My Goddaughter

Thirteen years ago, my cousin asked me to be her soon-to-be daughter's godmother. This particular cousin came into my family by marriage. We don't do very well of keeping track of how we're all related anyhow. We're just cousins. It's only confusing when we try to explain it to strangers because no one actually knows whether we're first, second, removed or in need of some other term that no one seems to know. Such is the family that Jen married into to become my cousin.

Jen is a wonderful Jewish woman who brought her faith into our Christian family. When we gathered for Christmas, she would teach us the prayers to light the menorah. It was so magical to me. I loved the years when these sacred holidays overlapped. I loved lighting the menorah before going to worship on Christmas Eve. So, when my beautiful cousin and her husband Rob prepared for their first daughter, they made plans to combine their faiths. They would raise their daughter to be Jewish but this same little girl would also share in the same magic I remember on Christmas. That's not all. She would have something that no other Jewish girl would have. She would have a godmother.

Maddy is my first goddaughter. She was my goddaughter before I was ordained. She watched me become a minister and then move far, far away. I haven't had the blessing of being an active presence in her daily life or the her faith life. I hate that. I have only seen Maddy when the family gathers even though Jen and Rob chose me because I "would always be there." This was heavy on my heart this weekend as I watched my beautiful goddaughter become a bat mitzvah. I cried as the Torah was passed from her grandfather to her mother into Maddy's loving hands. My mind raced to Confirmation next Sunday. We don't pass our holy text in such a ritual way from one generation to the next. Maybe we should. Maybe we shouldn't. But it is what I get to do as a godmother. I might not get to touch the sacred scrolls but I will tell Maddy those stories. I will tell Maddy to write those words on her heart.

It's something that I hope for every confirmand next Sunday -- but this is one of those strange moments where I realize that those aren't my kids. That sounds terrible, doesn't it? I may talk a lot about the family of God and how we are all related but there are some people in the world that understand you better just because they will stand beside you baffled that a stranger can't understand how you are related -- but you are. It's not that I don't love the kids that I serve. They're just not my goddaughter. I might cry when they are confirmed but those are not the same tears that I cried for Maddy. On Saturday, I held my hands in a very Christian posture as the rabbi offered a blessing on my Jewish goddaughter. I'm used to offering that blessing. My hands go into that formation without thinking but thirteen years ago, I never would have imagined how warm my hands would feel in that moment.

Suffer Little Children

Sunday is Children's Celebration Sunday at the church I serve where the children lead us in worship of their own creation. This year, they broke from the Revised Common Lectionary. (We use Seasons of the Spirit so they are used to following the RCL but this Sunday's readings on the Trinity are impossible for even the most accomplished preacher.) Instead, our children have chosen to meditate on Matthew 19:13-15. It's the passage whose translation in the King James Version I find most offensive but is probably most appropriate. Suffer little children, says the KJV. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I'd prefer the welcoming spirit of Jesus found in other translations. In those versions, Jesus offers more of an invitation. He instructs the disciples to let the little children come (NIV) or allow them (CEB). It just sounds better. But, there's something else going on in this text.

As my favorite biblical commentary points out: "childhood in antiquity was a time of terror." There are good reasons for this severe remark which this commentary lists in statistics that would make modern knees buckle. 

• Infant mortality was as high as 30% in antiquity.
• 30% of children in Jesus's time wouldn't live past the age of 6. 
• Of those children that survived, there are an additional hurdle as 60% of them would die before the age of 16.

Children were really suffering in Jesus' time. Jesus doesn't offer these words in the King James Version as a further condemnation. Instead, these words recognize a reality for children in antiquity. They are suffering and they need that good news that the Gospel of Matthew promises in the very beginning of the text more than anyone. Children shared a social strata with slaves. They were not loved and adored. They were not prized in the way that we adore children. They didn't understand development psychology like we do today. They thought children were little adults and should behave like little adults. This isn't what we think anymore. We believe that children should be protected and adored. We love their sweet innocence and want Jesus to embrace that. It's what we hear when we hear Jesus call the children.

