A Far Country

I drive the 150 or so miles from home to home yesterday, traveling from where I now live to where I once did – to family and gatherings, to laughter and memories, to new rituals and old – whenever I take this drive, I am literally traveling into my own past – maybe that’s part of the problem – the present is not my past and thus cannot sustain my expectations, whatever they may be, for things are not the same nor should they be – I’m not so why would they be?  But maybe that’s the thing – that I am not the same cries out for something to remain unchanged and what better terrain than my past – already written and rewritten long ago – but of course, it is not my past into which I travel – that trick of mind simply will not do and each change in the lay of the land chants change . . . change . . . change . . . and it, if not all, is well and for today, that will do.

But It Doesn’t Work For Me: 10 Ways to Make Sure New Folks Feel Unwelcome at Your Church

We in the church are often older than the average population.  Many of us have been coming to church since we were infants.  And we know how things ought to be.  Just ask us.  But here’s the thing we forget: the people before us made way for us, as evidenced by the fact that we’re still here.  If they hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here.  It really is that simple.  So too must we make way for those to come after.  Or they will not come.

So – you say you want young folk.  And they aren’t here.  And you wonder why.

This list is not intended to say that we never get it right.  We know when we get it right.  It’s obvious.  What is not obvious is when we get it wrong.  Hence this list.

1. Insist that things remain as they have always been.  This was
the error of the Roman Catholic church at the time of the Reformation – to insist that nothing change is to lose those for whom change is essential to their participation. . . it is to fail to recognize that the new voice may just be the voice of God come with a new or renewing message to the faithful . . . Jesus did not come as a statue at a frozen moment in time . . . he came as a living, breathing, change-bringing human being . . .

2. Resent the change new folks bring with them.  The fact is that whenever a new person walks in, things change – literally, the identity of the group is changed whenever a single part of that group is changed . . . so with the loss of some and the addition of others.  Change thus understood, is inevitable.  Sensing this do many resent rather than embrace new folk, understanding the change their very presence brings as a threat rather than an opportunity.

3. Complain . . . a lot . . . insist that words to the hymns never be changed (treat the hymns as if they’re scripture) . . . voice your confusion when familiar tunes are put with different words (refusing to learn – learning, studies show, is actually promoted by changing things up a bit) . . . treat your customary seat as if it has your name engraved upon it . . . frown whenever someone new missteps on your (unknown to them) sacred cow of how things are “supposed to be” . . . snarl when young children fuss, or better, tell young parents how your children never acted that way in church . . . bitch and kvetch instead of offering solutions to new things being tried (such as recorded music because you can’t understand the words – rather than suggesting we might include the lyrics to help those who don’t hear so well anymore) . . . Whine about missing the choir, refusing to see that there aren’t enough voices to sustain a regular choir anymore and that this preacher is not a musician.  And absolutely do not volunteer to organize one yourself.

4. Blame others for your own changing limitations.  You don’t hear as well as you used to.  Standing and sitting are not easily done.  Sometimes you may find yourself more irritable, especially in those pews, which are not user-friendly to your aging body.  When that happens, be sure to blame your discomfort or limitation on the preacher (why does she make us stand so often?  Why doesn’t she leave the words to the songs alone?  Why is the sermon so long?), the new folks with kids (I can’t hear what’s being said over that child), the bulletin (squinting at the regular-sized order rather than taking one of the large-print ones lest someone know you can’t see as well as you once did and think you weak, less than), and so forth.

5. Refuse to learn anything new.  When a new song is introduced, refuse to sing it; refuse to even look at the words; revert to #3 and let the complaining begin.  When the preacher starts a blog, refuse to read it because you do not read blogs (declared as if you were announcing that you, a vegetarian, do not eat meat or you, a law-abider, do not break into other people’s homes).  When a new service is introduced, never attend, because it’s not your cup of tea.

6. Misremember your own past.  You were change to another generation at one time in your life.  Refuse to remember that.  Refuse to recall how others before you made space for you and your ideas and new ways.  Or how it made you feel when they didn’t.

