The most fun I've ever had in church

I couldn't tell you what the Gospel was, if you paid me. But the sermon was about God's loving care for creation.

I didn't hear all of it, because I was helping to pass out balls of white clay, and napkins. We were instructed to make a bowl, a vase, a vessel or container of some sort, while we were listening. It was the coolest thing ever.

Tommy asked, "Do you like it?" I yelled back, "I love it!" I didn't realize he meant the product, not the process. It didn't really matter, because if we didn't like what we came up with, we just squished it up and started over. Like God--who doesn't throw anything away.

Afterward, we all had dried clay on our hands. I felt like I had creation all over me. And I got the neatest mental image: God washing her hands in a waterfall, when she was done. :-)

A strangely gentle sadness

We’ve had sightings of mountain lions around the Ranch. A friend from St. A’s, who accepts me as an adopted daughter, made me promise not to hike alone. I know she loves me, and doesn’t want me to get eaten—I think we both knew I’d break that promise. I kept it for about a week. Yesterday, I took a fresh batch of flags to the peace pole. I left a prayer for Rob. It felt right; I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. It is a quiet, calm, deeply peaceful, prayerful place. I held his memory, and my community, in my heart as I wrote on a strip of yellow fabric with a Sharpie, tied it to the pole among years’ worth of many people’s prayers, and watched it flutter in the wind.

I’d left a prayer there a week before, at the close of our parish weekend, out on a wander with these same friends. I remember bursting with thanksgiving for all the blessings of this summer at the Ranch, this community in the city, this sweet, sweet life.

I e-mailed a friend on Sunday, another member of the East Bay contingent. Knowing she wasn’t feeling well, I asked her for coffee when I get back to Berkeley. She told me she understood about family time.

That’s love. And this is us. Rob’s last gift to me is a real appreciation for this church. I’m redefining community, family, home. I think we’re all appreciating each other more. I’m realizing how deeply I belong here. These people who have loved me, encouraged me, laughed with me, and held me while I cried on them—have meant every bit of it. And I mean it right back. All last week, while living and working in a place so close to heaven, all I could think of was, “My family’s in San Francisco, and I want to be with them.”

Rob was always there, unless he wasn’t well enough. His presence was light, gentle, generous, and mischievous. He had an air of, “I know what you’re up to”—and we always knew he loved us. I will miss him in a thousand little ways. A bunch of us meet for coffee at Creighton’s before church; last week, I couldn’t steal his extra napkins. I couldn’t hear him make some little comment, barely above a whisper, that would leave the rest of us roaring.

We told stories on Sunday, in place of a sermon. We shared his memory among us. His presence was there with us—but I’m still not used to the idea that he will not be.

I know that Rob's okay now; I know he is surrounded by Love and limitlessness. I know it was his time. I know all the saints are dancing.

I still miss him. We, still miss him. And we will for a long time.

For Rob, pray with me

I wrote and posted this here this morning. I'm on the writing team, and assistant webmaster; it was my turn to publish prayers for the week's news, yesterday. I want to share them here.

It’s Friday morning. I was supposed to write these prayers last night. I completely forgot.

I’m working at a retreat center this summer, two hours from home. Two days ago, my associate priest died of congestive heart failure. We all knew it was coming; he’d been battling bone cancer for some time. He died surrounded by his family, members of our church community, and the Franciscan brothers with whom he lived. He left this world in a circle of enormous love.

And he left his love with us. I miss my home so much I can taste it—at the same time, I am so proud of them for giving him such a gentle, attentive passing.

These are the thoughts, and the prayers, that I have.
For the soul of Rob, and for all who leave this world in peace, love, and light:
We give thanks to you.

For all who die in violence, and too young:
We give thanks to you.

For all who wake up every morning and eat a thoughtless breakfast:
We give thanks to you.

For all who must struggle for food and shelter:
We give thanks to you.

For all who sleep in silence and peace:
We give thanks to you.

For all whose dreams are broken by gunfire:
We give thanks to you.

For all who live their lives surrounded by love:
We give thanks to you.

For all who are alone, even in a crowd of people:
We give thanks to you.

For all who give their lives daily in the service of others:
We give thanks to you.

For all who don’t know where to begin:
We give thanks to you.

We lift up these prayers, and the prayers of all who pray, in every language and without words.
Amen.

Grief, and awe

My associate priest, Rob Roy Rhudy, died yesterday afternoon. He was in his late 70's, had been battling bone cancer, and was overtaken by congestive heart failure.

He was a soft-spoken, gentle soul, with the driest sense of humor on the planet. Easter before last, I was serving. I was wearing an alb, and carrying a torch (candle). We sing a really rousing closing song on Easter; I forgot what I was wearing, and what I was holding, and clapped my hands--thus getting wax all over me.

I was slinking around, looking for an Altar Guild member to confess to, when I bumped into Rob. I asked him, "Now what should I do?" He answered me quietly and completely deadpan, save for a twinkle in his eye:

"Well, you're going to hell now."

We all loved him. I'm working this summer at a retreat center 70 miles from San Francisco, and couldn't participate in the vigil that my community kept for him. But everyone who reported back to me told me that he was surrounded by love. People from church took two-hour shifts, around the clock, to be with him. Our harpist played for him. The Franciscan brothers, with whom he lived, were with him. His nieces were with him.

