The Disease of Incurable Optimism

Welcome poverty! . . . Welcome misery, welcome houselessness, welcome hunger, rags, tempest, and beggary! Mutual confidence will sustain us to the end! – Mr. Micawber in David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

Like Mr. Micawber, I find I have become an incurable optimist.  It is, as the name suggests, a disease.  Not a good thing, though its propounders would, being the optimists we are, hold otherwise.

Alas, we are wrong.

How do I know?  Because, in spite of my best efforts, life daily proves me so.

Yet even so proven so wrong do I persist – hence the nomenclature of disease, or worse, perhaps, insanity.

Thus it was that yesterday I turned the page from Easter Sunday and saw on the top of my Monday to-do’s, Sandra Communion.

Sandra died Saturday night.  The sight of her name and my plan so plainly writ before me left me thunderstruck in the silence of knowing myself for a fool, believing, though I know better, that there would be plenty of tomorrows for the doing.

I am bereft of sense.

It is not the regret of thinking I could have, should have, done it sooner – that is present, but this is something else entirely – the shame at a pride that would be so sure of tomorrow that it would actually commit the commitment to paper, as if the writing were the deed made possible . . . as if my thinking it thus would make it so . . . as if Sandra’s own pleas to be let go were of no moment . . . as if her own sense of her failing did not matter because I willed it, believed it, otherwise.

My son asked if optimism were not better than pessimism and my answer was undoubting, even before seeing the proof of my own foolishness: No!

No, because realism is the best to aspire to . . . realism that can hear the pleas of the dying and know them for the truth they are . . . I used to know better, but now find myself making this same mistake again and again and again . . . Micawber and I, such boon companions, are the fools, pitied by those around us, the unsurprised by life ones who feel the pain but not the startling jump of the unanticipated . . .

That’s what the day after Easter looks like to one who cannot shed this damned optimism . . . poor, poor fool she . . .

Maybe it will be better tomorrow . . .

Always There

On retreat, I study from outside in the darkness of a cold fall night the backlit by effect wooden carved plaque of the well-known scene – Jesus and his followers.

It too is night, although you wouldn’t know it from the carving.

It is the last night.  It’s supper time.

And there he is – unknown among the 12 – he is always there – Judas.

He is always there.

As I spy inward through the glass, that is the thought that lingers.

Judas is always there.

It is a present-tense thing, isn’t it?

Whenever we gather, there is the reminder of the perpetual presence of the saints, the communion that exceeds time and space and bids all enter, bids all welcome.

If he is always there, then is he not always here?

And if he is, is that not a sign of enormous hope?

I think so.

The God of the present tense stands, sits, reclines, into all our presents and bids us welcome and we are always there – there, at the beckoning place – present in The Presence.

It argues, I think, for grace possibilities beyond my imagining.

And I am awed.

He is always there.

10 Unspiritual Spiritual Disciplines

Here are some random ideas (probably none of them original to me) about combining prayer with physical

activity, to integrate prayer – for self, for others, for connecting with God ever more – into the molecules of our being.

Blessing is my favored form of intercessory prayer – the sending out of God’s beneficence to others, particularly the random passer-by, for I never know how, when or where these blessings land, but I imagine them, somehow, making a difference in a day.

These practices are not meditation.  They are not an effort to seek to distance ourselves from our bodies, for I firmly believe that we are our bodies, our bodies us.

There’s plenty of advice out there on the how to’s of silence and meditation, connecting to God by leaving self and world behind.

These are not those prayers, those disciplines.

The purpose here is not to seek God away from the world, but in it; not as separated from creation, but of it.  This is not about rising up, but about sinking into.  This is about meeting, not finding, God, in the day-to-day of life.

1. Take a walk – just about anywhere will do.  But do it as a spiritual walk.  That’s what I like about labyrinths – it’s an intentional walk of the spiritual kind that frees the mind from having to decide where to go next.  This kind of walking is about the noticing – so it’s heads up, offering ‘up’ kind of walking.  And almost any day is a beautiful day for it.

