Work-in-Progress

Yesterday my husband rigged up some scaffolding so I could paint the 2-story wall in our foyer.  The plan was for me to be about 15 feet off the ground, on a plank 12 inches wide.  The paint was a terra cotta color, meaning that the edge against the ceiling, and against the abutting wall, would be quite conspicuous. 

Cutting in the edges is the first step in painting.  I decided I should start in the corner, because it’s the hardest spot.  After all, if I committed myself on the easy spot, I would have to finish, and what if it was too hard to finish?

I walked out on the plank carrying my little cup of paint, and became absolutely terrified.  I shuffled back the way I came.  “No way I can paint in these conditions” I said.  “One wrong step and I’m over the edge.  And that’s a stupid way to die.”

My husband and I sat on the couch and stared at the wall.  “We can hire somebody,” he said. 

“Or I can forget having the wall this certain color,” I said, “it’s fine off-white.”

Then I remembered my sermon about breathing.  I got back on the plank and just stood there for a long time, breathing.  Then I started painting in the easiest spot and as my nerve grew, moved further down the plank.  I kept my eyes on what I was doing.  I took my time.  It didn’t take as long as I expected.

Then we moved the plank a little farther out from the wall so I could wield the roller.  My husband filled the roller with paint and handed it up to me.  Definitely a two-person job.

It’s done!  And it’s beautiful!  I’ll put a picture on my Facebook later.  I have yet to figure out how to post my own photos here (ridiculous, I know).

PS   See how — when you’re a preacher — everything feels like a sermon illustration?

I look forward to the day that all people have the right to marry the person they love, in all 50 states and the District of Columbia.

I look forward to the day our denomination no longer wastes precious energy fighting people’s right to marry the person they love.

I believe that day will come in the next 15 years.

Fighting the right to marry is like fighting to keep slavery as an institution.  It’s like fighting to keep women in the kitchen.  (EDITED TO ADD:  The reason I mention these two historical facts, is that scripture was used to defend the status quo for a very long time.)

Will the Presbyterian denomination be alive and well in 15 years?

On a personal level: Will I still be practicing ministry in 15 years?  Will my children be attending church?  My children’s spouses/partners?  My grandchildren? 

None of this is abstract.  Call it orthopraxis if you like.  Or call it compassion.  Call it justice.

I’m really glad I don’t have to feed my family by foraging.  I walked through the woods yesterday, dutifully looking for dead elms and other likely spots, whacking through the dead leaves with a stick, hoping to find the elusive morel.  I had even stuffed a plastic bag in my pocket, optimistically, for bringing home my loot.  But we did not have any morels with our supper.

I used to find morels in the woods near my home in central Illinois.  Finding them was a thrill.  Eating them was delicious.  I miss this simple delight.  Couldn’t we all use more simple delights?

I think I need to find a better hunting spot.  Anybody happen to be in Loudoun County, and have any suggestions?

Flannery O’Connor said:  There are only a handful of stories in the world, but they go on repeating themselves as powerfully as if they had never happened before (or something to that effect).  

One of the reasons we write, and read, is to experience each other’s common stories — the universal made real in the particular.  This past weekend I read a common story so full of pain, and hope, that I am still thinking about it.  Beautiful Boy by David Sheff is powerful stuff.  It’s a memoir from a father’s perspective, about a son who is a methamphetamine addict.  It is not only a captivating story — you keep reading to find out whether the son lives or dies — but it is also profound in its treatment of the love between father and son.  Sheff’s experience continually deepens the discovery of how bottomless love is.

A passage about love being on a cellular level moved me to tears.  It’s true that our bodies can love another person’s body, in a way that is beyond our volition or will, and this book captures that truth.  To me, this passage is describing incarnate love –God’s love enfleshed– even though the author didn’t have a religious framework to put it in those terms.

If you’re a parent — if you have a parent — if you have a drug problem — if you know someone who has a drug problem — if you are a human being who breathes, meaning that you participate in this common story on some level — go out and read this book!

1. Say Yes

2. Don’t Prepare 

3. Just Show Up 

4. Start Anywhere 

5. Be Average 

6. Pay Attention 

7. Face the Facts 

8. Stay on Course 

9. Wake Up to the Gifts 

10. Make Mistakes, Please 

11. Act Now 

12. Take Care of Each Other 

13. Enjoy the Ride

Just sharing some thoughts from Improv Wisdom, by Patricia Ryan Madson

I like to remind myself of these from time to time.  Each is worth it’s own post and much elaboration.  Remembering these rules is not just good for comedy, it’s good for life.

