Pastors are People Too

I might be creeped out if people in my church actually had this bumper sticker. But I like the sentiment!

I know it can be difficult to tell with the collar and robes and stoles and holiness and all, but actually, as it turns out, pastors are also just people. And we need to get treated like it. We need to be shown respect and compassion and TACT. Because when we don't, it hurts.* The only difference is we won't tell YOU about it, except in indirect and kind language the nuance of which you may completely miss unless you are also trained as a pastor. (This is something we call "discipling." In the Christian church, it means gently trying to get you to stop being an ass.) But the truth is we will tell our therapists and spiritual directors and spouses, which will end up either costing money we don't have or making our home life like a demilitarized zone. I know this is difficult to integrate. But it's the truth. And the sooner you embrace it the better. For all of us.

To help you along, I've developed a little list of stuff that I think will help guide you in the right direction. These are just examples from my own life. There could be many more. Let's just call this "THE BEGINNING."

1. Do NOT visit my church, say you would love to meet for coffee (which will initiate in me the unconscious process of being excited that someone is actually interested in joining our church), and then ask me if I can help you to find a "good church" to go to, one with "quality preaching" and "vibrant worship." I know you see me as a spiritual resource and appreciate you coming to me for help.  But as you might imagine if you have that special disorder we call "empathy," I will extrapolate from this that you thought our church "sucked" and that my preaching and worship leadership was "low quality" and "boring." This hurts. Remember that I don't come to your work and tell you I'd like you to help me find a (fill in the blank: banker, barista, photographer, landscape architect, whatever you are) who has real talent.
2. Do NOT talk about my weight. Ever. Unless you are telling me I'm worth the equivalent of it in gold.  Additionally, do NOT tell  me I look tired. I am tired. This job is difficult and makes me crazy. People call me in the middle of the night. Contrary to popular opinion, you telling me I look like shit doing it doesn't make it any easier. 
3. Do NOT write me a lengthy email on Sunday evening telling me you didn't feel at all moved by the service I spent hours and hours and hours planning. No amount of positive feedback will be able to make up for this transgression in my mind and now I will be stressed that I am terrible at my job. If you want to help plan worship, join the worship committee to give constructive input. Or better yet, spend three years and thousands of dollars in seminary to become a pastor of your own damn church. 
4. Do NOT talk about how great it would be if the pastor of the church could take a huge pay-cut to help balance the budget. Though changes in staffing patterns may be inevitable in many small churches, don't talk about it as some obvious act of martyrdom that I should willingly undertake. I'm not Ghandi, you know.
5. Please limit the amount of time you spend talking to me about how wonderful your previous minister was. Please stop telling VISITORS that you used to have another minister before me who was fabulous. Because this is not a good strategy for growth. Plus, I'm beginning to think you'd prefer to have your previous minister instead of me, which makes it difficult to come to work. If it helps, I will make a commitment to not talk to you all the time about my previous church, and how great it was and how they actually had money and office supplies and stuff.
6. Do NOT ask me things such as, "Why do you need to go on vacation?" and "Don't you feel bad going on fancy trips when the people you work with are poor?" Yes. Of course I feel bad. In fact, it consumes me. And this is exactly why I need to go on vacation, an act which I will now enjoy less given the heavy burden of guilt you've so generously given me.
7. When I meet you socially, at a party or wherever, and tell you I'm a minister, do NOT take is as license to talk all about how you hate religion and think it is evil and hypocritical etc. etc. etc. It's not that I can't handle this type of critique...I can and in fact myself am critical of some aspects of the religious institution. It's just that I also think religion is important and valuable (OBVIOUSLY, YOU JERKS) and like to show some respect for the topic and discuss it with people who care.
8. Do NOT call me and leave a voicemail that simply says, "Please call me as soon as possible." without leaving a reason. This is a phrase which will lead me to believe you've just been in a horrible accident, when what you actually want to know is when the next book club meeting is. Just say that in the message and save me from experiencing a stress-induced aneurism. 
9. Do recognize that I am not perfect...try not to act shocked when this comes to light. 
10. Lastly, and not least-ly, DO say thank you sometimes. Yes, this is my job and yes, I do it joyfully, but it's also nice to hear some positive feedback sometimes. 

