccadilly and it was a welcome break for our feet after a day of roaming the city. We sat in a pew and as I looked at the light coming through stained glass I heard something. It took me a minute to identify the sound. It was soothing and quiet. I turned to my left and saw about twenty rows of pews with feet sticking out. The church welcomed homeless people to sleep in the pews and the sounds of snores and deep sleep breathing enriched my prayers and soothed my soul.

Our final worship experience was at the majestic St. Paul's Cathedral in London. The crowd was large and I found myself sandwiched between several different languages as my eyes worked to take in so much beauty. When the organ played and the visiting choir sang it filled the massive space perfectly. The gold colored leaves seemed to become animated by the music. The echo off the high ceiling forced the preacher to speak slowly but when we prayed in unison it sounded like thousands more. It was the feast day of Mary Magdalene and as the sermon and scriptures told of the apostle to the apostles it felt fitting with the crowd of people from all over the world prepared to carry the message back to the places they were from. Passing the peace was a little awkward from some as you could tell it was not something they were used to but I loved getting to offer them and all these new people around me “peace.”

Peace is what I felt as it was passed to me and it is what I felt when I walked into those great big stone buildings. Peace from the beautiful carvings and art around me and peace from the active presence of the Holy Spirit in each place and person we met.

Milk

     In the late 14^th century a woman on the brink of death had visions she believed to be from God. Later she would devote her life to a small cell next to a church where she would write and reflect on these visions. Last week I went and sat in that cell. It is simple, quiet and at the time, empty. In order to get there I walked through St. Julian's Anglican Church and through a door off the main worship space. Because her name is unknown, she has been given the name of Julian, the patron saint of the church where she lived and worshiped.

     So there I sat, in the cell of Julian of Norwich. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. As my feet rested and my spirit relaxed I looked for an image in my heart. I wanted to channel some of that same spirit that revealed such beautiful and profound images to her. What I saw was my breastfeeding child. It was a memory of sitting up in the middle of the night with my newborn and marveling at how his tiny jaw move up and down, his body calmed and his belly filled with what my body provided him. A memory of how it felt to be so connected and to be so satisfied in mutually fulfilling each others need. A memory of that mix of instinct, love, relationship and human dependency.

     I thought of this and I understood what Julian meant when she wrote of feeding from the breast of Christ. When I first read these words I was in seminary and had never had the experience of babies, but of course I am a human and know what it means to be hungry and fed. The words surprised me, touched me and stayed with me until 12 years later I sat in her cell with my eyes closed and my breath slowed.

The mother can give her child to suck of her milk, but our precious Mother Jesus can feed us with himself, and does, most courteously and most tenderly, with the blessed sacrament, which is the precious food of true life … The mother can lay her child tenderly to her breast, but our tender Mother Jesus can lead us easily into his blessed breast through his sweet open side, and show us there a part of the godhead and of the joys of heaven, with inner certainty of endless bliss … This fair lovely word 'mother' is so sweet and so kind in itself that it cannot truly be said of anyone or to anyone except of him and to him who is the true Mother of life and of all things. To the property of motherhood belong nature, love, wisdom and knowledge, and this is God.

(Julian of Norwich: Showings Translated by Colledge, Edmund and Walsh, James, 1978, page 298-299)

     Sitting in her cell with my sweet memories before me, I understood the beautiful connection she expresses between Christ and humans, the deep love, sharing and vulnerability in the act of self-giving and being fed. I also felt deeply understood as this simple and beautiful act that my body did was held up, made holy, celebrated and revealed as a means of knowing Christ.

     Two days later our group had the privilege of a talk from Dr. Brian Thorne, a professor of psychotherapy and expert on Julian of Norwich. He talked about the human need for validation, to be heard and seen. He looked at the ways in which Julian does this for people through her writings of God's radical love, grace and acceptance. As I was listening it occurred to me that this woman who wrote about God almost 700 years ago, a woman without a name who wrote the first book ever written in English by a female, has amazingly connected with people and provided a space outside of dominant male metaphors for Christians to feel seen, understood and deeply loved. At a time when any kind of feminization of men is still seen as degrading and humiliating by society we have the image of Jesus as mother and it is powerful, endearing, strong and deep.  A reminder that our experiences of God are valid, Jesus's sustaining milk is for all of us and powerful things happen when we share the ways in which God has revealed God's self in our lives.