Last night, after he died, friends gathered at one of their houses. They connected me by speaker phone, and we all read Compline for Rob. This impulse to pray--and their desire to figure out a way to include me after I sobbed on the phone that I needed people to pray with--is a piece of the love we all share. That same love that celebrated with me last weekend at our parish retreat (which happened where I work), when I got up and told a story to all of them, completely confidently and without ever once tripping over my mouth.

I know what lifted Rob as he left us. And I know that same beam of light would be focused on any of us in a millisecond, if we needed it.

I remain in awe.

Healing and truth, and the power of story

To my parish community, the Bishop's Ranch, and to God, all I can say is thank you.

Parish Weekend was a homecoming for me, in ways deeper than words. I’ve been working at the Ranch all summer; being part of this gathering felt like my whole family had come to see me. I got real time with people I’m particularly close to. I got closer to people I’ve respected for a long time. And I got to see for myself, how far I’ve come.

The theme of the weekend was "journeys." We did an exercise Saturday morning, using the metaphor of rocks in our shoes. I asked to be one of the storytellers that night, because the idea didn’t terrify me. I’ve struggled with speaking clearly since I was a teenager; my brain goes faster than my mouth, when I’m excited or nervous, and I almost always have to repeat myself. I knew that I could do this, and I really wanted to. I stood up, in this circle of love in the Ranch House living room, and spoke my truth in total assurance. I knew as I was speaking that I was slow enough; knew that I was loud enough. I didn’t get stuck, and I didn’t get lost. I never once tripped over my mouth. I hadn’t had any prep time, but I didn’t need it. I wasn’t trying to read the words in my head. I just, simply, spoke them.

Are you getting the idea yet, that this is huge ? Because it is. It’s the equivalent of climbing a mountain without ropes, trusting that your hands and feet will grip the rock—and then being proven right, with every fluid motion. I felt completely supported by the community. I also felt completely capable. Part of that assurance comes from being at the Ranch all summer. This is a place of unfathomable healing. The land and the people are good for the soul; joy and justice live and grow here, and I've learned how to breathe. Part of it is the intentional work I’ve done, and that some in the community have helped me with. I cannot minimize the gift of this community—the power in knowing that everything offered is received, in love. Questions and critiques come later. The first gift we give one another is appreciation. I’ve witnessed this for two years, and it is palpable.

Here, then, is my story, more or less the way it came in the telling. I had detailed the event in the post just following, and my reflections there took me to a slightly different place. I'm still learning how to tell this story; I'm still learning how to live it. It happened a little more than two weeks ago.

The rocks I carry with me have never hurt my feet. The rocks I carry with me are liberating.

I’ve been up at the Ranch all summer, working. I’d been needing an ocean fix. Two weeks ago Friday, when I had a day off, I drove out to Goat Rock, to walk around in infinity for awhile. I needed to pray—and I often do that best when I’m moving.

There are signs up everywhere saying, “Stay out of the water.” The “safe” area is more-or-less flat; the danger zone slopes steeply toward the ocean. I was there at high tide; the water came almost to the lip. It was so socked-in that I couldn’t see very far; this was kind of like looking down at a huge, unpredictably roiling bathtub.

I walked toward the rock, slowly, barefooted over sand and gravel. The beach is fairly narrow at high tide, and bounded on the dry side by rusty, windswept cliffs. Something more than curiosity told me to go check them out. I found myself standing, my back pressed to the edge of California, feet thrust into shifting sand, face toward the water and the wind. I was thinking of plate tectonics, how the cliff I was leaning on was slowly pushing toward the ocean.

And I heard, or felt, God, saying, “Go.” Not literally, “jump into these riptides and drown,” but, “Go be in my ocean. Live with and love my people.” The voice inside me was the rock at my back. The water was all life, all possibility, all adventure, all love.

I don’t know how long I stood there, just being with all of this. I walked back slowly, watching where I was going. I noticed a rock at my feet. It was pale grey-blue, light and porous, shaped like a flat egg, barely denser than pumice. It was wet and shiny; the color caught my eye. I picked it up. It was small, flat; I would have skipped it across the water without thinking, had the ocean not been so rough. As it was, I held it for awhile, turned it over and looked at it, then tossed it back onto the ground. But… it seemed to want to come with me. I felt like, if I had the right kind of ears I could hear what it was saying. So I picked it up again, and walked on, watching the ground, trying not to walk on gravel.

The same thing happened two more times. I carried three small, flat, nearly identical rocks home in my pocket. I carry them with me now. Again, I wish I could hear better. I don’t know really what the rocks are about. But what I take from them is this: Listen. Remember. And be present.

Happy New Year!

I don’t really do resolutions; it’s too easy to break them and get depressed about it. I hope to stay whole-heartedly on the path I’m on, and if God has any relevance whatsoever, I can hardly help but do that.

I was talking with my friend and classmate Debbie at a New Year’s potluck last night. Speaking about herself, she said, “When you get serious about spiritual life, God gets serious too. Things get brought up that need healing.” I nearly choked, in knowing exasperation. Both of us knew that I know what that’s about. Normally, I go along with life pretty happily most of the time. When something bumps or bruises me, I’m fragile and thoughtful until I can find my balance, and learn whatever I need to. I had a lot of fun this Christmas—but I also was, and am, really struggling. I think I’m on the cusp of scrapping through it—but it will take some more work. The holiday sharpened the usual aches; I forget every year that this will happen. It also awakened a pain that I didn't know I had. Time, work, and love will heal it; I know this, but I also don't know it. I've always gotten stronger on the other side of "growing experiences," but it's hard to trust that I will.