2. Pray-bless passers-by.  Whether walking or driving, with each passer-by, offer a silent blessing.  Start out simply by saying ‘God bless you’ and see where it takes you.  I did this as a discipline for some time with a small group I belong to.  I did it while driving.  And the strangest thing began to happen – I could not even see the folks speeding by in the other cars, but my blessings began to be very specific – usually one word – health . . . joy . . . peace . . . care . . . healing . . . safety . . . humor . . . the words were unbidden.  I do not know what blessings landed, but I do know they were Spirit-given and Spirit-driven.

3. Dance.  Dance your joys and sorrows to God.  Get the feet moving and somehow, the heart follows.

4. Begin your prayers as well as your day with a smile and see what a difference it makes.

5. Sing your prayers.  Put them to any tune you like but at least once, try to singing them to a song that makes you happy just to hear it.  Maybe you can then imagine God happy to hear from you.

6. Make a gratitude list about your body.  We are embodied creatures – we were made that way on purpose.  There is no me separate from my body.  Lips for kissing and arms for hugging can be a good place to begin.

7. The next time you have a meeting, go early, before anyone arrives, and walk the space putting your hands on the chairs assembled and ask blessings for all who will be sitting there and the work you will be doing (don’t forget yourself in the blessing).

8. Go back to childhood and make your cards for folks by hand, offering blessings as you do – for the one who will get the card, for the one making it, for those who made paper and crayons, markers and colored pencils so you could.  (It’s always a nice practice to remember to bless those who bring you the materials you’re working with.)

9. Try doing a set prayer you know (Lord’s Prayer, rosary, Now I lay me . . . ) over and over as you engage in physical activity or labor – to the rhythm of the saw as you cut the wood . . . to the washing of the dish . . . the turn of the wrench . . . you don’t have to think much to do a memorized prayer and the rhythm of the work sets the rhythm of the prayer and the rhythm of the prayer sets the rhythm of the work.

10. Imagine that everything you do today is a form of prayer.  Reflect on what you prayed today by reflecting on what you did and said and thought.  Answer the questions that arise out loud.  Yes, God, I really did ask You to throw that person in the trash.  I really did want the gift of this day so I could watch people make asses of themselves on reality tv.  I did just ask the angel chorus of heaven to join me in screaming at that driver.  How cool is it that You and I got to help that little old lady?  I’m so glad I called her today – who knows when I might get another chance?  Whether your answers are laughter or shame, sorrow or joy, speak them aloud, so that you may hear with the ears God gave you what God has been listening to all day long.

Our lives actually are our prayers.

Maybe this list can help us remember.

For All the Saints

I met the great cloud

one Easter Sunday long ago

as the old man retired

came to preside at the table

I not yet official enough

not yet seasoned enough

not yet ready enough

to do – word proclaiming

is one thing – table serving

quite another

and with a bit of a shaky hand

and tremulous voice

he told of his anticipation

standing there every time

where he was sure his

mother and sister

long gone from earthly things

would be – waiting – for him

and they would dine together

as they used to do

I have never forgotten

that moment when – in

story-telling – the table

came alive for me

and I knew so many already

there I was so glad to meet

again and better here

at this table where

we could meet when

on the same side of the veil

we so often could not

and I was glad

Revived, Reviving

revival:  re·viv·al noun \ri-'vi-vəl – renewed attention to or interest in something.  (1) : a period of renewed religious interest (2) : an often highly emotional evangelistic meeting or series of meetings.  Merriam-Webster

The word revival is almost anathema in my tradition these days.  We Americans largely of Scots descent who call ourselves Presbyterians largely eschew the second meaning of revival in religious terms, having been well- and long-trained to distrust the emotional when it comes to our religion.  Emotions are fleeting things.  They do not last.  The picture of the town drunk coming down at meeting to confess and cry and believe only to be lying in the arms of torpor again tomorrow is indelibly inscribed on our subconscious.

Some might think it ironic that we spiritual descendants of Jonathan Edwards (participant in America’s 18th century Great Awakening) would be so sore about revival, but it must be remembered that the Great Awakening itself was a thing of great controversy, that it is said that some folks in reaction to their own despair of ever being admitted into the company of saints, took their own lives, and that while its effects were perhaps long-lasting, the ardor cooled pretty quickly in the revival’s wake.  Wikipedia

All of that said, this week’s revival in Highland County has been, I think, a thing of beauty and grace.  My more charismatic friends might bemoan the lack of fervor and my more presbyterian ones might decry some of the finer theological points (or they might not).

