Why Bother

Over drinks last night at a local bar that is way more trendy than I am, my good friend articulated a question that has pretty much been on my mind every minute that I've been a minister: Why bother to do what we are doing?

This friend of mine also works in the church and is moving toward ordination in our denomination (a ridiculously and excruciatingly thorough process of jumping through dozens of pre-prescribed hoops at specific intervals, though I can say this somehow does nothing to limit the number of wackos that become ordained ministers.) Anyhow, what he was getting at was this: is this all worth it? Is there any reason to stick with this church thing? Or is Christianity just some irrelevant throwback that has little to contribute to the lives of modern, progressive people? Will all this "religion stuff" eventually peter out, at which point the rest of the world will be relieved that they can forget about all the silliness?

Both the arrival of new-atheism and recent trends in church membership might tell you that the answer to the question of "why bother?" is "don't." As it seems, the church is dying. Most mainline American denominations have fewer members than they have ever had in American history, and, while there are many guesses as to why this is, the fact remains: fewer and fewer people are going to church.

As the pastor of a tiny church on the edge of complete collapse, I could have told you that. Actually, as an average American twenty-something, I could have told you that. A quick mental survey tells me that (excluding the people I met in Divinity School), I probably only have two friends who go to church regularly. And I can understand why. Even I am not immune from the temptation of forgoing the Sunday ritual. As I pass the joggers and walkers enjoying the sun along the Charles river on my way to church each week, I often wonder if perhaps it wouldn't be more fulfilling to be one of them, or to enjoy a late Sunday brunch, or read the paper.

But something keeps me coming back. Every time I feel compelled to give it all up to become a Barista and eat Sunday brunch, something happens that reminds me of why I haven't done it yet: something reminds me that church is a little bit great.

I say a little bit great, because I don't think it will ever be very great. People in the church are just as petty and angry and selfish and afraid as the rest of the people in the world. It is not always pretty. But it is beautiful. A little bit great.

It's a little bit great because every week I go to a place in which people are choosing to be together: not because it's hip, or because there is nothing better to do, and not even because they like each other all the time (they don't), but because it brings something out in them that is good. Every week I go to a place where people help each other, not because they have to, or because it will get them somewhere, but because they can and in that remember that they want to. Every week I go to a place where people take responsibility for themselves and one another: admitting that they're not perfect, and forgiving each other for not being perfect. It's a place where stories are told and emotions shared, a place in which we are reminded of what our best selves might be. In a way, we are like the joggers on the river, training for a race of compassion, building our tolerance for difference, and fine-tuning our humility and grace. We are not better. But we are trying. And I have to believe that it's worth it to try.

For now, for my money, for as long as it lasts, I think that's a great way to spend my Sunday. That's why.

When I first arrived at my church as the pastor 9 months ago, the office I was to inhabit was completely empty except for four things: two phonebooks, a broken space heater, and a crown of thorns. When I began to worry about this unpleasant welcoming gift and its intended recipient, someone told me not to worry. "It's for Holy Week," they told me. I dismissed it. If having that same conversation today, I would respond: No Shit.

In case you were unaware (or are Unitarian or live on another continent), last week was "Holy Week," or the week of the Christian calendar leading up to Easter Sunday. Now if you're not a regular participant in a church, you might not be aware that Holy Week is full of various opportunities to observe the journey of Jesus from his entry into Jerusalem to his death on the cross. It begins on Palm Sunday and proceeds through Holy Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday (yes these are real things!) onto Maundy Thursday (I've already forgotten about what Maundy means....I have to look it up every year), Good Friday (a silly name if you ask me) and Holy Saturday. This pattern is meant to provide various entry points into the story of Jesus' ministry and his passion (read: suffering) and should, if done right, be a transformational and deeply spiritually enriching experience.

That is, unless you're a pastor. If you're a pastor, then you are on a different journey which could legitimately be renamed "Death Week" (Jesus' or my own, I'm not sure) or "Let's go to church every day Week" or "Work your pastor like an oxen Week." Now, this is a bit of an exaggeration, but not totally. In fact, I've realized that my spiritual expectations of this most sacred schedule should be adjusted from a following in Jesus' footsteps to participation in his enduring suffering. Just kidding....actually not really. In was a whirlwind of various and crazy tasks, and having survived it, I almost can't believe it actually happened.

