A Holy Mess

Church can be a holy mess.

Especially a church like ours – filled with people from every possible theological background. Including those with absolutely no theological background.

I have to say that we work really hard. We explore our common ground. We listen politely to each other, and we attempt to practice a gentle touch with our theology, or lack thereof.

Early on we adopted as one of our cardinal rules, that we would celebrate those things we have in common and allow the differences that we have to be respectfully honored.

It almost came to a screeching wreck last night. And all because of a little floating bread.

We celebrate Communion whenever it fits the theme of the service and makes sense as the concluding act of the sermon. Communion is one of those church events that has divided Christianity from the beginning. There are almost as many understandings of it as there are denominations. (If you need further proof of this go to www.wikipedia.com and type in communion! While you’re at it, look up the rest of the theological differences that I’m about to reference!)

Last night I asked Bob, who is a Catholic transubstantiationist, to help me serve Communion. (Transubstantiation holds that the bread and wine of communion literally becomes the body and blood of Christ.) He had the cup of grape juice and I had the bread. At our church we observe Communion by intinction – you take a piece of bread and dip it into the cup before eating.

As part of my stay in the United Methodist Church I was taught about the Eucharistic understanding of the Real Presence – that Jesus really (and not merely symbolically, figuratively or by his power) is present in what was previously just bread and wine.

I’m also recovered Baptist memorialist – they believe that the bread and the wine are just memories of Jesus.

We also have a few consubstantiationists but all of these distinctions are clearly outnumbered by a whole bunch of good people who are TRULY blessed not to be dragging around all this theological baggage!

So here we are last night, Catholic Bob and Baptist/Methodist Tanya – serving Holy Communion together. (The Pope and my Southern Baptist preacher father should be having palpitations right now!)

I’m looking each person clearly in the eye, speaking their name, handing them bread and reminding them that “this is the body of Christ, broken for you.” Bob is holding the cup, continuing the blessing with the words “and this is the blood of Christ, shed for you.”

Then the train began to shudder, shimmy and screech to a momentary halt.

We practice open communion – everyone is welcome to the table. That includes kids who want to receive a little bit of God’s love too. Bob and I looked down at a little girl neither of us knew. She’d only been to church a couple of times, but always looks happy to be there. I broke off a little bit of bread and handed it to her telling her that it was Jesus’ gift of love for her. She smiled. Bob bent down and offered her the cup and told her that God loved her a lot. She smiled, perhaps believing him. Then she looked at him with questions in her brown eyes and hesitated just a second before tossing her bit of bread into the outstretched cup.

The adult who was behind her in line gasped. I looked at Bob – and immediately understood that Bob was contemplating the fact that JESUS WAS FLOATING IN THE GRAPE JUICE AND NOW WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?? I looked at the little girl and she was about to burst into tears. And everyone was looking at me, waiting for instructions on what the hell we’re going to do now!!!

We left Jesus’ body floating in his blood.

I tore off another piece of bread and called the little girl back. We told her to dip it into the cup and pop it into her mouth.

She smiled. I smiled. Bob breathed again and the train righted itself for one more week.

One of my greatest prayers for our little church is that we can be a place where we never feel a need to change or convert each other. I'm not saying that change or conversion isn't good – I just think we have to practice it gently.

Above all, I want to be a church where honest, happy little girls feel comfortable making mistakes and learning – right along with the rest of us.

Things I Need

I read something the other day that got me thinking. It was a list of things that someone needed. Some of the things were funny. Some were more serious. After reading it, we had a conversation at Bible study on Wednesday about how so many of us are reluctant to ask for the things that we need in life.

We don’t want to “bother.” We would rather take care of others than take care of ourselves. We’re shy. We were taught that what WE want doesn’t really matter. On and on and on the reasons go.

I started thinking about my own personal list of things I need. I put it here, sort of tongue in cheek. What’s your list?

THINGS I NEED
1. Someone to invent a washing machine that puts the clothes in the dryer for you – thereby eliminating that annoying sour smell that comes from leaving wet clothes in the washer for more than 24 hours.

2. For our beloved dog to stop chewing her toenails at 4:30 in the morning – right next to our bed.

3. For all of my family members who believe that I’m on a “do not pass go, do not collect $200” path straight to hell to find something else to occupy their time.

4. For the little carryout close to my house to carry more things than 25 brands of beer. There is the occasional event in which I need milk – not more beer.

