I'm starting Lent early.

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’”

Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’”

Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you’, and, ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”

Jesus answered him, “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.

--Luke 4:1-13

All kinds of things are waking up, vocationally. I’m doing work I love, with the cathedral and the homeless community. The call has gotten louder: all I want to do is go be a priest to them. I haven’t been here long enough to start a formal process, but the feedback I’m getting is completely positive, and my clergy supports me. We’re talking about things that I’m incredibly excited about, both for right now and in the future.

And I’m going internally bananas. For over a year, no one told me I spoke too fast. I couldn’t; I was either on interferon or healing from it. I was exhausted all the time. But I was talking to one of my priests the other night, and I caught myself stuttering. Then I went to the Catechumenate after dinner. I organize Thursday night dinners (we feed homeless people as well as parishioners), so I stayed late to help clean up. I walked in, in the middle of lectio. The passage was the above quotation, for the first Sunday in Lent. The leader asked what God was telling us through this story. My answer couldn’t have been clearer:

Keep calm, stay grounded, pray, breathe, keep at it.

And so that’s what I’m going to do.

I suck at meditation. I’ve never understood the point of counting my breaths. And I’m no better at centering prayer. Attempting to hold one word or image just opens me up to associations. My brain lunges against every restraint, exactly because I’m trying to hold it still.

I can, however, breathe. And if I’m not legalistic about it—if I don’t label it something and then try to live up to that—I’ll feel free enough to let myself flow into it.

I love everything I’m doing—but I need to find my center. A friend taught me a visualization, years ago. Someone taught it to her, when she was learning to sing:

Imagine yourself as a tree. Stand, preferably barefoot on the earth (but in shoes on the floor, if you need to). Breathe up from your feet, through your legs, into your diaphragm, out. Draw water up from the earth, into your roots, through your body, out into the atmosphere and let go of it; let it fall again as rain. Keep breathing, until you are where you need to be.

I didn’t do it when I was sick; I didn’t have the balance to stand still alone. Now, just writing it out makes me breathe deeply, gives me space, gives me life.

Giving up chocolate is missing the point. Lent isn’t a punishment; it’s an invitation to remember who we are. I’ve kept prayer journals in previous seasons; more or less faithfully. Last year I tried to be mindful of the moment, to pay attention in conversations and not wander everywhere. I saw how distractible I was (and am); I’m not sure I learned how to solve it. What I need is to say to God with my breath, my intention, my body,

I exist, because of you. I am yours. Do with me, what you will.

What needs to happen, in me and for the world, can only happen in that place. And I can’t even imagine what will sprout there.

I’ve struggled with talking fast for... practically ever. But right now, I’m thankful that I have this physical cue. And I have experience when it wasn’t an issue. I remember centeredness. I know what it is to be grounded. I don’t need the fatigue that went with that. I can find the calm that will keep me in control of my body. I can trust God to hold the light where I am going.

Fabulous feedback

Yesterday began and ended in closures. First, my field ed colleague group met for the last time. We’ve met weekly, all year. We are very close, and we’ve all come to rely on both the honesty and safety we give each other.

We took turns sharing gratitude for each of the others, and praying for us all. Much was reflected back to me, about truth-telling and courage. One looked across the table at me, was quiet for a minute, and said, “You are so incarnational.”

She followed that with a story about watching me preach, last week, and the way I taught people how to bake bread.

I’m only recently realizing, how much my body has taught me—and how much I’ve been able to learn. This is one more confirmation of what I can do now, that I had absolutely no reference for when I was well. I’ve never thought of myself as a teacher, ever. I’ve thought that I wasn’t called to it, couldn’t do it, had no idea of how to do it. She sat across the table from me, looked into my eyes, and told me that I can, and could, and did.

I wonder how I will remember? Not just about teaching, but being. I’ll start getting my health back at the end of June. I want to be the person that my illness has taught me to be. And when my limits fall away again, I don’t know what I’ll be aware of. Except for pure, boundless joy.