To give you a sense of what I'm talking about, here are a number of the tasks which I found myself doing last week:

Sunday: Arrived at church 2 hours earlier than normal to prepare for worship and then bundle up with 7 layers of outerwear in order to lead the Palm Sunday parade down Main Street in the 20 degree weather. Negotiated with several disgruntled donkey handlers and befuddled police officers the delayed start time of the parade. Distributed 3 million palm branches to participants and baffled onlookers (though somehow we ended up with 5 millon palm branches left over, and a giant crucifix someone had anonymously donated for the occasion. Didn't have time to let them know we wouldn't be crucifying anyone until Friday.) Proceeded down Main Street accompanied by song and off-beat drumming. Rubbed hands together to rewarm them such that I might regain finger dexterity and be able to break off carrot pieces for children to feed to the donkey. Considered feeding children to the donkey. Decided against it. Had church.

Monday: Caught up on work for my other job. Responded to three thousand emails. Tried to feel generally holy. Gave up lenten discipline of avoiding cheese and justified it by telling myself that actually, I mean theologically, lent was over on Palm Sunday. Felt guilty. Ate more cheese to make up for it. Created Easter Bulletin.

Tuesday: Met with Co-Pastor to plan three Holy Week services, having fumbled our two other (reasonably earlier) attempts to meet for this purpose. Labeled it "Being Led by the Spirit," and not "Obscene Procrastination." Attended our church's yoga class. Tried to feel even more holy. Held a "holy week" bible study about Jesus' suffering and crucifixion. Ended up mostly discussing the politics of the Roman occupation of Israel. Got home at 10 p.m. Ate too much leftover Indian take-out including that spinach dish with Indian Cheese. Considered feeling guilty. Considered barfing. Did neither.

Wednesday: Presided over communion at a holy week service at my seminary. Had one dozen people tell me my clerical collar "actually looks legitimate." Was confused as to what this meant as it is legitimate. Thought fleetingly about writing my Easter sermon. Then stopped. Labeled it "I'm still being led by the Spirit." Went to hand drumming class convinced that a djembe beat underneath "Come Thou Font of Every Blessing" will save our church. Came home at 10. Ate more Indian Food. Drank two glasses of wine.

Thursday: Ran around most of the day gathering supplies for Maundy Thursday service including soup, towels, bubble bath, plastic spoons. Forgot the towels at home. Moved 1200 chairs around in the church. Cooked soup. Ripped bread apart after not being able to locate a knife as they have all been stolen from the church. Attended Maundy Thursday tenebrae service at neighboring church. Was reminded why I don't go to that church. Washed people's feet. With the bubble bath. Got my dry clean only pants soaking wet. Felt very holy. Went to sleep.

Friday: Awoke. Read the psalms to get in holy mode. Sat down to write my sermon. Felt led by the spirit to surf the internet instead, and eat lunch, and take a nap and profread the Easter bulletin. Pressed husband (who had been released early from work) into service of the Good Friday worship service. Drove to church. Set up, which mostly involved lighting 28,000 candles and thinking about justice. Was annoyed that it got dark during the Good Friday service such that no one could see the bulletin. Winged it. Thought about death. Sung "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" Went home. Discovered we were out of Indian take-out. Considered going back to school to become a dental assistant.

Saturday: Told self and husband "No seriously, I am going to write my sermon all day today. This is the most important day of the year....and it's going to be really holy." Immediately convinced self and husband that I would work on it later while we went on a quick shopping trip to Costco, Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, Petsmart, Home Depot, Verizon Wireless and Whole Foods. Wasn't quick. Returned home to dye eggs for the egg hunt. Boiled and cooled them before realizing they were brown. Damn it. Dyed them anyway, which produced a muted, poop-like marbled effect. Considered crying. Ate more cheese. Hoped the spirit would lead me to a great idea for my sermon. Didn't happen. Began to panic. Lamented the obscene procrastination and my own complicit denial. Recovered. Wrote my mediocre Plan B sermon idea up in time to leave for Holy Saturday Vigil. Helped locate matches for lighting the BBQ grill which would serve as our "bonfire" for the Christ light. Briefly considered how ghetto our church can be. Moved on. Proclaimed the resurrection. Put out lillies. Went home. Hoped Jesus would be resurrected.