The neatest thing about Christmas was something I could not have predicted. My friend Jeanne from St. Aidan’s auctioned off a Christmas vest, as a fundraiser for the afterschool program housed at our church. It was all done silently by e-mail. I bid $5 and didn’t win.

However, the winner—anonymously—gave it to me. Apparently I had expressed more enthusiasm than I knew. I found out when I served at Christmas Eve, that it had all been announced at our Advent IV service that morning. I served again yesterday, and wore it around at coffee hour. I’ve had a lot of fun with it. (I’m momentarily in Berkeley, and my camera’s in Stockton. I can add a picture tomorrow.)

I also caught up with the vocations chair yesterday. They’re meeting in a couple weeks to discuss discernment models that would fit the parish, the diocese, and people in situations like mine. (I’ve been a member for less than the usually requisite time.) I don’t know yet what will happen. He said that they meet every couple of months, and will invite me after this upcoming meeting. So by that reckoning, I will start real honest-to-goodness discernment work... on or around the Ides of March.

Yes, that is a wry grin on my face.

Here, as seen on Possible Water, is 2006 in a paragraph of nonsense. Take the first sentence from the first post of each month of the past year, paste them together, and see what you get:

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation. I got tagged. I must be in now! Thank you, Dixie Blue; I haven't been here in ages. I posted this on a discussion board I visit, and thought I'd repeat it here. What are you proud of yourself for? Since I came back from Spring Break (a week ago Monday), I've been feeling like each of my limbs is caught in its own separate riptide. I've been generally restless with my blog for awhile. What I've accomplished today: Got out of bed, fed myself breakfast and lunch, and brought in four boxes from the car. I'm supposed to be writing a sermon... and I'm stuck. Yes, I’m still alive. The subject of an e-mail I haven’t answered yet reads, “Are you home?” Yes, you never hear from me anymore; you just read my homilies. I preached this morning at St. Aidan's. It’s been a busy week.

Yet another blogger who blogs about blogging; that’s me. Peace to all in the New Year!

Prophecy and discernment

It’s been a busy week. Above is a photograph I took of my bishop, Marc Andrus, on Thursday. I went with a friend from St. Aidan’s to a Eucharist in front of the Federal Building in San Francisco, in remembrance of all who have died in Iraq. About 200 of us processed down the hill from Grace Cathedral. My priest was there, as were a handful of other CDSP students, and my faculty advisor. It was very clearly a Christian service, with some nice interfaith touches. We sang, prayed, heard some of the Beautiful Names for God (read in English, not Arabic) and listened as names of the dead were read to us. Bishop Marc preached a five-minute sermon on the theme that no one dies apart from God. He celebrated the Eucharist, and quietly slipped toward the entrance of the Federal Building, where he and 12 others took part in a die-in. They were arrested for doing so. I am proud of my church, my bishop, and all those who were arrested with him. I don’t see it as a political statement; I see it as focusing awareness of the presence of God in a place that needs healing. I don’t want to be a bishop, but this is a piece of the kind of work I want to do.

I chose not to be arrested, because I’m still in school, don’t have a job, and am a little leery of law enforcement since I was caught in a pepper-spray incident at a protest in Olympia in March 2003. But they handled it really well, here; it was all done with order and respect. If I don’t have to fear for my lungs (I have asthma), I can think about sticking my neck out some.

I’m going to be sticking my neck out in other ways, which excites me tremendously. I met with my rector on Wednesday, and was sent along to the Vocations Committee at my parish. I haven’t gotten to speak with the coordinator yet, so I don’t know exactly what the next steps are. After we’ve spoken, I’ll share what I can; what this means is that I’m moving from being a member of my parish with clear intentions, to being actively and officially in the discernment process.

I feel so affirmed, and so deeply, completely ready. I could have initiated the conversation that led to this months ago, but was flirting back and forth with feeling ready to do it until now. The doubts I still harbor are about my calling, not about myself. (It’s incredibly liberating, just to realize that.) I’ve been through a lot and I’ve come through a lot; I know who God is and I think I know who I am. I want to test and push and experiment. I’m ready to be challenged by a community that will be discerning with me. I want that, even. I’m not afraid of the idea of people knowing who I am, anymore.

A friend affirmed this in the car, the other night, on our way to an Advent liturgy that a group of us is doing in the East Bay. She said, “You’ve done your time. You’re ready to do a different kind of time, now.” She also said she was glad our priest had talked me into realizing that. That wasn’t my take on our conversation; it felt like we were sort of chatting about how everything was going, and I asked the question, “Now what?” We both knew what my intentions were, but I did need to be the one to say them. And I did, and I could, and I’m here. I’m both grounded, and bouncing nearly out of my skin.

This means three important things:

1) I have a spiritual home that I’m safe and happy in;
2) I’m on the right road, and people besides myself can see it;
3) I’m really ready to be open to God, my community, and my own heart.

Alleluia, amen.

Homily, Feast of All Saints

I preached this morning at St. Aidan's.

Matthew 5:1-12

Wow. It’s All Saints Day. It’s fall in California!
This is the day when we remember all who came before us.
We praise famous, and not-so-famous, people.
We think about what it means to honor them,
with our lips and in our lives.
People jump into our minds at odd moments,
and we wish them happiness and love.
We send out a quick thank-you for the ones we love,
as we go back to studying or washing the dishes.
We might notice a grandparent in a child’s smile.
We remember, in turn, who we are,
whose we are,
and how we are called to live.