7. Insist that church is your house (my house, my rules).  Actually, church is God’s house and we are all the guests.  The rules are God’s too.  Pews are not bible-mandated (read it – if we wanted to be biblical and literal about it, Sunday would have me as the preacher sitting rather than standing and the rest of you sitting on the floor or standing around me as I taught).  Participation and ownership are not the same thing.  One is inclusive; the other is not.  Isn’t it time at this point in your life that you understood that?

8. Insist that children are interruptions, better seen than heard.  Here’s the test to know if this is you: when an old folk makes a remark from the pew during the sermon, do you laugh?  (We do at my church).  Or do you complain that she should be quiet?  Of course you don’t.  Well, if she is able to ‘participate’ from the pew, why cannot the babies and little ones?  Jesus reserved a special anger for those who would keep the children away (presumably being the ‘distractions’ that they often are).  If it displeased Jesus, why would we think it would be all right for us to do it?  More importantly, why would we think the only message we’re to get on Sunday would come from the front?  (And remember, I’m the preacher in these scenarios).  Why would we not understand that maybe, just maybe, the ‘interruption’ was the real reason we were there?  That the child had something of God to teach us?

9. Insist that one’s apparel is the measure of one’s dedication to God  The testimony of a man I heard years ago at my home church makes the point better than I ever could: John (I can’t remember his name, so we’ll call him John) had a great epiphany when young, making his own profession of faith in a family member’s home just after he had sat in his van on their lawn with beer and joint in hand.  A brand-new Christian, he decided to come to church the next day.  Still having what he called a rebellious spirit, he came wearing his dirtiest clothes and no shoes.  He mentioned the clothes and one of the elders of the church shouted out to remind him that he was barefoot too (yes, people noticed).  Laughingly, he said, “you’re right – I’d forgotten that.”  Then he went on to say how everyone in that church made him feel welcome and made no comment on his appearance and how much difference that made – their loving him (or if you prefer, loving him anyway) – to his walk.  Some folks don’t have anything but work clothes.  Some are simply indifferent to their physical appearance.  Some are wearing their Sunday best and it just happens not to be quite as good (in our eyes) as our Sunday best.    And some are testing us, to see if we really live what we proclaim.  The whole idea of dressing up for church probably stems from rituals of purity (such as washing one’s hands or feet) before entering the house of the Lord.  But Christians have, by and large, not retained such rituals, understanding Jesus the Christ and his death on the cross to have achieved for us our ‘cleanliness’ before God.  So if it’s veneration for The Holy One you want, you might be better off to put a washing sink outside the sanctuary than to insist that men wear ties and women wear hats.

10. Always insist that worship is about you.  Forget that you have already had a lifetime of wonderful worship experiences.  Overlook that you have the skills to experience worship walking down the street.  In other words, refuse to make way for worship geared to those less sure in the faith than you.  Don’t participate in that worship.  Do not lend your support to it.  Make it always and only be about you and your needs, wants, desires.  Do not share.  Henri Nouwen, in his book The Return of the Prodigal Son, challenges us older Christians to remember that the parable has three main characters and that we are not to remain prodigals or older brothers, but rather are called out by God to become the father in the story (that’s right – we are to move towards taking on the role of God) – to become the one who runs out in greeting, the one who kills the fatted calf and celebrates the long-awaited return, the one who explains to the resentful older brother why it should be thus.  It is an important reminder: we begin our journey as prodigals or older brothers or even sometimes as both.  But we are not to remain there.  As we progress in our walk, we are called out to become the very face of God to all the other prodigals and older brothers, to understand that it isn’t all about us and live out that redemptive love and in so doing, change a world.  Or not.

Road Food: Sometimes Tradition Ain’t All That

From 100 things NOT to do for Christmas, this had to be my favorite . . .

DO NOT make "old family recipes" for christmas dinner
The key word there is "family." As in only family, and no one else. Old family recipes tend to be dishes that the immediate family has been exposed to for generations, and as a result, they have developed a taste for something that no human should enjoy.  I have seen people serve foods anywhere from pickled carrots dipped in raspberry sauce to mashed potatoes mixed with spinach and spam. These foods are not natural! Nobody likes them (although they are likely to pretend to), so just stick to the regular turkey dinner.