Sunday: Arrived early. Hid eggs. Responded to tantrum of the child who didn't find the last egg. Had church. Delivered mediocre sermon. Husband confirmed its non-greatness. Considered crying. Decided against it. Helped host the church's ham lunch while considering the irony of eating pig to commemorate the death and resurrection of a devout Jew. Did dishes. Compelled husband into service doing most dishes. Wondered why it was my job to do dishes. Wondered why I got into this line of work. Remembered. Went home. Took a nap. Gathered for dinner with other ministers and their spouses. Party ended by 8. Went to bed.

And that, my friends, is holy-ness is a nut-shell! See you again next year!

The Return of the Prodigal Blogger

So I haven't been blogging too much recently, mostly because I haven't had much time in between teaching class, saving the church, observing holy week and getting a few zzzs every now and then. But I have missed it and had great intentions to get back into it just on the off chance there are two or three of you out there who have not given up checking my site. I always experience these periodic zings of blogging inspiration when I'm no where near the computer, so none of them, recently, has translated into an actual post. There are also the times in which I mentally escape from the more frustrating aspects of my jobs by daydreaming about my future career as a professional blogger. This seems especially plausible when I hear stories from my friends about mommy blogs that make $40,000 a month in advertising and product trials (though I must stop and ask exactly who would advertise on this ecclectic blog with only about three regular readers, one of whom lives with me.) But obviously, the motivation hasn't been overwhelming as this hasn't lead to a concrete post either.

But anyhow, if you can regain faith in me, I promise to put proper effort into returning to the blogosphere starting today. Oh, and if you know any advertisers for fine foods, theological treatises or good humor, send them this way.

Oh Happy Day

It's 58 degrees here today, which might not sound like a big deal to those of you who hail from warmer climates, but today is a divine blessing amidst the hell that is the journey through February and March in New England. You can tell that even this short lasting spurt of spring-like temperatures has planted the seed of hope in many around here: I saw someone this morning wearing a sundress and sandals.....a bit optimistic for temps in the 50s but I applaud her optimism. I even thought I spied some crocus buds while walking the dog this weekend. Hopefully, this means spring is springing!

Enough to Make it Stick

I've been wondering recently why some things our parents teach us stay with us in dramatic ways while others fall by the wayside. (Note: Mom and Dad, if you are reading this, know this is by no means a critique of your instructional or parental abilities, only an assessment of my rate of absorption. I love you guys.)

My parents taught me a lot of things. They taught me to eat healthily (including to eat whole wheat bread, to limit soda drinking, and to reserve sugar cereal for special occasions). They taught me to be polite when I was someone's guest, not to use foul language and to always write thank you notes. And they taught me about a billion other things which are too numerous to list here, some of which I'm probably not even aware that they taught me.

Now, here I am, approaching 30 years old, and I can offer the following assessment of my life: I hate whole wheat bread. I do buy it and eat it because my husband (brainwashed into believing in its unique wholesomeness by his parents) demands that we have it. But I complain about it regularly, and know that if I lived on my own, it would be wonderbread and sourdough all the way. I do drink soda, a lot (diet now, I'm getting old you know), and I buy sugar cereal on non-celebratory occasions. I use foul language (although we've instituted an imaginary swear jar in our household to curb this socially-problematic habit. At this point I imaginarily owe $764, mostly due to my repeated failure to conquer Super Mario Bros Wii Level 8 Castle.)

But, I CANNOT receive ANYTHING of ANY value from ANYONE EVER without writing a thank you note. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about lists of people to whom I should write thank you notes. I worry about whether I should write thank you notes in response to gifts that were thank you gifts to me. I write notes to my immediate family and to close friends who, on some occasions, have asked me to please not write them so many thank you notes because it is weird and guilt-inducing. I write some people several notes in one week, and I write thank you notes for things that were other people's jobs to do. I cannot stop.