* One of the MOST awesome things I've heard in a while was a Flight Attendant on a recent Alaska Airlines flight who said over the loudspeaker: "It's just about time to turn off your electronic devices. So we're going to come through the cabin to check. And please, if we ask you to turn off your phone, don't give us dirty looks. Because that's just hurtful."

Liberalism: A Full Time Job

Sorry I haven't been writing. But I've been too busy being liberal to do too much of everything else.

At first, I thought liberalism was going to be so liberating (these words have the same route, even, as you can see). But now, like any other subtle but attractive cult, it is taking over my life. And I just don't have time for anything else. Because being liberal is a full time job.

A few weeks ago, I went to the store in order to buy a bar of soap*. I went to Whole Foods, of course, as that is where I usually shop, it being the closest and "best"** grocery store in the liberal town in which I live. So I went to the soap aisle and there tried to apply the liberal lessons imparted to me by such helpful friends as Michael Moore, Al Gore, Moveon.org and Jesus. Lesson such as:

• A liberal person must help the environment. 
• Oil is bad.
• Chemicals are even worse.
• Packaging, which is likely plastic and made from oil, is THE WORST. 

So, I surveyed the soap options and noticed (thankfully!) that here in liberal world, there were plenty of products that satisfy my parameters. They were labeled with feel-good words and phrases such as "All Natural," "Biodegradable," "Not tested on animals," "No Parabens***," "No artificial color or preservatives," and "Earth Friendly"****.  All of them were packaged in some sort of biodegradable, bamboo paper product which could be reused as a rain shield, greeting card, baby diaper or origami paper.***** Now, having read a number of key pieces of liberal propaganda by radicals such as Barbara Kingsolver and Joel Salatin, I knew the following things must also be true:

• Liberals support LOCAL businesses, NOT big corporations.

So I checked the labels of all the soaps and found one that had been milled just south of us in Connecticut. Unfortunately, the size of the soap operation was not discussed on the label. (I briefly considered that buying this particular bar in a Whole Foods, technically a corporation based in Austin, TX, might not be "local" enough, but dismissed this as I had already been in the soap aisle for about 10 minutes.) Now, on down the checklist. I think I remember that Cesar Chavez said something about:

• Liberals support businesses that advocate for fair labor practices.

Hmmm....tricky. I check the bars, but none of the packaging discussed such things as the hourly wage of workers engaged in producing said soap. I decided I'd have to investigate this online when I got home. (Though I doubted there are migrant farm workers engaged in the production of "South of France, Hand Milled Lavendar Body Soap." But you never can tell, right?)

All of this felt very good until I found the one I wanted and noted that it cost $7.******

With a sense of horror, I realized that my liberal values were about to contradict each other. Because I also have other lessons imparted to me by liberal notables such as the Apostle Paul, Thomas Merton, and the Buddha, who have said CRAZY liberal things such as:

• One must be a good steward of one's resources. 
• One should use one's resources to help the poor and marginalized, not to glorify oneself. 
• Buying a bar of soap for $7 is ridiculous.*******

What's a good liberal to do? Pollute the world with noxious chemicals that will end up turning the ocean yellow and cranking up the heat on the globe to sauna level? Contribute yet another package to the island of plastic now floating somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic? Or should I use my money to help those who need it most? What if I recognize that the ones who need support are also likely the ones who will be the most screwed by climate change?  I felt my liberal mind spinning.

After spending probably 5 minutes considering my options, I did what any rational person trying to express her values in the modern world would do: I left. And just didn't get any soap. And I waited for Mr.LIOLI to buy soap for himself and then chided him about not "fulfilling our values" when he came home with a 2-pack of Dove soap that cost $1.50. (No seriously, this is what I did.)

Now multiply the time it took me to come to this conclusion by the number of activities in my day (Should I get the organic carrots or the conventionally yet locally grown carrots? Do I get the recycled thank you note cards, even if they are also the Target-brand ones that will save trees but perpetuate a corporate empire? Do I get the French Roast selection at the coffee shop or the Ethiopian blend? Which is closer, France or Ethiopia? Am I oppressing people in Ethiopia by buying their coffee? Or helping them?) , and you can understand why I haven't had time to write.

I could go on and on and on.....but I just realized we're out of spray cleaner, so I need to log off.......


