At 100 years young, Katherine is the oldest member of our congregation. Despite dealing with some health issues of her own the past week, she managed to knit a newborn cap for our newest and youngest member, the wee 11 day old Naomi, who is feistily hanging on in the NICU, having arrived 11 weeks early.
This morning's offering included the little knit cap, sealed in a baggie so it didn't pick up a bunch of contagion that could compromise little Naomi's still developing immune system. When it was time for the offering prayer, Jen came and stood in the midst of us and we all placed a hand on either the cap or our neighbor's shoulder, and we blessed the cap, giving thanks for both Katherine and Naomi, and praying for health and wholeness for the both of them. . .it was a powerful moment.
Have I mentioned lately how much I love my church?
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Mine is the Church Where Everybody's Welcome
Mine is the church where everybody’s welcome.
I know it’s true ‘cause I got through the door.
We are a dazzling bouquet of every kind of flower.
Jump in the vase, ‘cause we’ve got space for more.
-"A Dazzling Bouquet" by Bret Hesla
Officially all the transfer paperwork was taken care of by late November, and I became a member of Salem the Sunday of the blizzard. But the blizzard kept a number of us (myself included) from making it to church that day, so we were publicly welcomed into the community this morning.
On the one hand, it was a sad day, entailing the loss of an official connection to people I still care about back in Pennsylvania, and another little death to be endured in this transition from pastor to PhDland.
On the other hand, it was a joyful day to become a member of this amazing part of the body of Christ here in Minneapolis.
I love this congregation for many reasons. I love that they are indeed a dazzling bouquet where everyone is welcome, and worship reflects that as people of diverse ages, ethnicities, genders, sexual orientations, socioeconomic statuses, talents, interests, etc, gather every week to praise God and support one another in this life of discipleship.
I love that they are radically committed to ministry in their neighborhood, so much so that they are continually willing to die to their old selves and blossom into the new life that God is working in them and through them and with them.
I love that they are in the wilderness. Increasingly I am convinced this is the best place for a church to be, because the wilderness is where the people of God are truly shaped into the people of God; it's where our utter dependence on God is unavoidably and sometimes painfully obvious; it's where we are most focused on essentials (and least distracted by the crap) and most open and receptive to the Spirit; it's by living on the margins that we become more attuned to and empathic with all who are marginalized. This wilderness wandering is all the more impressive and intriguing considering the congregation physically exists in what is functionally the center of American Lutherandom.
I love that Jen is a great preacher and a great leader who makes it easy to be back in the pew instead of up front and in charge. I also love that she's a great colleague who welcomes my gifts and invites opportunities for me to keep playing in the sandbox of congregational life.
I love how friendly and welcoming pretty much everyone has been since the first day I walked in the door.
. . .so jump in the vase, 'cause we've got space for more!
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Another Open Letter to All Stupid People in the Universe
I just noticed today that somebody keyed my Obama bumper sticker.
At first I thought the sticker was just falling apart from exposure to weather. But then I got closer and realized, no, there are gouges only through his name. You can still read his name, but there are gouges in my bumper where his name is on the sticker.
It could have happened a while ago - I don't have a lot of occasion to look at the back end of my car, normally I just get in the driver's seat and go. But I have a feeling that it was done more recently, like since the town hall meetings this summer. Heck, it could have happened while I was AT the town hall meeting this summer. . .
And, unfortunately, it could have happened anywhere. There's a lot of open hostility toward Obama in these parts - my car would have been a target in just about anyplace I would have parked.
Here's what I never undertand: WHY?
I mean, you don't like Obama, fine. You don't agree with his politics, or with mine - fine. You can disagree with me, disagree with him, until the cows come home. We can debate in public or in private until we're both blue in the face. You can put signs and stickers all over your own self and your own property until every inch is covered. You can write letters to the government and to the editor, you can demonstrate in the streets, you can buy time on public airwaves to tell everyone what you think. You have the right to do such things, in fact, I encourage you to do all of these things, and I will defend your rights, nonviolently, to the point of my own death.
But you do not have the right to harm me, disrespect me, or destroy my property because of such disagreement. You do not have the right to tear down my signs and stickers because you don't like who I support. You do not have the right to shut me down just because you don't like how I think or what I have to say. The First Amendment protects both of us, equally. Capisce?