Which makes me wonder: Why is this the thing that stuck? Why was this aspect of my parents' teaching so influential while some other things clearly backfired in the overall scheme of forming a future person? What is the substance of things parented that makes it stick?

Sometimes

Sometimes, I really wonder how I've gotten this far in life. Mostly this is because sometimes I have complete mental lapses that transport me to an alternate universe in which really stupid things seems sensible.

For instance, this morning I woke up and sleepily opened the freezer to find only two (both problematic) coffee options: Ecuadorian Coffee Beans and Jack Daniels Flavored Coffee (from one of those liquor-flavored coffee holiday gift packs that always seem like a better idea when you receive them than when you're going to make coffee at 9 a.m. in the morning). Now you might ask why Ecuadorian Coffee Beans (hand carried from Ecuador nonetheless) fall under the category of problematic options. Well, it's because we don't own a coffee grinder. Aside: There are many challenges to living in an extremely small space, one of which is, obviously, that you don't have room for lots of stuff. So, we've decided to forgo owning a coffee grinder (and a microwave and toaster, which leads to less rubbery leftovers but a lot of burnt toast.). Anyhow, no coffee grinder for us. So what to do... (Imagine a psychedelic swooshing sound as I am transported into alternate stupid universe.)

Clearly, my alternate-universe mind told me, I should just find another way to grind the beans. I mean, Jack Daniels coffee in the morning? That's just too much. So I set about searching our kitchen for another method of coffee grinding. I thought food processor, but didn't feel like cleaning the whole thing afterward. Blender? No, not strong enough of a blade. And then I came upon the pot of gold at the end of my bimbo-rainbow: the mortar and pestal. Though I was rationally aware that we had bought this device to grind small quantities of spices, I figured, hey, why not? Without another thought, I pulled it out, poured in about a half cup of coffee and began to grind away. It was one of those instance where using primitive tools really makes you appreciate societal progress. Mortar-and-pestaling, it turns out, is hard work. But, I thought, it's working.

Now I should make clear that my life partner was, of course, not home when I chose to do this, for he usually serves as the voice of reason when this strange twilight-zone loss of intelligence moments occurs. He would have said, "Why don't you just go across the street and get some coffee if you really want some that badly?" or "That's not going to work. Why don't you just try the J.D. kind? It's not like it really has liquor in it." But alas, he was at work making money because, you know, he has a "job". Whilst I was at home, making coffee, because I have a "vocation."

After probably ten minutes of grinding when I was nearing the risk of forearm cramping, I stopped to assess. Unfortunately, the mushy substance in the mortar didn't resemble anything close to ground coffee. There were still huge chunks of the bean shells and the rest was somewhere between find powder and medium sized gravel. Now, because I can be both ridiculous and self-aware at the same time, I heard myself saying, "You know, this is probably better. I mean, the bleeding heart liberals are always talking about how our food is over-processed. But this, this is perfect. You know, we should have our coffee au natural. I think the chunks of beans will help give it depth." (If you think, I'm exaggerating, think again. This is a word-for-word account of my thought process.)

So I dumped the coffee carcasses into the french press, added some boiling water, let it set a few minutes and then filled up my mug. Yummm, I thought. My resourcefulness is so satisfying, I mused, and will certainly add to the wonderfulness of this experience.

To be perfectly honest, it was one of the most terrible cups of coffee I've ever had. Somehow (maybe because of the bean shells?) it was simultaneously watery but bitter with sandy chunks. Next time, I'll try to remind myself to take the Jack Daniels and once I'm caffeinated enough try to devise some sort of early warning system to stop me from culinary (and all other) undertakings while I'm in this state.

They're just not pants.

If you know me well, then you've heard me say it a million times. But I think it's important to get this important public service message out there to the broader online community, so here goes:

Leggings are not pants.

I'm sorry if this seems like a shock to you, but it's the truth. They're not pants. They're just not. They may seem like pants in that they maybe shaped like pants, but they are in fact, something completely different. So please stop treating them like pants and wearing them by themselves. You're exposing all sorts of things to the world that God intended for you to keep private. Such as your butt cheeks. Aside from which it is a fashion faux-pas. That's it. They're not pants. No questions. The End. Goodbye.