*This is a completely true story that can be corroborated by Mr. LIOLI who appreciated by attempt to express my values but was also annoyed that there was no soap. 
**I have a love-hate relationships with Whole Foods, though it is where I shop regularly. (It is the closest store to my home.) I also feel so GOOD shopping there, like I'm saving the world with each $6 grapefruit. But the hypocrisy of it sometimes get to me, especially when Mr. L points out that it too is a giant corporation trying to get my money, one which if it was called something else that began with W and ended with ALMART I would go to rallys to protest. Plus. they don't things like Diet Coke and Quaker Instant Oatmeal. And their recycled Aluminum Foil isn't worth the powder to blow it up. Uh-oh. War metaphor. So not liberal...
***I have no idea what "Parabens" actually are, though I once looked it up on Wikipedia and decided that someone made it up. I pretend it means either "Chemicals Made from Baby Bunny Fur" or "Republican Campaign Donations" and feel good that my soap company endorses neither of these things. Liberals, as you may know, love to eliminate things from their lives that they didn't even know were bad for them or would never have cared about.
**** A phrase I am 100% sure has no basis at all other than that the people who make said soap are also liberal.
*****This is not true.
******This IS true.
******* Okay, so I made this up. But it is extrapolated from the others.

Thanks to ThePeoplesCube.com for the image.

Potions

Have you noticed how SERIOUS this blog has been getting lately? I know. I must be in winter mode where I brood about the troubles of the world while drinking hot beverages in my dark apartment. But there are some light-hearted things happening around our house including POTION MAKING.

I may not have mentioned before on this blog my penchant for gin. (What?!?! A pastor who loves gin?!??! Yes. And give me a break. It's not like I'm Methodist or anything...though I do know some nice Methodists who ALSO love gin.) Anyway, the truth is I love it. I love gin. Sooooo much. Of all varieties. And I especially love it when it's mixed with tonic.  (At this moment I'd like to give a shout-out to my brother-in-law who first introduced me to this heavenly combination while on a family vacation. My life would never have been the same without this loving act of gin-vangelism. Also, I would have still been able to fit into my skinny jeans, but that's a story for another time. So thanks, Bro!). Now, back to the matter at hand.

Though you may not have known about my gin obsession, you certainly may have already deduced my tendency to get obsessed with things. And so it may not surprise you that when I found out several months ago that one could make one's own tonic, I was on a quest to do so. And so it began.

And it went something like this:

Step One: Procure illicit substances from abroad. 
So it turns out the main ingredient of tonic is quinine. In case you don't know what this is, I'll save you the trouble of searching Wikipedia and share with you what I've learned. Quinine is a chemical found in the bark of the Cinchona tree, a tree indigenous to South America where its medicinal qualities had been well known for some time.  In the 16th century, when malaria was a rising problem in Europe, a Jesuit missionary and apothecary in South America became aware of quinine and suggested it as a potential treatment. It worked and the demand for it in Europe skyrocketed (It's tough business colonizing the entire global south leaving behind centuries of unrest and paternalism....there are tons of mosquitos down there!)  The problem was (no it wasn't colonialism), it was that quinine had an extremely bitter taste (If you ask me, a small price to pay for not dying from malaria, but what do I know?). And so adding water, sugar and a bit of lime and some gin (you can always use a little gin!) to the concoction became the custom and the Gin and Tonic was born. (Yay!) Quinine is still used today to treat malaria, though other better treatments have since been developed. Unfortunately, the FDA thinks this is the only thing you should use it for.*  All this is a long way of saying: you can't buy quinine in the United States. Unless you have malaria and a prescription. So you have to search online and pay some sketchy website in Canada to send it to you. Which I had no qualms about doing, of course, unless the person reading this is from the FDA in which case, I'm so sorry, I had no idea.

After several weeks, my package arrived choc full of quinine! And I was ready to get started!

Step Two: Make a Syrup with a Lot of CRAZY Ingredients
The next step in making your own tonic is to brew up a special tonic syrup. It helps if you have a partner in crime (Mr. LIOLI), several hours, some wine and a good sense of humor.  We decided to make a half batch each of two different recipes, which can be found here and here. (We ended up liking the second much better).

The main ingredients are quinine powder, sugar (or agave if you are super hipster), lemongrass, citric acid and citrus zest.