Lucky for you, when I get mad, I don't get even - I get better. When morons like you stole our yard signs in 2004, I spent Wellstone World Music Day putting up twice as many signs, and they were twice as big as the ones that were taken. When I was phone banking or canvassing last year and people were unnecessarily rude to me - I'd sign up for an extra shift. The more idiots like you try to tear the world down, the harder I work to rebuild it.
So I hope keying my car accomplished whatever it was you were personally trying to accomplish, I hope whatever satisfaction you derived from the act was worth the progressive fury you're about to unleash on the world. Because I was just writing to my own Senators and Representative about this health care and environmental stuff, but now I think I'm going to write to everybody representing Pennsylvania, and I think I'll throw in a letter of encouragement to the President while I'm at it. . .
At first I thought the sticker was just falling apart from exposure to weather. But then I got closer and realized, no, there are gouges only through his name. You can still read his name, but there are gouges in my bumper where his name is on the sticker.
It could have happened a while ago - I don't have a lot of occasion to look at the back end of my car, normally I just get in the driver's seat and go. But I have a feeling that it was done more recently, like since the town hall meetings this summer. Heck, it could have happened while I was AT the town hall meeting this summer. . .
And, unfortunately, it could have happened anywhere. There's a lot of open hostility toward Obama in these parts - my car would have been a target in just about anyplace I would have parked.
Here's what I never undertand: WHY?
I mean, you don't like Obama, fine. You don't agree with his politics, or with mine - fine. You can disagree with me, disagree with him, until the cows come home. We can debate in public or in private until we're both blue in the face. You can put signs and stickers all over your own self and your own property until every inch is covered. You can write letters to the government and to the editor, you can demonstrate in the streets, you can buy time on public airwaves to tell everyone what you think. You have the right to do such things, in fact, I encourage you to do all of these things, and I will defend your rights, nonviolently, to the point of my own death.
But you do not have the right to harm me, disrespect me, or destroy my property because of such disagreement. You do not have the right to tear down my signs and stickers because you don't like who I support. You do not have the right to shut me down just because you don't like how I think or what I have to say. The First Amendment protects both of us, equally. Capisce?
Lucky for you, when I get mad, I don't get even - I get better. When morons like you stole our yard signs in 2004, I spent Wellstone World Music Day putting up twice as many signs, and they were twice as big as the ones that were taken. When I was phone banking or canvassing last year and people were unnecessarily rude to me - I'd sign up for an extra shift. The more idiots like you try to tear the world down, the harder I work to rebuild it.
So I hope keying my car accomplished whatever it was you were personally trying to accomplish, I hope whatever satisfaction you derived from the act was worth the progressive fury you're about to unleash on the world. Because I was just writing to my own Senators and Representative about this health care and environmental stuff, but now I think I'm going to write to everybody representing Pennsylvania, and I think I'll throw in a letter of encouragement to the President while I'm at it. . .
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
A Sisyphean Task
"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!"
- Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Abelard"
Eternal torment of the spotless mind is more like it. . .
I went to visit a parishioner today who is losing their mind to Alzheimer's. There has been some mild confusion over the last few years, but now we are descending into a fairly rapid decline, and for their own safety, they have moved to a locked unit in a care facility. Though not generally in the habit of wearing a collar (unless I am preaching, presiding, or visiting the ICU), I wore one on purpose today, hoping that even if P did not recognize me, they might at least make a connection to and draw some comfort from this symbol around my neck.
To my surprise, P did recognize me right away, never calling me by name, but definitely knowing my role and purpose. I was greeted with a hug and words of gratitude for stopping by, then invited to come in and sit down - all in the same pattern of welcome when I would visit P at home. So at first I thought maybe the decline wasn't as bad as I was expecting.
But then it became obvious fairly quickly that P can no longer track conversation for more than a few minutes at a time, and is roaming pretty freely through the whole scope of their memory - one minute they are in the present, the next minute they are "present" 50 years ago (still talking to me but talking about people or a situation deep in their past as if it's a present reality). Time and memory are collapsing in on each other, so that P is mixing up what experiences and conversations have been had with whom when, and what was actually said, resulting in P feeling very confused, frightened, sad, and alone.