When I shared this yesterday at church, one little girl actually said yum about the idea of pickled carrots with raspberry sauce (which I can scarcely say out loud without wincing) – turns out she absolutely loves anything pickled.  And there were a few who thought spam in the potatoes might not be that bad.

But we were all pretty much agreed that fruit cake has to be the worst.*

What are the worst family recipes at your table?

For me, it has to be candied sweet potatoes or yams – that ooey-gooey mess of a concoction that has sweet potatoes covered with brown sugar and butter and marshmellows . . . makes me shiver in disgust just to think about it.  But that’s just me.

When it comes to traditional holiday food, I keep wondering where the traditions come from, especially for Christmas.  There really isn’t any theological significance to candied sweet potatoes.  I could make some up, but what would be the point?

That got me to wondering what Jesus’ family ate for Jesus’ birthday?  Did they base it on what they ate along the way to Bethlehem?  After all, traditions have to start somewhere and they’re often a reenactment of something from a meaningful time in the history of our tribe.

So I wonder what Jesus’ family had to eat during that trek?

They were on the road and had to stay in a barn.  They probably ate their version of McDonald’s (if they stopped along the way to eat) or snacks (what we bring with us – in my case, a candy bar and some cheetohs or bbq potato chips).

I wonder whether Jesus’ family served him their version of road food for his birthday ever after.  I don’t know about Jesus, but I’d hate to be stuck with a cheetohs and Hershey bar birthday just because my mom happened to be eating them when I was born.

Sometimes traditions make sense.  Sometimes they don’t.

Which leaves me wondering which ones in my own life to keep and which to let go of.

In some parts of the
world, this is
considered to be food.

For sure, you can spare me the fruit cake and definitely take the leftover candied yams with you if you don’t want them to go to waste.  Throwing away those left overs is part of my tradition too.


____________________
*I started to say ‘we Americans’, but turns out fruitcake isn’t restricted to Great Britain – Canadians like them some fruitcake too and there’s even one site that offers fifteen different ways to make fruitcake.  Canadian Living  Why anyone would come up with even one way to make this atrocious brick of a thing, we simply cannot understand.  Maybe that’s the difference when you get down to it between breaking free from the motherland by revolution or staying a commonwealth – and here, we thought it was all about the tea.  (To my Scots friends – you know I’m kidding, right?  Well, maybe not totally.  And those candied chewy bits are not fruit!  Admit it – that’s where the idea for gummy bears came, isn’t it?)

Am I Who I Was?

Time passing inspires a bit of reflection on things and people gone by – it’s inevitable, isn’t it?

In my own case, I live in a slow land, so there’s a bit more time for reflecting.  And of late, I’ve reconnected with folks from various stages in my own past – e-mail, FB, lunch get-togethers on a recent trip back home and even the forgetting of my fellow high-school classmates (who didn’t invite me to the reunion, forgetting that even though I have moved quite a bit, my mother still lives in the same house I lived in way back in high school) – all these connections draw me back to different stages in my life, from high school through seminary.

Most days, I’m not much of a look-back kind of gal.  My kids remember details from our lives together that have long ago slipped my mind.

Me with Judge Handlan - early 1980's

So it’s a rare treat and challenge to look back and see myself in the eyes and hearts of others with whom I was so bound once upon a time.

The question arises: am I who I was?  And if not, who have I become?

Some answers are obvious; some obscure; some, I suspect, I’ll never know.

Some life lessons are apparent:

1. Nothing is forever.  All those times, those epochs of my life, seemed at the time to be the endless horizon of what my life would be – but horizons are tricky things and every thing does pass away, sometimes with startling suddenness, just as often like the proverbial thief in the night, but slip away they do.

2. Things and people actually do change.  We’re not the same – not as each other and not even as ourselves.  There’s enough resemblance to connect, but change is integral to the body human.

3. For my own part, I am nicer than I used to be.  Much.  Which is not to say that I am nice – far from it.  But it’s a journey and I’m good with that.