     And so, I opened my eyes. I walked over to the table with little candles for prayers. I looked upon Julian's statue and said a prayer for my dear friend struggling with cancer. She is a mother and the pain of seeing her children worry about her, the fears of not being able to provide for them are at times overwhelming. So I lit the candle and left it there because I knew Julian would understand. I knew too that our loving Mother Jesus hears our prayers in a way that is deep, loving and real.

Three Years

It’s June 29 and I’m thinking about Laura.  It has been three years since I watched her breath leave her body. This is a day that holds a lot of emotion and meaning for me.  She encouraged me to blog and was so supportive of my writing and yet, three years later I barely blog.  I could give a million reasons why, not the least of which is the current political climate that leaves me with so many emotions and thoughts it is difficult to sit down in quiet and put anything into words.  Another reason is because I have gotten out of the habit of constant public vulnerability.  I used to preach every Sunday and anyone who has heard one of my sermons can tell you I get pretty vulnerable.  Now I preach about four times per year.  I am not used to putting myself out there like that all the time.  Now I put myself out there with close friends at a play group or a conversation with a lifetime friend or a book group where I have built trust.  But I still think vulnerability is so important and Laura modeled it so well.  She put herself out there over and over again.  She revealed her heart, her fears, her joys, her frustrations and it connected with more people than she ever knew. 

I have been thinking about her vulnerability lately, particularly with her children.  She loved them and protected them so fiercely up until that last breath.  She poured her heart into them and gave us all a glimpse as she shared pieces of the tough conversations at the end.  I will never forget when she wrote about telling them she was going to die.  I remember the way her struggled breathing, the painful sounds of death all slowed down when I told her that they were ok and cared for.  I told her that they said good bye and were doing ok and immediately her breathing slowed and within minutes it stopped.  The tear that streamed down her cheek as the hospice nurse commented on the photo of them next to her bed.  She never stopped opening her heart even when it hurt so much.

I have been thinking about this as I face that struggle every parent faces of learning how to let go a little each day and allow your children to be the independent wonderful people they are created to be.  I sobbed after I dropped off my oldest at kindergarten and prayed to God to help me turn off the news images of school shootings playing through my mind when I tried to fall asleep.  These things take an emotional toll on parents today.  Images of scared teens running to their parents and separated children crying at the border can make us want to hold on tight to our littles and never let go. 

Soon I am traveling out of the country and it will be the longest I have ever been away from my kids.  For months I have been thinking of things to tell their grandma who will be caring for them: remind the oldest to practice piano, don’t let the youngest eat too much sugar, they will want to sleep in the same room but only let them every couple of nights because they won’t sleep, they need this kind of lotion after a bath, etc.  I find myself thinking “maybe I should think of somewhere they can go in the event of a wildfire.”  It’s too much and for goodness sakes it’s only ten days! 

The truth is we have to learn to let go whether we want to or not because these children do not belong to us.  They are these wonderful little people preparing to take on this great big world and make it better than we ever could.  I remember when I had my first baby, people would say “he’s beautiful” and I would say “I know, it’s amazing!”  I soon learned that the proper response is “thank you.”  Thank you felt weird because to me he was so clearly created by God and I was just lucky enough to be part of that.  Why would I say thank you for a compliment not for me but for this amazing little human? 

We live in a world where we do need to be cautious.  We need to know who is with our child and are they safe.  We need to know where our children are and take time to connect with them, hear what they are feeling and offer them guidance.  At the same time, we need to trust.

Laura had to do that hard thing and trust her most precious gifts to the care of others and to God.  And now they are still completely wonderful. 

It has been three years since she died.  I remember the sounds and smells of that hospice room, the look in her eye before it unfocused, the feel of the tears down my cheek and the realization of what an amazing life and death I had just been given the privilege to witness.  It’s been three years since she died, a lot has changed but I am still unpacking all of the things I learned from her.