The first record of a feast set aside to commemorate all the saints
dates from before the year 270,
in a work by Gregory the Wonder-Worker, a bishop in Greece.
The date was fixed to November 1 in the eighth century.
This is our way of honoring our ancestors.
We’ve been doing it for a very long time.

What is a saint?
Is it someone who lived a legendarily perfect life,
and died centuries ago in the service of the faith?
Is it someone about whom we tell miracle stories?
Is it the statue under the birdbath in the yard?

The catechism in the Book of Common Prayer says this about sainthood:
“The communion of saints is the whole family of God,
the living and the dead, those whom we love and those whom we hurt,
bound together in Christ by sacrament, prayer, and praise.”

Saints are the faces on the icons,
and the names forgotten centuries ago.
Theirs are the stories we tell once a year on their feast days,
and the stories remembered only by their children.
We are the babies of the family.
Ours is an ancient line of love and faith,
seeking and finding,
wrestling with and celebrating God.

This is a time to honor our own pantheons,
as well as those individuals specifically mentioned by the church.
Not only Aidan, monk, missionary bishop, and generous soul,
but Dymphna—patron of madness and also, for us, of creative chaos,
amazing organizational skills, drag-queen nuns, and children.
Not only Francis, who loved peace, practiced radical poverty,
and kissed a leper on the street—
but all who have lived and died and worked and played
and loved in this city.

I honor friends right here, who have welcomed me, laughed with me,
taught me a new skill, and helped me through a difficult time.
I honor a woman I never knew in the town I came from,
who roused her friends to create a flock of doves out of paper mache,
old sheets, glitter, paint, and glue.
They marched in an annual street fair celebrating life,
the year before she died on Palestinian soil.
I honor her parents, who carry on Rachel’s work
and who have become good friends to me.
I honor a child I cared for when I was just out of college.
She’s a self-conscious thirteen-year-old now;
she no longer jumps into my arms when she sees me.
But she taught me more about joyful assertiveness than anyone has,
before she even turned two.

I honor Mary, the bearer of God, saying yes to wild possibility.
I honor Mary Magdalene, first, vocal, witness to the resurrected Christ.
I honor Thomas, who honored his own need to see and touch the resurrected Christ for himself.
I honor all those who serve the San Francisco Night Ministry,
and who give their time by volunteering anywhere
in the service of God’s people and creation.
I honor those, too numerous to mention, following their faith
with thoughtful abandon,
stepping out bravely and joyfully into new ministries,
serving the God who calls us all to be our true selves.

Who do you honor today? How do they help you hear the call of God?
How do they encourage you to shine your light for others?

Saints are the holy ones, and saints are all of us. What is holiness?

Jesus said,

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Blessed are the ones who are not attached to material things,
or financial security,
for they will find freedom in the generosity of God.
These are the ones who can share what they have,
with others who need even more than they.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”
Blessed are those who can feel their true feelings,
who can grieve and cry without shame.
They have the courage to ask for the comfort that they need.
When others need to be held, or rocked, or listened to,
these are the ones who have the strength to give that.

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.”
Blessed are the ones who meet anger not with posturing and threats,
but with openhearted, unreserved love.
These are the ones who can heal the ruptures in this world.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”
Blessed are those who seek God through working for justice on this earth.
The power of God will be with them
like a mighty stream.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.”
Blessed are the ones who can reach out with love and offers of forgiveness,
for they too will be loved and forgiven.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.”
Blessed are the ones who are not complicated by greed,
hunger for power,
or any wrong attachments.
These are the ones who can pray in silence.
These are the ones who can be still, in their bodies and souls,
and make space for the love of God to fill them.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
Blessed are the ones who work to heal divisions
between all peoples of the earth.
This is the work of shalom to which God calls us;
when we do it, we live into our call to be co-creators of the Kindom.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
God is with us in our hurt and fear and pain,
as much as God is with us in our joy.
God knows our deepest intentions, and God loves us immeasurably.
God “gets” who we are.
In a time when it was physically dangerous
to practice a countercultural faith,
Jesus was assuring his listeners that God was present with them,
even in their suffering.

“Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”
The work we do here matters.
Our lives matter.
The love of God, shining through us, matters.

Shalom is a Hebrew word that means more than peace;
it means wholeness, completeness, union with one another and with God.
Our new Presiding Bishop, Katharine Jefferts Schori,
preached yesterday on what it means to embody the concept of shalom.
She said,

“The ability of any of us to enjoy shalom depends on the health of our neighbors. If some do not have the opportunity for health or wholeness, then none of us can enjoy true and perfect holiness. The writer of Ephesians implores us to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace – to be at one in God's shalom. That is our baptismal task and hope, and unless each of the members of the body enjoys shalom we shall not live as one. That dream of God, that word of God spoken in each one of us at baptism also speaks hope of its realization.”

We are given the work of holiness at baptism,
the very moment at which we enter the communion of saints.
When we do this work,
we affirm the love, the creativity, and the reconciling power of God.

Today we celebrate the Feast of All Saints.
Our cloud of witnesses is right here with us.
Let us do the work that God has created us to do.
Let us be who God has called us to be.
We are the family of God.

Update, of sorts

Just back from Reading Week. I went to the Apostle in Exile’s house from one Friday to the next, ostensibly to study. I got some work done, but didn’t catch up as much as I’d wanted to. She works during the day, so that was my reading time. We also took her 2½-year-old goddaughter to the pumpkin patch, went to a concert at her church, did projects and hung out at home. It was a good, and restful, week.