You mix these together, add heat and boil away until all is well distilled.

Then you strain it. Many, many, many times. And then you strain it some more. We did this in several stages. Once through a regular metal strainer, several times through cheesecloth (which of course we had on hand already....such a small world!) and lastly through several coffee filters. We weren't really sure when it was strained enough so we just gave us when we got bored and tired. 

What we produced was thick brownish red potion about the consistency of maple syrup.


 Step Three: Make some carbonated water. Mix with syrup and gin. Enjoy!

The idea is that you will mix the syrup you just made with carbonated water (from the SodaStream machine I'm sure you already have) add gin and enjoy. We hit a bit of a snag here as when we did this for the first time, we managed to produce a beverage that somehow simultaneously tasted WAY too sweet and WAY too bitter at the same time and kind of made us want to die. Rather than melt into a puddle of emotional goo, which was my first response, Mr. LIOLI suggested that we postpone judgment until after we had a massive Tonic-concocting-taste-testing event in which we tried to carefully replicate the exact taste of Schweppes tonic water. We were able to several nights later and enjoyed our first homemade G&T. Yum! So good. So homemade. Cheers!

Step Four: Get a second job. 
As it turns out, we didn't quite get the economies of scale down the first time around. I estimate that the entire endeavor cost about $61 which in retrospect was not a huge savings over bottles of tonic that cost $1.  But I will not give up hope. Next time, I think I'll buy more quinine in bulk and make it WORTH it. (This may remind you of the time I tried to make all my own jam and faced a similar economies of scale challenge. I'm working through it.)

Now, if you think it hasn't escaped my attention that it is actually possible to distill one's own gin, you've got another think coming and a need to keep your eye out for a future post about my secret plans for a foray into distillation!


*Other interesting things about quinine??? It glows in the dark under a black light. It is sometimes used to cut cocaine and other street drugs. It can cure restless leg syndrome (or you could just put a bar of soap under your sheet. Seriously) You could have read all this on Wikipedia....but isn't it more fun to read it here?

Tribute

The world and the church have suffered a great loss today. Peter J. Gomes, Minister of the Memorial Church at Harvard University and Plummer Professor of Christian Morals at Harvard Divinity School died last night. He was a truly unique individual and, in my estimation, one of the greatest prophetic voices of this generation.

Anyone who has known Professor Gomes is aware that calling him “a character” would have been an intolerable understatement. He was larger than life. His diminutive size was more than made up for by a big personality, a brilliant mind, a biting wit and a booming voice that was somehow a graceful symphony of southern drawl, British English and one of the Muppets. He was a world renowned teacher and writer, and was often acknowledged as one of the best preachers of our time. He was a tireless voice of reason for stemming the tide of religious fundamentalism and biblical literalism that threatened to undermine the true Christian gospel. As an out gay man, he was a constant advocate against bigotry and oppression. But most importantly, he was also my preaching professor.

Professor Gomes' preaching class was notorious for being both exclusive and intimidating. Only eight students a year were offered the opportunity to subject themselves to the formative guidance of Gomes' unique method of instruction, a process which involved preaching a number of sermons extemporaneously (without notes) and then allowing them to be heavily critiqued by one's classmates and professor. This was not the class one would apply to be in if one were concerned with building up one's self esteem in a direct way. But year after year, students showed up in droves for the unique privilege of trying out.

Naïve as I was, I tried out the first term of my first year in seminary (thinking if I was rejected, I'd still have a few more shots!). However, by some strange quirk of the selection process, I became one of those guinea pigs. I joined 7 of my colleagues on this journey: the eloquent and philosophical son of Puerto Rican Baptist preacher, a Jesuit priest, two candidates for ministry in the United Church of Christ, one of whom also happened to be a devout practitioner of Zen Buddhism, a African American Baptist, one methodist, another Presbyterian and me. Over the course of our term, we met each week for three hours in the basement conference room of the church, taking turns presenting our exegesis of the passages we had been assigned and, eventually and with much trepidation, offering our sermons on them from the hugely elevated pulpit in the chapel upstairs (about which Gomes loved to declare allowed one to be “15 feet above contradiction.”).