5. For people in my life to be able see in themselves what I see in them.

6. For people in my community to learn to be more gentle in the way that they talk to themselves. (see #5)

7. For my realtor to actually demonstrate that he cares about trying to sell our house in Toledo.

8. More time to knit.

9. More closet space. Or could it be less clothing? (see #1)

10. More humor.

11. More dangly earrings now that my hair is short. I need something besides my chest to keep people from calling me sir.

12. To be more thankful. Perhaps that’s the only way to keep the things on this list in perspective.

How Many of Me?

Thought this was interesting. . .I'm not as unique as I thought!

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 15 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

On the Nightstand

Since I’ve discovered knitting, reading has suffered. It’s the lonely stepchild now. The pile of “to be read” titles continues to grow as my pile of “to be knit” takes center stage.

I miss reading. . .but not enough to put the needles down!

Then I saw that Barbara Brown Taylor has a new book. If you’ve heard me preach more than three and a half sermons you’ll know that I am quite in awe of Barbara Brown Taylor. She writes with simple honesty about being a woman. About being a preacher. About the flaws of the church and the flaws of being human.

So, I’m reading her newest book “Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith” – knitting be damned. . .

It’s worth it. She has an unerring, lasered perspective on what it feels like to be in ministry. She describes the frustrations, the joys, the questions and the insecurities in ways that make my heart sigh, “Yeah. . .that’s what it’s like.”

She manages to describe in a way that I never could, what’s its like to live somewhere between the image that other people assign to you and the truth of what it’s really like to live in a preachers skin.

I wanted to cry when Taylor describes a church party where people were pushing each other into a pool. It’s such a lonely feeling. Even though you are enjoying what everyone else is doing, no one would dare push the minister in. So there she stands, part of the party, but not really – when someone gives her a push into the water with everyone else! In that moment she remembered what it was like to be just “a regular person.” And she realized that “regular life” was calling.

Eventually she left pastoral ministry. The job of helping other people maintain their faith became too much to balance with trying to keep her own faith growing and alive.

It’s a book that funny and honest and simple. I loved it because sometimes it’s enough just to know that you aren’t alone.

Why I Knit

I knit because I don’t pray very well. At least they way most people are taught to pray.

My childhood church experiences taught me to pray by folding my hands, bowing my head and listening while somebody else (always an adult!) talked to God. Sitting there in my starched dress with shoes that pinched my toes, trying not to wiggle, the preacher’s prayers went on for an eternity. My neck would begin to hurt from so piously bending it. My eyelids would refuse to stay closed and when I dared sneak a look at my Mother, she would always be looking at me – waiting for me to open my eyes. She would give me the hairy eyeball and I would go back to trying to figure out what it was the preacher was talking about.

Prayer just never made any sense to me.

What did make sense to me was that God was easily found in the first snowfall of the season. I could taste God in the coldness of the snow scooped up in my mittened hands. I could hear God in the soft cooing of the mourning doves outside my bedroom window as the sun began to rise. I could smell God as I ran and ran and ran through the huge piles of decomposing leaves underneath the sycamore tree that served as my imaginary space station. I could feel God as I swam in the cool water of our pool.

In a most innocent way, I thought that prayer would be much better if we could make it more physical and less intellectual. Of course, I couldn’t have verbalized this. It was just something I knew.

As the years passed I had less and less use for God or prayer. I didn’t fit the mold of the conservative Christian upbringing I had received. Yet, this physical practice of prayer never left me.

I worked at meditation. The mental and physical acts of concentrating on my breath patterns and God images was interesting.

I tried journaling. I enjoyed the black and white results of prayer on paper. But, it had to be the right place to make journaling work. I needed quiet and space that wasn’t always available.

Then I learned to knit.

The repetitive clicking of the needles and movement of the yarn alleviates any agitation in my mind. The physical sensation of choosing color and touching fiber brings back the memories of praying in my childish understanding of God’s presence being in all kinds of objects.

Knitting is portable. I can pick it up at the oddest moments and find sanctuary.

When I knit, my thoughts are channeled in the same ways that meditation helped me experience. I can pray for hours for our church, for our community, for individuals and for myself.

Like God, prayer doesn’t come in a “one size fits all” arrangement. There are as many ways to pray as there are people who dare to try to connect to God.

I have Book One of a three set “encyclopedia of knitting stitches.” In those volumes I’m quite certain that there are more than a lifetime full of prayers and stitches available.