I came back to Berkeley for three hours last Friday, and then went off to my parish retreat. We went to the Bishop’s Ranch in Healdsburg. It’s really beautiful there. The theme of the weekend incorporated Scripture, prayer, and “surrounding ourselves with spiritual friends.” I had such a great time. I loved being able to have longer conversations than we can over a Sunday morning coffee hour. We got to sing a lot. The story circle was deeply powerful. And we built our Sunday Eucharist together, in small groups. It came together in a joyful celebration.

My poor blog. I feel like I owe everybody an update; I just haven’t known how to give it. My friend Molly introduced her story last Saturday night by explaining that she’s living in a story she doesn’t know how to tell yet. That’s where I've been, also.

I’ve started updates several times, and didn’t finish them because I couldn’t string the sentences together to say what’s really happening. Since last summer, I’ve been finding pieces of me that I hadn’t known existed. I’m having huge experiences, mostly internal. I want to share them, but I really just need to let myself integrate them first. I also don’t know how to do something so personal, publicly.

For right now, I’m not sure how to use this space. I like the idea of telling stories to illustrate the literal truth; maybe I’ll experiment with that. God knows I don’t really have the time, anyway, even though I want to keep writing. Please bear with me while I figure this out.

Sharing Our Stories: St. Aidan Member in the 21st Century

A different relatively new person is speaking at my church each week, from the Feast of St. Aidan in late August until Epiphany. The topic is how St. Aidan's intersects with our spiritual lives. I was asked to participate last Wednesday, and here is what I said this morning.

My mother was not Cesar Chavez’ lawyer, but my mentor was an Aidanite.

Our Dean of Students chooses current students to mentor each member of the entering class, to show them the ropes their first year. She knows the mentors she chooses; she has met each newcomer who has visited, and read their applications. By a stroke of grace or genius, I got Molly. We met by e-mail over the summer. She took me out for a much-appreciated beer, the first night of orientation. As she tells it, she “got me drunk and made me take Greek.” We talked about how each of us had landed at CDSP. She knew I was from Olympia, had come from a bit of an upside-down situation, and was going to be looking for a new home here. My path wasn’t entirely unlike her own. She told me about St. Aidan’s, and about Aidan’s Way and Dymphna. I knew who Dymphna was, because I’d gone looking for a patron saint the week before. This sounded like a good community, and an incredible amount of fun. Molly was doing Field Ed at Holy Innocents and couldn’t bring me here, but she urged me to come. I remember my exact answer: “I’d love to. I can’t. We stole your rector.” She said, “No, don’t worry about that. You’d love them, and they’d love you.” Prophetic words.

I went out of town for my class retreat and then my birthday, and visited Grace Cathedral and somewhere else. I made it over here for the first time on St. Francis Day. I got off of BART and waited what seemed like forever at the bus stop. I overheard people talking about the #52. I went over and asked them about it. That was Kate and Angela. They showed me around that first day, and introduced me. Everybody was so incredibly open and welcoming. They took me out to lunch afterward, and we talked for a really long time. They weren’t just being nice to the newcomer; they were genuinely interested. I came back the next week, and it was clear that my having a connection to Nedi had mattered for about ten minutes. People who hadn’t heard that piece were just as friendly, just as welcoming, just as enthusiastic and encouraging.

I visited a couple other places, but when I wasn’t here, I missed it. I connected with the worship; I loved the community. I connected right away with the sense of compassion and utter chaotic, creative joy. I volunteered at Dymphna so I could meet people. That resulted in the following often-repeated exchange:

“Hi, how was your weekend?”
“Great! I waitressed at a drag show for church.”

I’m bringing a friend from San Joaquin to that, next month. She was here last week, with me.

I explored a few more congregations, but I kept a foot here. The community was wonderful, friendly and supportive. I had a lot of sorting and healing to do, and that seemed to be possible here. But the future rector was an unknown quantity. Because of an experience in the parish I had come from, I needed to be able to trust the priest. I was hesitant to completely fall in love before I knew who that would be. I came back from break at Epiphany, and you announced that you’d called Tommy. He is a friend of a seminary friend, since graduated; she’d found him in the Baton Rouge phone book when she was looking for a church for her parents. They love him. I met him, got to know him, and there was no longer a reason for resistance.

I got on the rota, and started really feeling like a part of this place. I started coming to the women’s group. I did what felt to me like little random things, like putting together a sheet about the labyrinth last Holy Week, and being there for an afternoon. People have commented to me that they appreciated me jumping in. I’m here; how could I possibly not? I’ve been asked to participate in some ways, and been happily included in anything I’ve expressed an interest in. People here have helped and supported me, sometimes on purpose, often more than they know. One major question I came down here with is, “What do I have to give to the world, and the church?” You’ve been more than willing to let me explore. I’ve been really embraced here, encouraged to give whatever I want to, and loved for who I am.

I went to Seattle for the summer, and had a fantastic time up there. Puget Sound holds my roots, and I love it. The parish I was in was very active and inclusive. In the middle of all of that, I wrote to Sally and asked her to transfer my membership here. I visited because my mentor told me to. I stayed because I caught the spirit of this community. I came from Olympia last fall, needing to do a lot of sorting and healing, and listening to what the call to uproot my whole life is all about. I struggled a lot with the whole idea of home, being from one place and needing to be in another. I came back here last week, twitching all the way up the hill on the bus, because I would not rather be anywhere else.

Thank you.

I love doing this.

Just came home from church. It was likely my last time there for the summer, and my first regular Sunday MC'ing. I love being there.