Last night, four of us got together and made our videos for what we call “Magic Hands.” (The proper name of the class is Liturgical Leadership. You learn how to preside at the Eucharist.) We’re going to watch them and have them critiqued, next week. Mine was a year late; I grouped up with this year’s class to finish it. I put together a healing Eucharist, because that’s what I really want to do on the street.

I don’t care how often you practice in your street clothes, using your bed for the altar. When you put that stole and chasuble on, you feel the weight of those vestments. Standing at the real altar, raising my hands for the first time, I wasn’t playing anymore. I was so tired I could barely see straight—and I also knew, I was grounded with my feet in the earth, and my energy was where I needed to be. I still had to look at my cheat sheet—but my body knew more than I thought it did. And things that I could never keep straight as a lay assistant—no matter how many times I’ve done it—finally made sense to me. I knew where I was, and what I needed next. It flowed.

I really, really want to do this for real. And I’m years from being allowed to.

Lizette will ask me what she asks everyone: “Did you pray?” The only answer I’ll have for her is, “Are you kidding? The weight of these clothes, and the gravity of these words, make you pray. I couldn’t possibly have done this with only a part of me.”

I did an anointing before the Eucharistic rite. My friend said afterward that she’d felt it, and needed it. And the one on the camera sort of stared at me for awhile, and said,

“Your illness has made you a healer.”

Thank you. That is what I want.

I had to be truly ill, to truly heal. And I had to heal, before I could heal others. I wonder what I will carry with me, into wellness?

I ask myself often, how much the groundedness that people see in me is genuine, and how much is simply being too tired to work up any anxiety. I think it’s both. And I won’t really know, until my body is well again.

But I’m thinking that I may be pleasantly surprised.

Perspective on panic

I was talking with my best friend, on the phone last night. She’s going to be supporting me this summer, until I get on my feet. I told her I’m worried about looking for jobs. I’m a great starter, but my follow-through needs work.

The following exchange ensued:

A: “When it has something to do with your calling, you follow through like a bulldog.”

Me: “So I’m not called to clean out your freezer, then?” (Which I did, two or three years ago—and have been promising to repeat, since.)

A: “Not unless there’s a homeless person sleeping in there.”

I cracked up, and felt a whole lot better.

I woke from this dream

on Christmas morning:

I was walking through wintery woods, crunching the snow under my feet. It was full daylight, though it was very cold. I was alone. Everything was quiet. The forest was peaceful, yet trembling. There was a sense that the world was about to change.

I came upon a perfectly-laid fire, on the ground, in the snow, in the middle of nowhere. There was still nobody around. I knew, like you know these things, that this was just waiting for someone intended to light it. I didn’t know whether it was a traveler’s fire, or whether it was specifically mine. But I knew that someone (God or human) had left this for a person to find. This was a place, safe and warm, where you could wait for the Christ-child to come.

Not the original, incarnational Jesus. I was walking in Northwest woods, nowhere near Bethlehem, in our own time. This was a place, made by somebody and left to be found, where you could wait in hope until the world changed forever.

The woods knew that was happening tonight. The animals, and the trees, were full of expectation. Then, all would be love. There would be no unsafe places.

I came upon this fire, waiting for me or someone to light it. I had all this awareness. I knew it was a place of peace—and I was full of questions. Did God lay this fire, or a human? Is it meant for someone else, or for me? Is it okay if I keep exploring; am I insulting them if I don’t stay here? Should I keep going; let it be found by someone who needs it more than I do?

Because what I really wanted to do was to keep walking, to go deeper and wilder, to seek my own safety, to build my own fire. I was caught between accepting or rejecting someone else’s hospitality (not a good idea if that someone else is God), and being where I know I’m called to be, out on the very edges, where the wind is wild and the animals wilder, where anything can happen and you don’t know what you’ll find. I knew that if I built a fire, somewhere lonelier and colder, there would be warmth and light there.

That’s the relationship I’m called to be in, with God and the world, right now. But I was still considering these questions, in my dream, when I woke up.