The stakes of each of these meetings were high (the adrenaline of the extemporaneous exercise, as it turns out, can make it very difficult to recall the exact details of one's carefully crafted sermon!) and the criticism was real. Critiques offered by Professor Gomes were rarely effusive but instead direct and critical almost always offered with great, maniacal joy on his part. In the course of our term, he likened various students' sermons to cars flying off cliffs and exploding, a peacock that couldn't fly, and (one which sent him into fits of hysterical laughter) a Star Wars ship jetting through a meteor belt with no idea what it would hit next. At various points, he told students he disliked their voice (mine!), that their illustrations bored him to tears and that they were fundamentally just not that interesting. He didn't feel badly about this, he told us, because, in his words, “this is the last time in your life someone will offer you honest feedback on your sermons.” He thought it would help us. And in a strange way, it did.

I don't know that I would say Professor Gomes taught me how to preach exactly (I rarely use the extemporaneous method he used, though it is nice to know I could in a pinch!), but he was most certainly a teacher to me. Though he wouldn't have even known who I was after that term ended (and there was some question as to whether or not he knew me during it, as he periodically called me Jennifer.), he had a profound effect on my theological education and my vocation as a pastor. Because what I took away from that class was a respect for the office of preaching that I will carry with me forever. In his criticisms, suggestions, jibes and jokes, what I believe he taught me was how the job of preaching was to be taken seriously. If he thought our sermon was a theological “salad” (as opposed to the theological “meat and potatoes” he was expecting), there was always an underlying sense that he was saying so because he wanted us to know that as preachers more was expected of us. This was the WORD, and it was to be treated with dignity, especially by us as its stewards.

It was a grueling 15 weeks, but we all made it through, most of us better for it, I believe. We celebrated the end of our term as guests at a four course dinner at Gomes' home. It was, to this day, the most pretentious experience I've ever had, and I mean that in a good way. No expense was spared as we sipped sherry, enjoyed terraines, drank too much good wine, and toasted (and roasted) each other and our Professor.

Some might have looked in on this as a demonstration of arrogance. But I don't see it (or him) that way.

What was so special about Gomes was that he brought to his offices of teaching and preaching the pomp and circumstance which he believed it necessitated.. He taught us, in a very small way, to do the same by honoring us with his instruction and his hospitality.

One of the last times I heard Professor Gomes' preach was on the radio as I was on the way home from my own church where I was by that time a pastor. It was the occasion of the 25^th anniversary of his ordination. His sermon was about his gratitude for God's grace in the face of all the ways he had failed to live up to the vows he took at his ordination. Even he world famous advocate and preacher of the gospel, carried a humility about God's grace to the end. He did it with integrity and incredible theological depth to the end. Hearing his voice on the radio that day made me cry. As did the news today of his passing.

So, here's to you, Professor. I know you are now at peace with the One whose Word you taught us to proclaim. God bless you for all that you were and all you leave behind.

Your student,

LL

Here is a somewhat awkward photo of our class at the dinner described above. It certainly doesn't do justice to Professor Gomes or the event, but it is a good memory for me, so I thought I'd share: 

Responsibility, What's Your Policy?

I started writing this post two weeks ago (when this was actually a current event!) and then got overwhelmed with other life stuff that is less fun but more imminent than blogging. But I figured it was still relevant, so why not post? 

Image courtesy of Agence France Presse/Getty Images via the Wall Street Journal. Available here.

I was very moved by coverage of the recent events in Egypt, moreso than other world events have effected me recently. I think it was something about witnessing the passion with which the citizens of Egpyt, especially the young citizens, demonstrated with such integrity their values and ideals. What I observed in them, though the words and images I was able to access, was the tangible sense of responsibility they felt for the future and well-being of their nation. What brought it all home for me were actually not images from the protests themselves, but images of the days after, in which thousands of Egyptians, young and old, men and women, Chritians and Mulsim, many of who had turned out en force to call for the end of the regime, made their way back to Tahrir Square bearing not arms or signs, but brooms and trash bags.  That the protestors returned to the site of their victory to clean it up indicates something very subtle, yet very important about the nature of that community: a serious sense of corporate responsibility, a palpable demonstration of ownership. Almost to say, "Yes, of course, it matters who is in power, and to care for your country is to dedicate oneself to that process.  But that dedication would be meaningless if we did not also care enough to be good stewards of what we are fighting for."