First, I drove there successfully. That in itself is an accomplishment; I have a geriatric stick-shift minivan with a foot brake, and it doesn't like hills much. I also don't know my way around San Francisco worth anything. But I had good directions this time, and only turned wrong once, when the sun was in my eyes. When I got there, one of the other MC's had already marked the readings, so I didn't have to worry about it. All I really had to do was unlock the doors, put out the bulletins, and vest.

Advice: Go to a service before you help lead it. I'd never been to the 8:00, and had no idea what I was doing. We pulled it off, though. Also, pray and breathe. When you're responsible for the silences, don't panic.

Tommy anointed people for healing, and me for finals and safe travels. I feel so embraced here.

Visited with people I'd met once, but never talked with, at a coffee shop between services. One of them called me by my mentor's name, and apologized for it. I didn't mind at all: Molly's my mentor, Nedi's my bishop, and that's how I ended up here. (Apparently I'm living up to that legacy, because I'm welcomed, embraced, and having a great time.) Molly and I are crazy in different ways, and I don't think I'd mix us up, but being confused with her is a compliment. (I have a doppelganger in Olympia as well; everyone thinks I'm Jody at Traditions. I always get a smile; she's one of the neatest people I know.) We got talking about train trips, traveling, community, and friends. They're visiting family in the Northwest this summer, and we might get to hook up.

I knew what I was doing at the 10:10, because I've been there so much, and shadowed people. I also knew by then how loud to ring the bell. I relaxed, did my job, and caught myself at Communion unable to stop smiling. Sometimes you know you're in the right place, and you feel God breathe within you. I love doing this, and I belong there. I also know that it's only a piece of everything I'm called to grow into.

Tommy preached on listening to God. I'm glad I got to hear it twice. He said it would be a good thing if someone started a class on this. I felt a tug to do it. I just now e-mailed him. I would love to give something like that to these people. It's the safest place I know to start giving, start growing, start stretching beyond myself. They're welcoming, loving, and that whole piece of learning to listen is right exactly where I am.

One of the major reasons I want to do a year-long internship somewhere after next academic year, is that I love this community so much. I feel so blessed that they're my home while I'm here.

Okay. Must study. Peace out.

Knowing

I slept very little last night. Went to church again this morning, and then to a potluck. I'll admit to exhaustion. But everything I wrote previously is, if anything, more deeply true. I am not feeling any endorphin high. I have been touched, changed, more profoundly than I know how to articulate. I know what I am called to do, on a cellular level, in my throat and in my heart, deeper than doubt can reach. I'd thought that I was grounded, before. The ground is different now. But it is life-giving, and strong.

I know that I will need to live into this reality, and to find these words. This calling came to me gradually, tentatively, over many years, as I was able to listen and as I wasn't. Now it is clear and strong. I don't question my sanity. I want to know how to grow into what God is asking me to be. The first thing to do is to take all the skills I'm learning more seriously than I have. I had a watershed experience yesterday. I am called to relationship with God, as we all are. I believe I'm called to be a priest. I want to do this, and I want to do it well. I care much more about my pastoral skills than about, say, the Council of Chalcedon. I couldn't care less where anyone falls on an internet heresy quiz--I want all to know that God simply loves them. How to do this? Go after the academics like a dog with a bone. Practice everything. Listen. Listen. Listen. Attend to other people and attend to God. Know that I am learning to be a vessel--not the healer herself, but one through whose hands and words and actions, God heals. And then, get out of my own way and be that conduit.

Learn to listen. Learn to speak. Learn to stand up, and to sit still. Let the fire burn; burn with it. Tell my rector exactly what is different--not "I'm thinking, maybe," but "This is where I know I'm called to be." Tag along to vestry and stewardship committee meetings, as well as the liturgical/pastoral activities that draw me. Learn everything I can. Try everything I can. Own everything. Grow without fear. Let myself love what I love, and follow what I follow, awake and with abandon. Listen to the Yeses, listen to the Nos and Laters; dig deeper all the time.

Always, keep walking. Keep praying. Keep alive to the world and to God.

Christ is Risen!

Christ is risen from the dead,
Trampling down death by death,
And upon those in the tombs bestowing life!

Sing along.



Wow. I've never been to an Easter Vigil like this one. We told all the stories--none were read the usual way. Genesis was read, against a background of Native American instrumentation. (We got what creation might have sounded like.) Ezekiel and the Dry Bones was performed wordlessly, as interpretive dance. One man encircled another, breathed on him, and both danced together. They drew a few of us into the circle with them; I was one. Noah's Ark was read as a poem. The Moses story was told by Aaron and Miriam, two years in the desert and tired of everything. We had three baptisms. And I got to serve at the altar.

Always before now, I talked about "being called to something." I hardly dared say what--at most, "maybe priesthood, maybe Mercy Corps." I didn't commit--I couldn't, as my process will take forever and I have no control over what people see in me, and decide about my calling.

Until tonight. I was six inches from the baptisms, holding the book, and I wanted to be performing them. Not maybe. Wanted to be. Felt the Spirit flowing into me, "This is where I want you." It was like being in a waterfall of God. I thought about what it means to be there and to be initiating other people, and I don't want to be anywhere else.

Called a friend when I got home, because I knew she'd understand. She did. (She's a woman in San Joaquin, with a calling of her own.) She said the alleluias for me and with me, and told me what I knew--that I was glowing, and that my soul was "going splat!" against the ceiling. "There is," she said, "no going back now." I know that. And all I can do is rejoice. All I can do is love God back, and dedicate myself again to being the person God affirms I am now, and is calling me ever more deeply to be.