And right now, I really want to go walking in the woods.

Merry Christmas!

"Why are you an Episcopalian?"

Jake's asking this question, over at his place. He got me thinking, and feeling, and appreciating. My responses serve as a quick-and-dirty faith story, and I want to share them here.

Most of my readers probably also read Jake; he's one of the hubs of our Episcopalian blog-web. If you share this same boat with me, please go answer him there. If you're of another tradition, or a different faith entirely (hey there, Orthodox Mimi) feel free to play, in the comments.

1. What initially drew you to the Episcopal Church?

I was raised here. One of the things my parents did right, was never making me go to church. I went when I wanted to—which meant that I was free to be drawn in. I was very involved in diocesan youth programs; I got my questions, and my authentic faith, nurtured there.

2. What brought you back to the Episcopal Church?

This is really the more salient question. I left the church after college (1992) because I was sick of patriarchal language. “Father,” alone, does not bring me closer to God. My peers got that—but my elders wouldn’t budge. (When I asked if we could use inclusive language, then just beginning to be known, I was told, “This is [small town near Olympia"]. That priest has long since moved elsewhere. I actually wish I'd been around for his replacement; I know her now, and she's great.)

I spent the next 11 years in an interfaith community, hanging out with mostly Buddhist ex-Christians, occasional Jews, and the odd Earth-centered pagan. I learned a lot from them, and they gave me what I needed for a time. Some members became as family to me, and we are still close. When I wasn’t there, I spent a lot of time with Quakers. I loved them for their peacefulness and their activism, and thought of sojourning there. But it got to where I was missing liturgy more and more. I was hungry for the Eucharist, though I didn't know how deeply. I had brief, intermittent times of worshipping as an Episcopalian—when I lived in Seattle, I felt safe at the cathedral—but I just wasn’t ready to go back to the church as I had known it.

Enter, August 2003. I found out about +Gene from friends on a message board. I didn’t have to think about it; my response was, “They did that? I’m going home.” I was so burstingly proud of the tradition I'd grown up in, for recognizing that all people are human. I drove an hour the next Sunday, to St. Mark’s, Seattle; I knew people there would be celebrating. I went to the healing rail after Communion. The poor woman asked what I needed prayer for—and I opened my mouth and burst out sobbing. I didn’t know why, but I knew I was home—and I knew God had work for me to do.

I was shaking for a long time after that; I still call it a God-quake. I went home, and got involved in my local parish. I found that the church had come to terms with some things, in my absence. I fell in love with it again, and committed myself to being here.

3. What are some of your current reasons for remaining in the Episcopal Church?

Ask God why I’m in seminary, LOL. I am called to serve the marginalized; I'm thinking of starting a chaplaincy for homeless people. I want to physically and sacramentally feed them.

The ethos this church has developed—namely, living the Baptismal Covenant—keeps me here. The sacraments mean more to me than I can tell you. The Incarnation means more to me than I can tell you. This is the church that still walks me through resurrection. This is the tradition I’m called to be faithful in.

My best friend’s in San Joaquin. Being close to her drew me into their struggle. How that turned out, feeds my faith in this church. My passion for mission was awakened, fed, and instructed by Episcopalians in New Orleans. This church is home.

4. When you recommend the Episcopal Church to others, what are some of the aspects of our common life that you mention?

Most of my circle are Episcopalians. I recommend my parish, because we are inclusive, creative, exuberantly welcoming. I don’t have to sell the tradition, but if I did, I would tailor it to the conversation. You want liturgy? We have it. Incarnational theology? Oh yes. Outreach and mission? Come.

I added this as a health-care update

...but it doesn't really fit.

We have a healing Eucharist once a month, at school. My whiplash-shoulder has been bothering me off and on, but I went on general principles. When it's time for anointing, all of us who want it, or want to pray with our friends, gather around the presider. As she anointed me, I wasn't thinking of physical pain--but of things in my soul that have healed and need healing. After, though, as we gathered around the altar for Eucharist (thank you Lizette; I love when you do this), I noticed my shoulder was burning. It's back to a mild tickle now, but it burned for a long time.