But people of many persuasions have shared their experiences of God moving in and through their lives, of their introduction to the faith, of their wanderings and their returns, and it has been good to sit with stories shared.

Tonight I will preside over God’s table at our last gathering.  It is my hope and prayer all will find there the joy of God’s grace, the fellowship of the Holy Spirit and the communion of all the saints through the wide door Jesus has laid open in all our hearts.

May it be so, Lord God, may it be so.

And There Will Be Chocolate

Yesterday has come and gone and it was a good day – a very good day.  Church in the morning with chocolate communion – yummm!  Ice Cream Social and Kid’s Carnival in the afternoon and I’m dunked by the first one up – a young girl who just happens to be a standout on her softball team and has an arm Mickey Mantle would be proud of (thanks, Gretchen).

Kids roamed and played and laughed in the sunlight – or did their laughter bring the sunlight?  It’s hard to say.  Old folk sat and watched and oohed and aahed the silly prize treasures won and ate ice cream to their hearts’ content.

The day ended with the annual county revival.  Testimonies were given, all special, but Tracy’s comeback from a death-threatening illness was the highlight.  Just seeing her before us was testimony enough.  The music was charmed and inspired.  And then Mark (the local Baptist preacher), leading off the four nights of shared communion, speaks to us of the Baptist way.  Mark is a good man and a wonderful pastor and friend.  He is thoughtful and clear.

As I listened intently to his description of the communion experience from the Baptist perspective, my eyes wandered – first to the cross behind and above him on the wall and then above the cross to the furthest darkened small corner where odd angles meet at the top of the sanctuary – there, just there, as Mark connected the communion table to the ultimate meeting with our Lord, was the dove-hovering Holy Spirit, whispering so only I could hear . . . and there will be chocolate . . .

And I smile.

Yes, it was a very good day indeed.

__________________
Read more here about Chocolate Communion

Maple Festival Tastes of Communion

Taste this . . . have you tried this? . . . have a bite of this . . . do you want to take some of this home? . . .

Maple Festival in the Highlands is one big communion table where we’re feeding each other with offerings from hearts filled with the love we call neighborliness.

But make no mistake – it’s love.

Have a taste of this, says Bev, of the sample of butter-rich goodies from Pearl’s friend from Norfolk, who sent some batches of love for the Ladies’ Auxiliary.

Take home some sausage gravy, Patsy offers, her body bent and broken over in exhaustion from the making.

Have some sweet tea I made, Jean offers up, like shed blood, as she goes home to lie down, too sick to come, too determined to stay home.

John slips me an extra sausage pattie from his station at the serving line.

Tim bestows a free donut fresh from his hands to mine and I lick the maple glaze from my gloved fingers and proclaim it good and very good.

Gloria hoards the box of fresh donuts I bring her in the night on her lap, smiling with the glee of a child.

Francis and Kristie and Jessie generationally surround me, swooping a plate of buckwheat cakes with sausage gravy into my eager hands.

It is a time of abundance and superabundance.

It is a time of sacrifice as people gather and work hard, giving their time and their effort – and this from a people who already work hard – every day.

It is communion.

Broken bodies are given in service.

The blood sweat of earnest labor pours forth from them.

I stand back a bit and behold them all and know that I am in love with them.

Communion.

Jesus Tasted of Olives Today

The communion bread today tastes of olives.

Literally the sensation on my tongue is the subtle olive brine of the very best olive you’ve ever eaten.

I sit, facing forward, put the bit of cracker/wafer-like bread in my mouth and almost draw back at the surprise of it.  I study it on my tongue.  I smile at the surprise.  And then I taste the sand – that tiny bit of grit . . . and the ever-present sunshine of the desert.

That’s what Jesus tasted like today – like olives and sand and desert sun.

I don’t think I was getting a secret message to decode.

I think I was getting a gift.  And it was just what I needed even though I didn’t know I needed it.  And I was grateful and glad – so, so glad.