Normally I don’t mind rain, but I have found the last few days of rain difficult.  I’d like to get outside and walk, but the woods are drenched and the rain keeps coming.  I’ll have to settle for getting my exercise indoors. 

Today, just breathing may be exercise enough.  Yesterday I preached about the Holy Spirit as the breath of Jesus (John 20) which empowers the church.  So for the past week I’ve been thinking a lot about breath.  How precious it is.  How we take it for granted.  How it brings oxygen into our blood, which keeps us alive and functioning.  How we sometimes hold our breath, or are tempted to, when the thing we need most is to keep breathing.  Of course, in the sermon this all applied to the church the body of Jesus Christ — see the breathing metaphor in all its glory here.

Inhale.  Exhale.  Repeat.

My sermon title for tomorrow is: Breathe.  In John’s version of the Pentecost story, Jesus empowers the early church by breathing on the disciples.  How ordinary, and precious, is breath!  I am trying to pay attention to my breath as I go about my day.

“Children need stories because they will be cast into a world of cruel neighbors.  They need a heroic figure.”

So said Mary Louise Bringle at Festival of Faith & Writing.

Yesterday I spent some time thinking about Time.  I’m getting ready to preach on the subject on May 18, Trinity Sunday, when I tackle the Creation story.  The timeless Spirit of God moved over the formless mass, creating Time, as well as the cosmos.  What does it mean to say that God is “immortal”?

Since the subject of Time was on my mind, I asked my Younger Daughter about Time Travel.  You can see that I take theological preparation seriously.  Here was my question:  ”Does The Doctor (in Doctor Who), who is a Time Lord, ever leave Time to jump into Eternity?”  We debated this at length, and decided, well, he moves all around inside time, and from galaxy to galaxy, but apparently, does not leave Time itself.

Time passes.

This morning my husband and I were having our usual first-cup-of-coffee in bed.  The window was open to a lovely breeze and the cat was rubbing up against my husband’s calloused feet, the way she does every morning.  We talked about the latest news on the North Carolina primary, who would be home for supper, who would cook it – the usual random family details. 

Then my husband said, “This is what heaven will be like.”  I thought I may have missed something essential about North Carolina and/or our supper plans.  “Heaven will be like what?”  I asked. 

“Like this.” 

“Heaven will be like drinking coffee in bed?” And he said, “Yep.  We’ll lay here drinking coffee and then glance at the clock and say, Oh look, another 20 years have gone by!”

Bottom Line: I am utterly Time-Bound.  A cat, calloused feet, and coffee is as close as I get to a moment of insight.

Just before our trip to New Mexico, I picked up an old issue of the Atlantic Monthly (Oct 05) to read on the plane.  I don’t remember how the magazine landed in my hands, but I noticed a cover story on a (then new) book: Lincoln’s Melancholy: How Depression Challenged a President and Fueled His Greatness by Joshua Wolf Shenk. 

I am captivated by the man, Lincoln.  Perhaps it’s because I was born in Illinois, Land of Lincoln – and spent 6 years living near Lincoln’s New Salem in central Illinois — and am stirred each and every time I read his second inaugural address.  The article occupied me for hours of air-time, and when I got home, I got the book from the library.

Shenk chronicles Lincoln’s life by following the thread of his well-known struggles with depression.  His melancholy factored through his political career in a most interesting way, as a kind of underground current.  Facing depression, or “nerves” as it was called, is largely responsible for giving Lincoln the character that made him a great leader, able to help the country endure what it had to during the Civil War. 

It is also fascinating to read the reasons that his mood difficulties were eventually erased from his legacy.  I think it’s safe to say that Lincoln would never have risen to prominence today.  Not only was he not photogenic, his history of mental distress would have ousted him from contention.  As a society, we no longer have a concept that melancholy has its function.  Instead we have two paradoxical reactions: We are quick to medicate minor depression.  We are quick to stigmatize those who suffer major depression.

If you have any interest in Lincoln, or in the subject of mood disorders, you’ll find this book well worth your time.  I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject!  Perhaps you read it years ago when it first came out.