Add to this the fact that fellow residents, whose minds are even more far gone and have no boundaries left whatsoever, barge into P's room without permission, rummage through their things, and try to abscond with them before the nursing staff become apprised of the situation and escort them out. Our conversation was interrupted by the same resident three different times in the hour I was there. After the third time P looked at me with despairing resignation in their eyes and sighed "It's like this all day long."
Such are the hard realities of this disease. Pastorally, it's a great challenge to find ways and words to comfort someone who can't stay with you very long and who is no longer processing the world and their experiences in a way that's coherent - even when you do stumble into something that speaks volumes of grace in the moment, it's truly only for a moment, and then another thought or memory comes flooding in, the attention shifts, and the giant boulder goes running back down the hill. By the time it hits the bottom, the gracious moment is gone, and you can do nothing more but put your shoulder back to the rock and stumble your way toward another peak, fully knowing that it, too, will be but a minor and temporary victory.
I was glad for this visit with P, though for the rest of the day I have been plagued by a kind of sober sadness that I haven't felt since my chaplaincy rotation, which I did at a nursing home in Minneapolis. I spent a lot of time with people in P's situation that summer, and happened to see the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind at the $2 theater in Roseville the last week of the rotation. I found the movie particularly powerful after a summer spent among those living with varying degrees of memory loss, and what I found most poignantly true and comforting was the power of love to call us back from the abyss. I had seen such love at work in many of the residents, helping to ground them among the swirling and fading of their lives. But I had also seen others who, for whatever reasons, had become untethered and stepped completely over the edge into oblivion.
Here's praying that the love of their family, and the love of our Christian community, will hold and ground P for a while longer. . .
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!"
- Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Abelard"
Eternal torment of the spotless mind is more like it. . .
I went to visit a parishioner today who is losing their mind to Alzheimer's. There has been some mild confusion over the last few years, but now we are descending into a fairly rapid decline, and for their own safety, they have moved to a locked unit in a care facility. Though not generally in the habit of wearing a collar (unless I am preaching, presiding, or visiting the ICU), I wore one on purpose today, hoping that even if P did not recognize me, they might at least make a connection to and draw some comfort from this symbol around my neck.
To my surprise, P did recognize me right away, never calling me by name, but definitely knowing my role and purpose. I was greeted with a hug and words of gratitude for stopping by, then invited to come in and sit down - all in the same pattern of welcome when I would visit P at home. So at first I thought maybe the decline wasn't as bad as I was expecting.
But then it became obvious fairly quickly that P can no longer track conversation for more than a few minutes at a time, and is roaming pretty freely through the whole scope of their memory - one minute they are in the present, the next minute they are "present" 50 years ago (still talking to me but talking about people or a situation deep in their past as if it's a present reality). Time and memory are collapsing in on each other, so that P is mixing up what experiences and conversations have been had with whom when, and what was actually said, resulting in P feeling very confused, frightened, sad, and alone.
Add to this the fact that fellow residents, whose minds are even more far gone and have no boundaries left whatsoever, barge into P's room without permission, rummage through their things, and try to abscond with them before the nursing staff become apprised of the situation and escort them out. Our conversation was interrupted by the same resident three different times in the hour I was there. After the third time P looked at me with despairing resignation in their eyes and sighed "It's like this all day long."
Such are the hard realities of this disease. Pastorally, it's a great challenge to find ways and words to comfort someone who can't stay with you very long and who is no longer processing the world and their experiences in a way that's coherent - even when you do stumble into something that speaks volumes of grace in the moment, it's truly only for a moment, and then another thought or memory comes flooding in, the attention shifts, and the giant boulder goes running back down the hill. By the time it hits the bottom, the gracious moment is gone, and you can do nothing more but put your shoulder back to the rock and stumble your way toward another peak, fully knowing that it, too, will be but a minor and temporary victory.
I was glad for this visit with P, though for the rest of the day I have been plagued by a kind of sober sadness that I haven't felt since my chaplaincy rotation, which I did at a nursing home in Minneapolis. I spent a lot of time with people in P's situation that summer, and happened to see the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind at the $2 theater in Roseville the last week of the rotation. I found the movie particularly powerful after a summer spent among those living with varying degrees of memory loss, and what I found most poignantly true and comforting was the power of love to call us back from the abyss. I had seen such love at work in many of the residents, helping to ground them among the swirling and fading of their lives. But I had also seen others who, for whatever reasons, had become untethered and stepped completely over the edge into oblivion.