For today, Jesus tastes of desert sun and sand and olives . . . and it is good.

The Thanksgiving

Gathering with family and eating at Grandma’s house . . .
The food . . .
The smells . . .
Drawing names for Christmas . . .
My first ‘Thanksgiving’ dinner - friends and I were going to New York for Thanksgiving in college, so beforehand, I invited them over and made them a feast . . . my first Thanksgiving away from home . . .
Thanksgivings not-so-traditional and/or away . . . Thanksgiving with my seminary colleagues also working overseas in Scotland . . . fabulous . . .Thanksgiving alone after my divorce . . . Thanksgiving in New York City, separated from all my family, walking from 34th Street to the restaurant in the 80's . . . the parade was fabulous, the dinner, not so much . . .
When I started making the Thanksgiving dinner . . . family gathered . . . laughing, the Thanksgiving box Araka made (I still have it) . . . getting out all the best china, setting the table, appreciating the beauty as well as the food, friends coming over later, after their own feasts . . . my step-son’s Thanksgiving of four(!) meals . . . he calls every Thanksgiving . . . Thanksgiving in my apartment with seminary friends . . . the Saturday after Thanksgiving when I learned my colleagues had been kidnaped . . .
There are no food disasters in my memories . . . there are only memories of family and friends, gathered around the table . . .
It is no accident that in celebrating communion, we first say the prayer called The Great Thanksgiving and that communion itself, in the Greek, is called The Eucharisto (The Thanksgiving) . . .
I never serve at a soup kitchen for Thanksgiving or Christmas . . . those are days I always want to be with family and friends, just us, sitting, laughing and talking, even watching football . . . our togetherness our communion and our thanks . . .

Communion is like . . . Sundays at Grandmas

As an exercise thinking about communion, we were invited to think about the best dinner party we’ve ever attended and how that experience might be like God’s presence in our lives.

I love to cook and used to entertain a lot – not so much anymore – but of all the fine meals shared with good friends over the years, my own favorite meal experience has to be Sundays at Grandma’s house on a summer day when I was a little girl.

The food was a buffet of everything on hand, so along with ham, there might be pork chops. . . mashed potatoes and home-made noodles in chicken broth might be side by side . . . there was always enough and more besides.

The kids went first, getting through the line so the adults could actually sit down to the table.  Grace was always said first, but I have to admit that I viewed that more as the starting bell for the race than as a spiritual encounter with my Lord.  As soon as the Amen was sounded – only after what always seemed like an interminably long prayer – like horses out of the gate, we kids grabbed our plates and made our way jostling around the table – even though our heads knew there was plenty for all, somehow our bellies never believed it.

Cousin Mike & me begging my Dad for something -
probably ice cream

After we wolfed down our food sitting outside on the porch, we’d start pleading with the adults who had barely had time to get food on their plates to make homemade ice cream.  (Read about my adventures in ice cream at I Know Ice Cream ).

Being shooed away, we’d hurry back outside to play only to come back in and start the begging all over again, a cycle that repeated itself countless times until finally, it was time to make the ice cream.

Already stuffed from dinner, we’d challenge each other to see who could eat the most.  And this after the watermelon had been brought out and joyfully eaten (I prefer mine with salt - this was always the subject of much discussion among the cousins) and seeds spit the farthest and rinds tossed into the hay field – mine never went very far, but the arc they made was always satisfying, as if we had mastered some great mystery of engineering by tossing our dross aside.

After the adults had had a little time to rest and catch up, the younger ones would trudge onto the latest field of battle . . . badminton was a perpetual favorite.  Imaginary lines were drawn in the grass establishing boundaries; rackets were tested and when found wanting, traded to the unsuspecting younger ones (in my family, contests take no prisoners); and somehow, the decision as to who played first and who waited their turn was sorted out.

Chastity, Ben, Chad and Darin
gathering for supper

I don’t remember exactly when I was old enough to take a seat at the grown-up table or when I became one of those first on the field of play rather than last – but I do remember looking back at my younger cousins and feeling delight at leaving them behind.

As the sun started to lower in the evening sky, everyone would be gathered on the porch and sitting in the grass – adults talking about sickness and worries and teasing about when they were young and kids bopping up and down randomly as one then another would have another burst of energy.

