Thirsting

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In my "real life" I get some amazing opportunities to be creative with words, which is one of my favorite things to do. This is a poem written for my new church community's first spoken word poetry event, held in the basement on a Friday night. (I'm not sure the last time that church has been rocking at 10:00 pm; we're shaking things up!)

The room was filled with people of all ages, races, places, and experiences. During the open mic, poetry came from pastors, students, strangers -- one woman came up in a walker to present her poem. It was a truly beautiful thing.

But what drew people to that place was the dream-child of my pastor and friend, Jeff - a poet's interpretation of the Seven Last Words of Christ. Each poet took one of those last sayings, and soaked in it, until a new thing rose out of it.

I felt lucky and phony all at the same time when I was asked to contribute a poem. (Which, incidentally, is one of my 31 Things...) I'm not really a poet, I like to say. I'm a writer who happens to sometimes choose poetry. 

But the real reason I can't quite claim "poet" is because it is a terrifying thing to be, to do. Poetry (specifically spoken word poetry) thrives in vulnerability; it rises to life when it's given hot air and moving lips. The best poetry comes from honest and humble and heartbreaking places. Even humor is actually rooted in this vulnerable truth.

When I write for my blog or for my work, I'm able to pad the hard truths or little bits of shame with softer words or humor. I'm allowed, even expected, to make the difficult things easier to swallow, for myself and others.

Poetry is pads off, increasing the risk of pain and injury and bruising.

So yeah, I try to stay away from poetry, and I often succeed. Then something like this poem happens, and I realize that it's been forming itself in me even without my intent. To be honest, this is my darkest poem to date. Maybe one of the darkest things I've written because the visual pieces came first and the words followed. And the process of writing it was excruciating, sometimes leaving me shaking and without sleep.

I hope you find some of your own truth in its words, and as always, I hope you'll share those thoughts with me. Because this poem is its own creation, I just gave it some words to ride...

Later, knowing that everything had now been finished...Jesus said, “I am thirsty." A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus’ lips. (John 19:28-29)

I have been hung dry
Wrung out by sweat-soaked parade palms

I am cracked canvas of creation
Raped of resource, of consequence, of circumstance

I am but a memory of ancient waterways
I float, flakes of white ash in the wind
Burned up, burnt out
Blazing remains of apathy

ignorance

arrogance

Fleeting fancies of fire bugs

I am the long black train crossing heroin tracks
I am the twisted spine riding sweatshop backs
I am thirsty

I am the empty shell of man-hurled mortar rounds
I am the piercing smell of mass grave undergrounds
I am thirsty

I am the spaces within skin-lined sidewalks
Flash bulb imprint on a black and white portrait
Low hanging fruit of a Polish prisoner camp
A face forgotten

I am the sun-soaked pavement under whittled down stiletto heels
Stuck to a concrete corner
Lap dancing for dogs

I am the dehydrated souls of children sold across borders
Stolen childhoods, hung to wither in back pages of magazines

I am dry
I am deeply dry

Desperate for a day of harvest, for a reaping of the vineyard
I thirst for the wine of foot-crushed grapes
For the stain on a new community
Forged not in blood but in Living Water

I am the Living Water
And I am so thirsty

A Love Story

Sometimes when I’m driving a topic will come to me that I know I want to write about. Often times it’s certain words or even complete sentences, and in that moment I know it will probably never make it onto a printed page. Because when I write, I release, and even if I’m writing only in my head, by the time I make it to my iPad or a computer, I’ve already let it go.

I’m hoping this is not one of those times.

Today is Maundy Thursday and I’m writing in what little time I have between leaving work and heading back for worship. Today kicks off a series of services that revisit and reflect on the days in Christ’s life leading up to his trial, execution and Easter resurrection. It is generally a time I revere with a mixture of morbid respect and genuine worship. It is also somewhat exhausting.