Now. I need to live into this calling until other people see it, and forever, let myself live it always more. The service was beautiful, creative, wonderful, powerful--and frustrating, because while I felt internally, invisibly anointed, I was also reminded how long my road will be. I'm not formally in process. I've got many people to prove myself to. I keep hearing messages from friends about how the process toward ordination beats people up--and messages from God not to doubt who I am or what I give.

God is, inexorably, no matter how I block it out or doubt my own worthiness, calling me.

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

(We sang the Troparion I linked to, though less well than the choir from St. Gregory's. You can find their music here.)



(Pictures added May 2, 2006, from the St. Aidan's Tuesday FLASH.)

Affirmations

I will change your name
You shall no longer be called
Wounded, outcast, lonely or afraid,

I will change your name

Your new name shall be

Confidence, joyfulness, overcoming one,

Faithfulness, friend of God, one who seeks my face.

I love this parish. We're singing the above as our gospel hymn this Lent. It's so simple, and it's so real. Non-threatening repentance, you know? Your error is in all forms of hurt and alienation. I will bring you home.

I've known the New Zealand Lord's Prayer for years, but had never used it liturgically. It enfleshes what the more familiar version is trying to get at. It's incredibly powerful to say, "For you reign in the glory of the power that is love," surrounded by a community whose identity is invested in loving and welcoming the stranger. I'm praying, and aware of what I'm tasting, at the same time. (I'm not a stranger here anymore; haven't been since the first Sunday I attended, in October. But there's talk here all the time about how to be a more welcoming community. They're unaware of how well they already practice it.)

I went to a meeting after yesterday's service, to plan the logistics of Holy Week. I hadn't known it was happening, and didn't need to be there; I was just there for the learning experience. I expressed enthusiasm about labyrinths. Ended up not only promising to write up a one-page guide to what a labyrinth is, but being there for an hour and a half on the Wednesday of Holy Week (5-6:30 pm, if you want to show up), to teach people how to walk it. After, I tagged one of the people on the healing team, whom I'd spoken with in January. I hadn't seen her in recent weeks; she's been sick. I told her I was still interested. She said, well, talk to Tommy, I think you're qualified. What? There's a week-long, intensive (and expensive) training that you've all had, that I haven't done. She knows. But she sees this in me, and she'll teach me what I need to know. She wants to do a Saturday training and a bunch of Wednesdays, also to help build up the Wednesday healing service. I told her I only know where I'll be through May. So, she's doing it while we know I'm here.

A friend drove me from church to the Embarcadero BART. I don't know how far it is out of her way, and it's not by any means the closest to church, but we like talking and so there it is. She's been questioning the level of her own participation, because she has physical limitations that she's not used to. I said something like, "If we're going to be inclusive, physical abilities need to be a part of that." New thought for her. But isn't it obvious? You should not be limited--by yourself or other people--from doing what God calls you to. We all live in this, er, Kindom. Anyway, she responded: "I think you're in the right calling." Wow, thank you. Why? "A lot of things. It's not just this conversation."

These are the snippets I cherish, walking on an unknown road. These are my streetlights, my signposts. "Go here. Do more of that. This is where you belong." I'm so thankful for them. All I know, in my own self, is to be where God is. God is everywhere. I know I'm called to give everything I am. Utterly. I'm learning how to do that.

"The process," and politics, scare me. I need to just explore and experiment right now; to play and learn and do exactly what I'm doing. I'm grateful for this time.

Came home and attempted to study--with absolutely no success. I have a midterm tomorrow, a paper due Thursday, and a verbatim to get pinned down this week. Next week is spring break. I'm staying with my friend in Stockton next weekend, then driving to Olympia next Monday morning. I love what I'm doing and I'm meant to be doing it--but all I want to do right now is pack up the extra junk in my room, and get out of Dodge.

You know you're in San Francisco...

...when you're sitting in church on Christ the King Sunday. The guest preacher, Brother Somebody from the local Franciscan house, is talking about the images we associate with monarchy. You look up and howl with laughter when he quotes the disco classic, "It's Raining Men."

Get it?

I love St. Aidan's.

His overarching point was about the Kindom (yes!) of God. God and we are all interrelated.

What do you see, when you imagine the reign of Christ?

St. Aidan's

About a month ago, I visited St. Aidan's Episcopal Church in San Francisco. I'd wanted to go there, but felt shy about it because we stole their rector. I expressed that shyness to my mentor, whose home parish it is and who knows Nedi. She said, don't worry about that, they'd love you and you'd love them. Go. I went the first Sunday that I could, and she was right.

I met a couple at the bus stop, that first Sunday--which happened to be St. Francis Day, and Blessing of Every Small Dog in San Francisco. We befriended each other pretty much instantly. They showed me around, and then publicly introduced me as a first-year seminarian and an Olympian. "She knows Nedi." (I'd met her twice.) I was met with a wave of friendliness. I liked the community right away; you walk in the door knowing nothing, and can feel the joyful chaos. I knew I'd come back, but my October weekends were busy with a visit to a friend and then Reading Week. I volunteered at Dymphna last Friday, and came back to worship yesterday.