Here's praying that the love of their family, and the love of our Christian community, will hold and ground P for a while longer. . .
Monday, February 18, 2008
Making Stock and Taking Stock
Yesterday after church I roasted the whole chicken that I bought on Friday. After carving off what I would use for sandwiches and other meals this week, I boiled what was left to make stock.
I bought the chicken directly from the farmer who raised it locally in a sustainable and humane fashion. The local butcher who processes the birds is in the habit of leaving the neck and (inexplicably) the kidneys attached. My point in sharing this being: whenever I purchase and prepare one of these birds, I am always overwhelmed by how close I feel to the source of my food. And I don't just mean that it's local. I mean, somehow (maybe it's the attached neck, which, admittedly, kinda creeps me out), these birds just _look_ closer to the real, living creature than the chicken you buy in the store (they taste a lot better, too).
And in the process of rinsing, roasting, carving, boiling, and picking, I am also overwhelmed by how close I feel to my grandmothers, who have prepared countless chickens in this way as a course of habit and necessity.
Feeling so close to your food, and to those who regularly have (or had) to put this much effort into preparing food, sure makes one excessively grateful. As I was picking the boiled meat off the neck last night (a task which makes me particularly sqeamish), I started thinking about Grandma Louise's stories of Tante Janz, who could kill a chicken by stepping on its neck, grabbing its legs and pulling up, all without ever losing a beat or batting an eye. I shuddered and said a prayer of thanks that I do not live in a time or place where I routinely have to kill and butcher my own food, nor do I have a job that requires me to do so on behalf of others. I also said a prayer of thanks for those who _do_ do the hard, sometimes disgusting, often thankless work that puts so many foods so conveniently on my table.
I think it's good, it's important, to get this kind of reality check on a regular basis - it keeps me mindful of how much I waste, of how much I take for granted. And though I hate handling raw meat and mostly avoid it whenever possible, the sense of connection I feel - to other people, to my community, to the whole of God's good creation - whenever I have a chicken cooking day like this, far outweighs the gross factor. Plus, like I said, the end result tastes a lot better than anything you'll buy in the store!
Peace,
Catrina
I bought the chicken directly from the farmer who raised it locally in a sustainable and humane fashion. The local butcher who processes the birds is in the habit of leaving the neck and (inexplicably) the kidneys attached. My point in sharing this being: whenever I purchase and prepare one of these birds, I am always overwhelmed by how close I feel to the source of my food. And I don't just mean that it's local. I mean, somehow (maybe it's the attached neck, which, admittedly, kinda creeps me out), these birds just _look_ closer to the real, living creature than the chicken you buy in the store (they taste a lot better, too).
And in the process of rinsing, roasting, carving, boiling, and picking, I am also overwhelmed by how close I feel to my grandmothers, who have prepared countless chickens in this way as a course of habit and necessity.
Feeling so close to your food, and to those who regularly have (or had) to put this much effort into preparing food, sure makes one excessively grateful. As I was picking the boiled meat off the neck last night (a task which makes me particularly sqeamish), I started thinking about Grandma Louise's stories of Tante Janz, who could kill a chicken by stepping on its neck, grabbing its legs and pulling up, all without ever losing a beat or batting an eye. I shuddered and said a prayer of thanks that I do not live in a time or place where I routinely have to kill and butcher my own food, nor do I have a job that requires me to do so on behalf of others. I also said a prayer of thanks for those who _do_ do the hard, sometimes disgusting, often thankless work that puts so many foods so conveniently on my table.
I think it's good, it's important, to get this kind of reality check on a regular basis - it keeps me mindful of how much I waste, of how much I take for granted. And though I hate handling raw meat and mostly avoid it whenever possible, the sense of connection I feel - to other people, to my community, to the whole of God's good creation - whenever I have a chicken cooking day like this, far outweighs the gross factor. Plus, like I said, the end result tastes a lot better than anything you'll buy in the store!
Peace,
Catrina
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