As I was driving to catch a quick bite from Burger King (who gets my thanks for having veggie burgers on the menu) I was thinking about why it’s so exhausting. Today, for example, I didn’t do much at all in terms of preparing for the services. That was done weeks, even months, ago. I spent today planning for worship services happening weeks from now, answering emails, hanging posters; in all, I spent today like I would normally spend today. But as I left the office, I felt totally spent and zeroed in on the reason. Guilt.

Guilt is this nasty cloud that hangs over the season of Lent and especially this weekend. At some point in every service I’ll go to, I will hear the words that Christ died for me. And for you and the salvation of the world. How can I not feel guilty? Christ died for me and I overeat. Christ died for me and I forgot to wear my good shoes to church. Christ died for me and I ran out of toilet paper. Christ died for me and I do all sorts of stupid things that don’t honor his sacrifice at all.

Last year I (and half the planet) discovered the songstress Adele, and I fell completely and totally in love with her. On her first album she recorded Bob Dylan’s Make You Feel My Love. God, with generous help from Miss Adele, has imprinted those words on my heart. This is what I hear…

Katy,
When the rain is blowing in your face and the whole world is on your case, I could offer you a warm embrace to make you feel my love. When the evening shadows and the stars appear, and there is no one there to dry your tears, I could hold you for a million years to make you feel my love.

I know you haven’t made your mind up yet, but I would never do you wrong. I’ve known it from the moment that we met; no doubt in my mind where you belong. I’d go hungry; I’d go black and blue; I’d go crawling down the avenue. No there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make you feel my love.

The storms are raging on the rolling sea and on the highway of regret; the winds of change are blowing wild and free. But you ain’t seen nothing like me yet. I could make you happy; make your dreams come true – nothing that I wouldn’t do – go to the ends of the earth for you to make you feel my love.

To make you feel my love, God

So those are the words I sang in my car while I was driving to Burger King with a supersized case of guilt and exhaustion. Jesus loved me. I mean, the human Jesus maybe didn’t, since he didn’t know me yet, but that part gets a little confusing and trinitarian. But I definitely believe he loved his friends that he shared Passover with, the last supper we remember tonight on Maundy Thursday. If there was ever a time to start laying on the guilt trip, it was that night. But Jesus didn’t do that.

For Jesus, the many days we have come to honor as Lent were not about a shadow of guilt or doom. They were about a singular purpose: Love. There’s this line in the song: “I’d go hungry; I’d go black and blue; I’d go crawling down the avenue. No there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make you feel my love.” It doesn’t say: “there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make you feel like you owe me” or “there's nothing that I wouldn't do to remind you that you don’t deserve this.”

I’m not saying we don’t owe Jesus and I’m not saying we do deserve forgiveness and the promise of peace after we die. I suppose I must be saying that we do owe Jesus and we don’t deserve it. But my point is: that’s not what He is saying. 

He is saying something more like “I could make you happy; make your dreams come true – nothing that I wouldn’t do – go to the ends of the earth for you to make you feel my love.” 

God, I confess I have not loved you with my whole heart. I have not remembered in my weaker moments that you are there with me, within me. And yet I draw from your strength in my weakness and from your weakness in my strength. You are my source of humility and honor. You are love. Amen.

Seeking Advent

My wonderfully insightful friend Jeff Nelson has been recording a daily Advent video reflection. He’s encouraging others to join in his conversation – this is my response.

Each year, I struggle to journey through the dual realities of Advent: what it is and what it should be. I suppose I’m seeking to find where those two sides of Advent overlap. And how that overlap might change my understanding of what the event of Christmas was and who the person of Christ is.

As each day draws me nearer to Christmas, I find that my heart is just a little more open, just a little more vulnerable, just a little more willing to see the joy and beauty and simplicity of a world that welcomes babies every day. And also a little more easily hurt, a little more easily broken. Sometimes in the midst of the hurt, I can’t see beyond that. But God isn’t breaking my heart, God is opening my heart.

If broken is what Advent is then open is what Advent should be.

I’m in the midst of reading and teaching from Adam Hamilton’s book, “The Journey”. He includes a DVD segment each week filmed on location in Bethlehem, Nazareth, and the surrounding countryside. Nine months ago I stood in the same places that I see in his video footage. I walked alongside the same buildings and looked into the same scenes.