I often worry that my generation of Americans doesn't feel that way about anything. I look at the movements of my parents' generation: the Women's Rights movement, the Civil Rights movement, the Anti-Vietnam protests, etc. and I see something that I find inspiring but that (in all honesty) I cannot really identify with. Of course I feel strongly about many things and am dedicated to them, but not in that same public, self-sacrificial, passionate way. Current studies of trends in this generation suggest that we are more committed to local, organic movements. We're more likely to commit small, local acts of volunteerism related to things we care about and to which we are personally connected. It's not that we're doing less, some will say, it's that we're doing it differently. But I still worry something might be missing.

And so I want to thank our Egyptian brothers and sisters for really motivating me to think about this and to considering taking more responsibility for my own community and our political process. I hope we here in the states can live up to your great example of what it means to pursue democracy.

I Love You, Tim McGraw, but Seriously......

So I've been doing a lot of thinking and reading about dying recently.* (Don't worry, nothing is wrong, it's just that I've been realizing what a relevant topic this is to my work as a minister, and though I did do a chaplaincy internship in which I attended to many dying people, I thought some more in-depth thinking about this topic couldn't hurt.) So I picked up On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, one of the classic treatises on the spiritual and emotional condition of the terminally ill. She talks about the various stages of grief and shares interviews with patients she encountered who were actively dying. What an eyeopener it is. Through this and my many experiences with death both personal and professional, I've come to a conclusion which millions of people have probably come to before me but that seemed profound enough to share here: Dying, in reality, isn't anything like it is in country music. And it would be great it we could stop pretending it is.

There are just SO many songs out there (in pop music too, I shouldn't limit my criticism to the country world but it is the easiest to make fun of, so watch out Kris Allen, you're not off the hook) about living like you're going to die. There is always talk of the influx of courage and compassion, of doing everything you've ever wanted to do (skydiving, bullriding, trips to Europe, and so on and so on) of offering forgiveness and love previously denied, and basically wrapping all the loose ends of your life up in a nice beautiful bow. Perhaps the most gregious offernder in this category is the beloved Tim McGraw. I hate to have to say it, as he is one of my favorites, but his song "Live Like You Were Dying" (above), which I LOVE to sing in the car, is, I've concluded now, totally irresponsible. Because dying is not like that. It's actually, mostly, scary as S**T for everyone involved. And there is no skydiving.

From what I know, approaching death in many (most?) cases, involves pain and suffering, anger and despair, denial and frustration and terrible inconveniences like chemo and dialysis and hospitalization and weakness and incontinence and fatigue.....none of which lend themselves to activities like bullriding. In fact, dying is hard and messy work, sometimes done over the long term, sometimes suddenly, but rarely with the reckless abandon the music world seems to associate with this inevitable human condition. Sure, we're all dying. And we should be appreciative of the time we have, and not live in fear or take our lives for granted. But maybe we should be a little more careful about how we characterize death, in sentitivity to those facing it. Sorry, Tim.  (But you do look very good in that video, I will say.)



*Periodically, in the course of my busy work week, I'll think of an idea for a blog post, but do not have time to sit down and work on it that minute. So I write it on a scrap of paper or on my "list" of items to attend to when time is available. I thought nothing of it, then, when last week I wrote "DYING" in capital letters on my to do list which I left next to the computer as a reminder. In his classicly mellow fashion, Mr. L, several days later while we were making dinner, said out of the blue, "So, I saw you were planning on dying." and then continued to stir the risotto. Gotta love that guy.

Happiness

So, as you may have read in the news, New England (and pretty much everywhere else in the Northern Hemisphere) has been inundated with snow for the last two months. Which hasn't made me want to blog. In fact, it hasn't made me want to do anything, other that stay in bed and eat brownies, that is. But we are at long last emerging from the snowpocalypse. And so here I am.

In my emerging from the pit of despair that is called "winter" around here, I've been keeping my eye out for really happy and awesome things. Mr.L sent me a link to these images which really fit the bill. It's a ski tournament of Polish Catholic priests. In a word: awesome. Don't they just look so happy? And who says priests shouldn't get to have a little fun after all that being over worked and under paid ( or, more literally, not paid at all)? You can see all of the pics here, but for now, here's one to help you keep hope alive.

Image from Pawel Ulatowski / AFP - Getty Images and MSNBC.