Today is also my nephew’s birthday.  Five years ago I got a text message with a picture of a baby in a rainbow shirt.  A rainbow baby- a beautiful gift from God after much sadness and loss.  Hope after despair.  June 29 is a special day for me.  It holds together loss, joy, love, sadness, death and birth.  It seems that the best way to acknowledge all of these things is to be vulnerable.

We did it.

     When I was little my mom told me that I could be anything I want to be. I breathed a sigh of relief and said “good! Because I want to be Mickey Mouse.” I appreciate that I was taught to think big and that the world is full of opportunities. I hope my children will also know that they can be anything they want to be and that I will support them in that. However, I also wonder about the pressure of potentials.

     I have often seen people in their twenties struggle to settle into an occupation and part of this is due to the vastness of possibilities. Every decision eliminates other possibilities. Every pathway we choose means that there are these other potentials that will go unused. This can create a lot of pressure in deciding on a career but also I think it can make it difficult to feel satisfied in the ordinariness of everyday.

     Last week we were talking about this in the women's book group I am in. The book we are reading invites us to seek out the holiness and beauty in the ordinary, and one of the things that came up in our discussion was the sense of disappointment that can come with the ordinary. Many of us were told we could be anything and that we could be great. We wanted to change the world and then here we are brushing our teeth, doing laundry and listening to people complain. It can make us feel like our lives are a disappointment, a waste of potential. Like we should be doing bold brave things all the time.

     I feel this way about school shootings. I desperately want my children to be safe at school and I feel like I am failing them. I have joined advocacy groups, gone to rallies, shared what I believe can make a difference but it feels like not enough. It feels like I should be able to come up with something better, I should be able to use all of my potential, my intelligence, my skills to fix this problem for these little people who depend on me.

     At the Wednesday night Bible study I attend we watched a documentary on the week we were between two books of the Bible and it was about how physicians handle talking to others about death. One of the things I thought was very revealing and heart-breaking was when these extremely accomplished and hard-working doctors shared that every time they had to tell someone that there was nothing else that could be done and that the disease would kill them, they felt like it was a personal failure. These doctors shared that every time, no matter how often, they had to look at a patient and say that the treatment is not working and they were out of options they looked at it as them failing the patient. It's no wonder there is a high rate of suicide among those in the medical profession.

     I was thinking about this as I sat on a bench talking with my friend about what is next in life. We both have been stay at home moms for years and are starting to feel like it's time for a change. As I have personally reflected on this I have felt a mix of emotions. I feel excited but also I have felt sad that the days of having my kids with me all day are ending. I have felt nostalgic about all the great things we have done and their baby days. I have looked at myself and wondered why I struggle sometimes with being home lately. I have focused on my faults and the things I thought I would do or accomplish but have not. But when I was talking to my friend I had this thought … we did it. I knew there would be challenges when I made this decision. There were some really difficult times (babies that did not sleep, PPD, winter days stuck in the house on end, temper tantrums, etc.) but we did it.

     So often I focus on what I am not doing, what I should be doing, what I could be doing and so rarely do I say to myself “I did it.” I believe that expecting more from ourselves is good and we should always push ourselves to be better and do great things, but weighty expectations and feelings of disappointment are stifling and rarely inspire great actions. Also we are just people, it's good for us to realize our limits and dependency on relationships with others and on God.

     I look at the people around me and I am amazed at the wonderful things they have done or are doing even as I hear them saying they feel like they haven't done enough. I rarely extend that same amazement to myself and my own accomplishments (except the other day when, after my children and husband begged me to play and after many many losses I actually took first place in one level of Sonic All Star Racing and I celebrated my accomplishment excessively and exhaustively).

     Today I got the kids fed and ready for school, I brushed my teeth, made the beds, led morning prayer at the church, participated in book group and have now managed to find a quiet place for a bit of reflection before preschool pick up. Yet I am disappointed in myself for missing my gym time. My hair is a mess, my car smells from old snacks shoved in seats, my shirt is super wrinkled and there are huge problems in the world I have done nothing to help, but for just a minute I'm going to pat myself on the back because even though I am not (yet) Mickey Mouse … I've done and been part of some great things and I'm doing ok.