4. I wouldn’t go back even if I could.

5. It’s okay to be forgotten.  I’m just not that important.  And that too is okay with me.

Some lessons aren’t so obvious:

1. The child I was still inhabits this old-lady skin and she can take me by surprise sometimes – usually in a good way, but not always.

2. High school is nothing like real life.  Never was, never will be.

3. We are our families and yet we are not.  Mysterious, that.

4. Some people, as well as some things, are better left in the past.

5. The ever-shrinking list of those who were there, those with whom we share the memories, is, all by itself, a cause for sadness, as the ones who can know and understand the scrapbook of a life gets smaller and smaller.  Telling is not the same as remembering.  Sometimes you really did just have to be there.

Am I who I was?

Yes.

And no.

And that’s okay with me.

10 Quick Things White Folk Can Say to Each Other to Make a Difference

So the observance of the 50th anniversary of Dr. King's I have a dream speech is already yesterday's news.  But before we leave the memory too far behind, I have a suggestion to the speaking-impaired among us.  I refer not to some physical malady, but to the emotional, spiritual or psychological impairment many of we humans suffer when confronted with the inappropriate behavior of another.

What follow are 10 short sentences of what can be said when you hear someone say something racially inappropriate.  Commit them to memory.  Practice them in a mirror.  And when you hear them (and you know you will), speak up!  The world can no longer afford the luxury of your silence.  It never could.

So stand up and be counted.  It may be scary.  It will definitely be uncomfortable.  But it's well past time when it's socially acceptable to simply sit in silence when another is misbehaving.  Social accountability is one of the most effective ways of bringing about change.  So practice these simple sentences and start holding the misbehaving among us socially accountable:

1.     Stop it.  Or, if you prefer the more polite version, Please stop it.

2.     I do not want to listen to this.  (accompanied by your actual walking away if the behavior does not stop).

3.     I do not appreciate that. 

4.     That's not funny.

5.     That's not okay.

6.     That's rude.

7.     I don't feel that way.

8.     That's disrespectful.

9.     You did not just say that!

10.     We don't use that language in this house. . . at this table. . . in my presence. . . 

If you really can't seem to come up with your own, use these.  They're short and to the point.  They seldom invite a big discussion, which is probably what you're wanting to avoid if this makes you uncomfortable.  But it does make it clear that (1) you are not in agreement; (2) you will not be co-opted into giving silent permission for the bad behavior; and (3) where you stand is made clear without much of a fuss.

And from those small steps, great things can happen.  Who knows, maybe when Cousin Sam gets it that Aunt Celia is losing respect for him because of his language and attitudes, he might actually begin to think about changing those words and attitudes.

It's a place to start.

I Was So Young When Nelson Mandela Was Dying

I was so young when Nelson
Mandela was dying – weren’t
we all?  Decade after decade
time passed and how strange
it must have been – to be man
and icon at once – how is that
skin inhabited?  Housed?
Defined?  Imprisoned?

Now Nelson Mandela is dying,
this time in earnest.

And a friend starts a FB group
of those of us who worked
and laughed and played and
fought together lo those many
years ago in ordinary time –
who can even remember the
80's?  I know I was there –
but they are truly
a blur in my memory now –
and he posts pictures – and I
look and am struck – as I always
am these days – by how very
achingly young we were –
we who knew so much that we
held the world carelessly in
our hands – living our blessed
lives in the far away from Africa
place that is West Virginia –
we laughed and worked and
played and fought as Nelson sat
and sat and sat – and who
could know then that freedom would
be his?  That leading the country
he begged to change would be his?
It never does to count too much on
things staying the same, for they
never do – a good thing, that –

and now it is a millenium later
and Nelson Mandela is dying
and I wonder if he was ever young
in that laughing, working, playing,
fighting kind of way that I was – so
unaware – I doubt it – it was a luxury
he was not accorded – that unawareness
and he, I think, was the better for it, the
one to be envied – ah, Desmond, what
will we do without him?

I was so, so young when Nelson
Mandela was dying.