Dymphna... Molly (my mentor) said I'd fit in here because I knew that Dymphna is the patron saint of madness. (Google her and see why.) "St. Dymphna's Whatever Happened to Bingo?" is St. Aidan's annual fundraiser for their afterschool program, Aidan's Way. Basically, I waitressed at a drag show for church. Where else would you get to do that? (It was a cabaret, not strictly a drag show. But I'm not sure how many of the nuns were cross-dressing.) I don't remember when I've had that much fun. I did it so I could see this production, and to meet people. Someone on Sunday remarked on me just jumping in... why on earth wouldn't I want to? I need a faith community that can be my home, and one I can get neck-deep busy in. These people know how to have fun, and how to live their faith. Yesterday, I could see that my being from Olympia had been a cool thing for them--but they'd have welcomed me just as much if I were from anywhere. That's just who they are. Open and friendly and engaged in life.

They announced yesterday that they've called a new rector. He's a gay man from Baton Rouge, and I think another friend here at CDSP knows him. I really, really want to work with/be around women clergy, but I can be open. The vestry and search committee are really excited. His name is Tommy Dillon, he's my age, and he'll be here in February.

On another front... I went to see a counselor at Kaiser last week. We talked for 45 minutes about depression, anxiety, and ADD. He agreed with me that meds might be a good solution, and gave me a referral to a pdoc for December 14. With luck, I should function better spring semester. (I love being here, but my head is full of questions: what am I doing, why am I doing this, what is God calling me into, can I be bigger than I've been? Focusing on academics hasn't happened in awhile, and trying to focus when I'm actually doing them is just laughable.) Pray for me, please.

I am the worst blogger in the world.

Now that we know this, let's go on. It's getting really interesting here. Aside from feeling (and being) academically behind all the time, all of my fault lines are shifting. I'm standing on a volcano. And it's exactly what I want.

Quick recap: Left Olympia August 12. Spent two weeks with a friend in the Central Valley, visiting hardware stores, tearing up her floor, hurting my back, and camping on the coast, bonding with each other, God, wild creatures and space aliens. We had an incredible time. Her rector and I are long-time friends as well; we met when I was 16. I'm now 80 miles from them. I can drive out on random weekends and see family. I love that. I'm going out this Saturday, I think.

Got here the last week of August... I remember it was a Thursday. Orientation started the following Tuesday; I think the 29th. I threw my stuff onto the middle of my dorm room floor, and went on with exploring. It's still a royal mess in here.

I'm here to do school, and I love it and want to--and there are so many distractions. (I ought to be reading right now.) I finally started calling spiritual directors--first I'd meant to, then I had to. The ground is shifting under me. I don't know if that's a direct response to what I'm learning, or just what happens when you're in this place, and everyone around you is charged with change. I'm thinking all the time about what I want to do when I'm done here--at the same time, planning ways to make school take longer. There's so much I want to experience, try on, have time to suck at before I need to be really good. I'm aware that people will be watching me closely--and I want to rock my own world as well as theirs. At the same time, I know that it starts with simple trust. All I need to do is walk out into the ocean. God will take care of surrounding me with water. (The temperature, taste, and critters swimming in it aren't up to me.)

Went to a presentation last Thursday, after Community Night (Eucharist and dinner). I'd seen Karen but didn't know her; she's ahead of me, and we'd never talked. She spent five weeks last summer working in South Africa, at a shelter/school for kids who have lost both parents to AIDS. I found myself asking in all seriousness, who do I talk to if I want to do this? She and I are meeting Wednesday to discuss contacts and funding. (The main expense is travel--I looked online when I got home, and round-trip airfare between SeaTac and Johannesburg is $2100. Once you get there, it's obscene to think about money--these people don't have enough food, and the exchange rate is 6 rand to the dollar.) I'm serious about doing this. I was thinking about something like Bishop's Ranch or Holden, and still should write to them. But I've had it in my head for years that I want to do HIV/AIDS work in Africa, and never really followed up on it--either I felt like I couldn't, or whatever. This just dropped into my lap. It's possible.

I went to St. Aidan's in San Francisco last Sunday. I'd wanted to, but felt shy about it because that's where we stole Nedi from. (Non-Episcopalians--the former priest at St. Aidan's is the current suffragan bishop in the Diocese of Olympia, living and working in Seattle.) My mentor goes there, and told me it would be fine. It was. I overheard a couple talking, at the bus stop by the Glen Park BART station, about how late the #52 was. Aha, I thought, they'll know--and went over to ask them about it. They said that it's a second-run line--that means it gets pulled to other routes if there are problems. Oh.

"I'm from Olympia. That doesn't happen there."
"Where are you going?"
"St. Aidan's."
"We are too. Do you know Nedi?"
"I've met her twice."

It was that easy. They showed me around, introduced me publicly as a first-year CDSP student from Olympia... and then took me to a Thai place for lunch in downtown Berkeley. (They live one BART stop away from me.) It was about as friendly as an inquisition could be. They invited me to their stewardship dinner--one of them chairs the committee--and I went, Friday. Everybody is so warm, so inclusive. I went to Good Shepherd in Berkeley this morning, and missed the joyful chaos of St. Aidan's. I'm leery of committing to them--in my heart or verbally--before they know who their new rector will be. I'm not just looking for a place to hang out on Sunday mornings--I need a community I can get neck-deep busy in, and trust to do discernment with me later. I love these people. I've been once and I have friends. That wouldn't happen everywhere.

I need to read and get some sleep. Spent four hours yesterday in a faculty member's garden at the far (west) side of San Francisco. We got a lot done and had a good time and talk together--and I'm embarrassingly sore. Need to start swimming, or something.

Peace, love, and blessings to all. I'll try to keep this up once a week, from here.