When I noticed it, the meaning I took was, "Carry your woundedness into humanity with you." I'm sent to be a healer; I can't do that if I forget my own pain. I have to be strong enough to do my work, even through those things that hurt me. I've done a lot of it, and I have more.

I am sent to those who have their own strengths, and their own weaknesses. My father had a very strong bootstrap mentality: "I didn't need [insert caring action]; neither should you." I hear echoes of that in my own thinking, sometimes. They're faint, but they exist. I cannot carry that coldness into the world with me. I have to be open to the people who need Jesus brought to them. If I forget what it means to be broken, hurting, physically and emotionally wounded, I will be bones without flesh in the world.

I don't like having a shoulder that twinges, and that sometimes feels like a broken guitar string. But I expect it to completely heal. And I have friends here with chronic physical and mental conditions. They carry a depth of empathy that I don't come close to. That's what I want to learn from.

God be in my sleep, and in my waking

I had another calling-dream, last night. I got a string of them last fall, but hadn’t had one in awhile. My usual dreams, when I remember them, are surreal, disconnected shreds of images. This one was clear as could be. When it happens, you know.

I wrote this all out, this morning, and held off on posting it. Some people read this, who may influence my next steps. I don't want to cause them to fear for me. But I've shared this with a couple of friends, and been affirmed for it. I've taken that as encouragement that my fears will be unfounded. I don't even mean to be "thinking outside of the box," but I believe that my ministry will be. I think I'm sharing this publicly, to keep myself accountable. If it resonates with other people's stories, dreams, and longings, that may help them on their own paths, also.

In the dream, I was either working, or heavily invested, in a large, established parish in Virginia. (Why Virginia? I guess because it says “establishment” to me. My mother’s family is from there.) I was part of a leadership circle, but I don’t know exactly what my role was. I was with a group of people standing outside. Some others were in the building.

I was standing on the steps, watching a locksmith change the lock on the front door. He was installing the largest latch I’d ever seen, about as big as my hand. It was a heavy, dull-brass colored metal, visibly obvious; you couldn’t miss it. And we weren’t going to be given keys.

Church politics played no part in this. The building wasn’t sold or litigated. We weren’t exiled in any emotional sense; no one was taking our home away. But it was clearly not our home, anymore. I remember mentally blessing the locksmith as he did this. I can’t recall the exact words spoken to us, but I know that we were sent forth in joy. The message was clear: “Go out into the world.”

My best friend is visiting, for a conference at CDSP. We’ve been talking a lot, about how NOLA changed and redefined things for me, and what I feel called to do. I’ve expressed doubts about whether I’m called into parish ministry—but I still absolutely want to feed people, and to bless, baptize, and absolve them. I’m not Anglo-Catholic by any stretch (though a friend who is, questioned that), but I am deeply sacramental. And I do feel called to live that ministry.

I don’t have any sacramental authority, and I won’t until the church blesses that in me. But I know exactly what I’d be doing right now, if I did: I’d be out on Claiborne Avenue, under I-10, celebrating Eucharist with the homeless people camped there. I’d find some friends, and do the same thing in soup kitchens, and in rough neighborhoods, and in neighborhoods struggling to come back. We’d be feeding people, and blessing community, in the places one would least expect to find God. These are the people who need that love most.

There’s nothing wrong with material wealth. All of us need God’s love. I’m not writing this to judge anyone. Many people I know give very generously, and responsibly. I respect them very much for that. I’m glad that they have it, to give. And I know that God is, at all times and in all places, including a church building. My own community has been fantastic to me and for me. I believe in that absolutely, and I’m grateful for them. I’ll do field ed in a parish context, and I’ll learn a lot, and build relationships, and love it. I may be called to that work, also. But I believe that my deepest calling is to go out and find those who need to be found, and to bring awareness of the presence of God to places where people have stopped looking. That’s what I wish I could be doing, right now.

I wonder if there are ways that I can.