What I learned from being on the ground of that place is that it is not so different from any other place. It is not covered in the shadow of angels’ wings or the soft sparkle of star light. There are wise men, but also dumb men and mean men and just average men. There are new mothers and old mothers, scared mothers and those who would be mothers. It is an every day kind of place where families have lived for generations. For these people, in this place, the Holy Land is not a place to deepen a theology but a place to find a husband, to build a home, to build a life.

If miraculous is what Advent was then normal and everyday is what Advent should be.

As I wrote about last week, I find the joy of Christmas is often overshadowed by long hours and impossible expectations. Some of us in ministry – myself included – are the worst offenders. We pick and prod at each other, complaining about lighting and greeters and poinsettia arrangements. The season should thrill us with excitement and energy. But we seem to spend most of our time exhausted.

In the last three years, I’ve watched three close friends each experience the joy, surprise, and pain of pregnancy. In each circumstance, the waiting and expectation began long before a pregnancy was confirmed. Each one spent months, even years, praying for a child, hoping for a future full of new life. These women have taught me that our time of waiting and our desire for new life often begins before we even know what we’re waiting for. And often continues long after we’ve prayed and wished and begged for it to become reality.

If desperate is how Advent leaves us feeling then hope is what Advent should inspire us to seek.

From one seeker to another – don’t allow the bright lights of Christmas to drown out that more important inner light that Advent provides. The wisemen, the shepherds, the seekers and the dreamers who sought a baby they hoped would be king didn’t do so because all the stars in the heavens pointed the way. They sought one star, one direction, one truth. They sought a difficult and winding path because of the light in their own hearts.

Be merry. Be joyful and full of laughter. Rejoice in the bright reality of Christmas. But also keep your heart open, live simply and have hope that the true shining light at the summit of the season is a light that remains in you always.

Faith. Hope. Love. But the greatest of these is love.

So It Begins

In my book, fall isn’t officially over until Thanksgiving. This means that the winter season can not officially begin until the leftovers are finished. Because I might love fall, but I pretty much hate winter.

The only thing I don’t hate about winter is Christmas. It is totally cliché, but I love Christmas. I love lights and garland and Christmas trees. And I especially love early evenings spent reading by a fireplace or watching one more holiday movie. (As always, I suggest: Elf.)

Christmas is one of the few protected holidays in my family. We don’t go anywhere. We make no plans. We simply get up, stay home, and practice being a family. I know that as my brother and I get older, we will eventually have families of our own and may want to start new traditions. But that only serves to make these remaining Christmas Days all the more special.

This year, Christmas falls on a Sunday. Now for you, that might not make you shake in your boots. In fact, you might think that sounds awfully nice, kind of fuzzy and warm, to celebrate Christmas Day on the traditional day of weekly worship. I would wager that you probably didn’t have a small panic attack when you looked at the calendar and in fact, it’s not unlikely you didn’t even know Christmas was on a Sunday until I just wrote it here.

Well not me.

I knew since last Christmas that this year’s Christmas was on a Sunday because I work at a church and Sundays are kind of our thing. I love the church at Christmas time. It feels warm and friendly; Christmas is the time when I’m reminded that the church still has hope, still has a chance to reach people, to help people, to be a good and tolerant place. But it’s also where I have an office during a crazy busy season.

Earlier in November when work was a relatively normal state of busy, I started to wonder if maybe I exaggerate the work load of the weeks leading up to Christmas. I mean, shouldn’t it really be one of the easiest seasons at a church? We basically do the same things as last year and the year before that. Jesus was born, away in a manger, while shepherds harked to herald angels on the very first noel. Joy to the world!

And I have another tradition each Christmas season – believing that this year won’t be so crazy. Each year I enter the season thinking that this is when I’ll get everything right. I won’t work long hours, won’t commit myself in too many places, won’t wait to do Christmas shopping until the week of Christmas. This year will be my year.