Then one or two would announce, “I’m hungry,” and amble off to the kitchen for a supper of leftovers still waiting on the kitchen table.

Supper found us less organized, more mixed – adults and kids – as we determined our own level of hunger and sought help from the nearest relative as parents continued rocking on the porch in contentment that their own were off their hands for a moment or two.

I suspect I’m not alone in feeling different from other people – and that goes for my family as well.  But different as each of us are from the other, we are nevertheless known, connected, cared for, and at that table we gathered around, over and under, welcomed not as guest, but as one whose presence is taken for granted and whose absence would be noticed.

I don’t think I could describe my own connection with God any better: I am known by God and my presence at God’s table is taken for granted and my absence would be noticed.  And like the little kid I was at supper, whether it’s the one I expect or not, someone will always be there to help me navigate the table when I am too small to reach.

How the Light Gets In

Ring the bells that still can ring 

Forget your perfect offering 

There is a crack in everything 

That's how the light gets in. 

                                          Chorus from Anthem by Leonard Cohen

I sit in a workshop at CPT’s Peace Congress in Chicago.  I’m not sure what it’s about, but clay will be involved.  And I am more than ready for a bit of play in my spiritual life.

Photo by Tim Nafziger courtesy of CPT

The facilitator hands us each a ball of clay, inviting us to shape it however we like.  As we press and mold and shape, she speaks. . . gently . . . quietly . . . she speaks of loss, for there is much loss in the room . . .

And she speaks of allowing the cracks into our creations . . . quoting Leonard Cohen’s Anthem, she reminds us of letting the light in . . . of seeking and finding the spaces and gullies and gulches in our faith . . . of looking there . . . in the broken places . . . for God’s shining . . .

I glance around . . . all have created small pots of beauty and symmetry . . . all save me . . . my creation is a broken thing . . . finger gouges mark it within and without . . . cracks and holes where my hands have punched through, at first unaware, mark this misshapen thing that I begin to see as me . . . broken and bent, chock full of holes, uneven, barely standing . . . and yet somehow letting in the light . . .

I start to press the clay back into a ball and begin again, aiming for beauty this time, when something stays my hands . . . no . . . this is true . . . and so I keep it . . . and a couple of Sundays from now, I will stand at the communion table and pour the wine into the misshapen clay . . . and the wine will pour out . . . like Jesus, poured not in, but out, for us . . . and the light will come in.

Chocolate Communion

Last year, dear friends from Scotland sent me a chocolate fountain as a thank you gift.  Sunday at church, we celebrated Chocolate Communion.

I know, I know, if it’s not session-approved bread and wine (or at a minimum, Welch’s grape juice), it aint’ communion.  But bear with me.

The fountain ran with chocolate the entire service and the delightful smell filled the sanctuary.  Folks came up at the appointed time and got their fruit and sweet treats dipped in luxurious chocolate.  We even had a litany.

But what came after the dipping and eating and laughing . . . that was holy ground.

For our prayer time, I asked for the names of people or groups we wished were there with us, sharing in the bounty.

“The people of Somalia,” came one voice.

We prayed that those who lack so much could enjoy the sheer pleasure of more than enough food to eat.

“The people of Norway,” came another voice.

In sorrow, we mourned and prayed that those scathed by senseless violence could be surrounded by the comfort of friends and loved ones sharing even in a simple meal.

And then came Wes’ tear-filled voice, “Pam,” he said, referring to his wife who died last year after struggling against the cancer that would take her life.

We spoke of the communion of saints and the great cloud of witnesses.  We pondered their presence, as real as Jesus’, at table with us.  And as I looked at the many gathered faces, tears were streaming.

It wasn’t church in the usual way last Sunday.  The preacher went and hugged folk where they sat.  People were talking and laughing.  And crying.  Masks were taken off and we were just a family, sitting around the table, sharing our memories and our pain as well as our joys and hopes.

So much loss fills our lives together and apart.  So many treasured loved ones have died.  Too many for such a small community.  We all feel the loss.

And yet, there we were, with our chocolate smiles shining through the tears, grateful we could be together.

That, dear friends, is communion.