Basically that means my tradition is to lie to myself. But please don’t burst my Christmas bubble. I need some denial to get through the season.

So if we see each other, maybe we should just talk about blinking lights and frosted cookies. Maybe you shouldn’t mention that I have two concerts in as many weeks and don’t know the music to either. Or that my brother is moving away and this might be the last regular family Christmas we have. Or that our office is barely managing a schedule change for the New Year and I’m feeling pulled in so many directions I might actually fall apart. Or that I don’t know how I’ll afford any Christmas presents this year.

And when Christmas Sunday finally does arrive, maybe you could let me lean on you just a little bit. Maybe you could remind me that Jesus didn’t enter the world so that we could run faster through the check out lines or become trapped in traditions or exhaust ourselves for the bigger and the better.

Maybe on Christmas Sunday you could remind me that Jesus was about peace and love and rest. And if you feel like reminding me of any of those things a little early, that’d be okay too.

And who knows – maybe this really will be the year.

Do you find yourself overwhelmed during the Christmas season? Or is it a season of rest and renewal? How do you make time for family and traditions during Christmas?

Faith in Action

It seems to me that whenever I'm part of a study, the scripture we are dealing with suddenly becomes relevant to everything around me. Out of the blue I begin to see a connection from John's vision of Rome in the book of Revelation, to our own over-consumption and mistreatment of power here in the United States. Before Christmas, we read through some of Isaiah and the message of the season deepened into a much more mysterious, ultimate feeling of truth.

Recently my young adult group began a study of the book of Acts. From my readings, there seems to be a debate about whether Luke or John is the author of this book. Either way, Acts follows the Gospels not just in the Bible, but it is historically chronological as well. (Basically, Acts picks up where MML&J leave off.) This time, the stick-with me passage is this:

"All the believers devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, and to fellowship, and to sharing in meals, and to prayer. A deep sense of awe came over them all, and the apostles performed many miraculous signs and wonders. And all the believers met together in one place and shared everything they had.

"They sold their property and possessions and shared the money with those in need. They worshiped together at the Temple each day, met in homes for the Lord’s Supper, and shared their meals with great joy and sincere hearts—all the while praising God and enjoying the goodwill of all the people. And each day the Lord added to their fellowship those who were being saved."
-Acts 2:42-47 (New Living Translation)

In my bible translation (NIV) this section is also referred to by: "Fellowship of Believers." These few verses essentially describe a healthy church - what it takes to be one, what it will look like when you are one, and how a healthy church is sustainable. The question was put forward: Is it possible today to have community as described here in the first days of Christianity? What would this 'fellowship' really look like and do we see similar communities in our world?

I am often very cynical but have rare moments of idealism and optimism. In terms of my personality, I am definitely a glass-half-full kind of gal, but in matters of religion and faith ... well, just make sure whatever's in your glass is water not kool-aid.

Anyway, when I consider this passage, I am struck with rare optimism. Certainly there must have been a feeling of urgency within Peter and John, and in all the apostles, that they needed to communicate the message and truth they had witnessed and been part of. These men had lived with Christ, shared meals with him, listened daily to his words and teachings. They knew Jesus in the casually intimate way that friends have with one another, and they had seen him die for all to see--their teacher, friend and savior. And then they had seen him after death. When he should have been decomposing in a tomb, Jesus was instead seen alive by many people, including his grief-stricken friends and disciples.

In this passage of Acts, Peter has already given a great speech which has brought 3,000+ people into this fellowship. Maybe some would say this is the early church, although the 'early church' is not in my opinion related to the way our churches seem today. What is so important to me to read though, is the hope this passage gives to me as a leader in today's church.

"They worshiped together...met in homes...shared their meals with great joy and sincere hearts—all the while praising God and enjoying the goodwill of all the people. And each day the Lord added to their fellowship those who were being saved." (paraphrase)

People saw joy in the celebration and praise of God--they were drawn into that joy because of the clearly positive effect it had on Christ-followers.

A friend told me of a devotion she had read on this same passage.

Put in my own words:
Think of confetti. It conjures images of joy, happiness, being with friends. Confetti is made of many different pieces, if seperated those pieces would be considered garbage or litter. But together, confetti exudes a joy that draws us together and invites others closer.

I think we could all use a little more confetti in our churches and in our lives.

Renting a Room

Every Tuesday I meet with four other women at my church to discuss a redesign project for our church website. We just started about a month ago on what is proving to be a big project. (Who knew I'd have to explain that "site map" is not some phrase I made up?)

Anyway, yesterday when we met we brought with us some pros & cons we've found browsing around the beloved world wide web. My favorite: One church website included a link to "Rentals." Announced across the top of the page--

"My Father's house has many rooms....
Some of those rooms are for rent."

I found this hilarious. As I thought of it later during my car ride home, I remembered this Audio Adrenaline song "Big House":

All I know, it's a big ol' house with rooms for everyone.
All I know, it's lots of land where we can play and run.
All I know is you need love and I've got a family.
All I know is you're all alone, so why not come with me?

The theme here being that there is a place for everyone in God's house. I've always looked at this passage as one of those after-life, heavenward, i'n't-that-so-sweet-with-the-angels-singin' metaphors. What if instead we thought of our God-rooms as in the here and now?

I've recently been rearranging furniture in my house. Spring always causes me to 'nest.' Whenever I rearrange a room, I feel a renewal each time I'm in the space. My bedroom is always first. Waking up to a new view after so many dreary, gray winter mornings makes a remarkable change in the way I face each day.

I think we could all use a little 'rearranging' after a long time with the same view. If you were to peek at your room in that party-house in Heaven, what do you suppose it would look like? What posters would line the walls? Maybe they'd be full of pictures, blue ribbons, coloring book pages, deer heads, those fuzzy paint-by-number things.... Perhaps you'd take a page from HDTV and have a boldly painted 'accent wall' and tastefully decorated, feng-shuied space.

Certainly there isn't any right or wrong answer (although the deer head thing is a little icky). I think more importantly the question is do we, as the church-link infers, think of our rooms--our 'rentals'--as rooms in the Father's house? In our houses of worship and spiritual spaces, do we take stock as a visitor or an owner?

Perhaps one person on this earth who truly understood what it was to be a visitor was Jesus. He was undeniably a visitor each day of his last years on earth, as he traveled from city to city, household to household. Before his trial and ultimate execution, Jesus spoke to his disciples and in an effort to comfort them, was recorded as saying this:

"...There is more than enough room in my Father’s home.
If this were not so, would I have told you that
I am going to prepare a place for you?
When everything is ready, I will come and get you,
so that you will always be with me where I am."
-John 14:2-3 (New Living Translation)

I like this statement of there being 'more than enough room' for everyone. We find ourselves in a bankrupt climate of mortgage crises, poor real estate markets and remarkably high rental prices. Now, as always, it is so important to have a clear view of the 'house' that is God's house. In God's house, there are many, many rooms; there are rooms even beyond what are needed--more than enough room. It is a big, big house where you find love and family. Do our church homes hold true to that standard? Do we find room for everyone?

If indeed we are just visitors, as Christ was, and trust that he has gone ahead to prepare a place for us, is it so much to think that we should work as hard to prepare a place for him? Each year more and more people turn away from what is seen as 'the church' because it's become dilapidated housing. It is no longer a comforting shelter from the storm or a welcoming beacon in the night. I'm not so sure we've 'kept a light on' for seekers so much as we've slapped up a No Vacancy sign.

We most definitely do not invite visitors to slap up some wallpaper, hang up their favorite posters, paint little blue checks on the ceiling, or even, dare I say, nail up one of those singing fish things. Metaphorically speaking, I don't think we ask or expect people to 'make themselves at home.'

As Christ-followers who should strive to be seeker-friendly, that is just what we should invite people to do. Who knows? Maybe that next person with the 'crazy' ideas will do just the rearranging we need for a clear, refreshing view. Certainly if God can hold a room for each of us in his house, we can make room for a few more in ours.