What strikes me in reading these three verses is the insertion that Jesus calls some children. Not all children. Just some children. It's not that all children shouldn't be loved and adored. We wouldn't go that far in our reading of this text. Or at least I wouldn't. But, Jesus isn't talking about all children. He seems to be pointing out the particular suffering of some children. It's those suffering children that are invited to come. It's those children to whom the kingdom of God belongs. In Jesus' day, surely this would have included every child facing the risk of death by malnutrition, disease or violence. 

Shockingly, there are still children facing that reality today. Children in our own country that rely on school meal programs for nutrition. Children whose whole families will starve if a backpack full of groceries isn't supplied by some loving church family. Children like my sister who died at 4 months of a disease that we still don't fully understand. Children who are subjected to gang violence before they can even make it to high school. Children who are not seen as even being close to the kingdom of God by someone that can't figure out how to love a lesbian or gay child. Children who have been neglected in foster care. Children that have never been told by someone else -- by anyone else -- that they don't need to be alone in their suffering. In fact, the kingdom of God belongs to them. 

Go Ahead. Dare me.

Toward the end of seminary, my New Testament professor dared us to use non-canonical texts in worship and study. He encouraged us to engage faithful people in authentic study of these words that were not included in the traditional canon. I respond really well to dares. It's one of the things that I like about Christianity. I like the challenge. I like that Jesus has the gumption to say the poor will always be with us. Oh yeah? Well, we'll see about that Jesus. We will just have to see about that. In the words of Barney Stinson: challenge accepted. Like I said, I respond really well to dares.

I took my seminary professor's challenge to heart.

When National Geographic got everyone's attention with their talk of the Gospel of Judas, I used the text in a sermon. Somehow, earlier this winter, I got into a conversation with our Wednesday morning Bible study about these mysterious texts outside the canon. Since I first studied them in college, these texts have challenged my identity as a Christian so perhaps it is not surprising that I talk about them, but I never would have expected this small group to want to study these texts together. Lo and behold, we are. I chose three texts for us to study together in the Easter Season. Of course, in the spirit of my seminary professor's dare, I want to expand the conversation. So, this Sunday, I'll preach the good news from the Gospel of Peter.

As I'm writing my sermon, I find myself asking big questions about what makes something sacred. Several years ago, when I attended the very first Young Clergy Women Conference at the College of Preachers, I preached a sermon to my small working group that used a piece of poetry with a lesson from the Bible. A woman who has since become a friend scolded me, saying, "You shouldn't be exegeting that poem. The emphasis should be on the Bible."

I find that phrase bouncing around in my head again as I write this sermon. I am preaching a text that is not in the canon. Our church fathers and mothers condemned this text as a heresy, but does that mean that these words shared by a community in Syria don't have something to teach us about being faithful Christians? Isn't all of life holy? Isn't there holiness outside of the words that generations after generations have held to be sacred? Don't we believe (at least in the United Church of Christ) that God is still speaking? Doesn't that mean that God could be bigger than 66 books?

I honestly don't know, but I'm up for the challenge.

Dreaming of Women

Last week, I awoke in a cold sweat from a dream. I wasn't scared. I was furious because in this particular dream I was in Africa going toe-to-toe with a warlord. I wanted to open a hospital. This part of the dream was very detailed in that I knew there was only one hospital in the entire country. It was impossible for most people to travel to that hospital and there was some sort of health epidemic that threatened the lives of children and women. In my dream, I was literally stepping on this guy's toes. I would stomp on his toe and then insist that he take care of the least of these. Obviously, being a warlord and all, he didn't budge.

The dream didn't resolve itself. I don't know if I ever convinced him or why I was running through a lush wilderness later in the dream. (That certainly couldn't have been in the region of Africa I have visited.) Most of all, I don't know why I was there doing this work.

Later that day, I realized that it had something to do with this evolving story about Catholic nuns. I read somewhere about this nun going toe-to-toe with a warlord. She inspired me. In my dream, I wanted to be her. This is what I was thinking about yesterday in worship.

It was Mother's Day. Typically, it's a day that I have an internal battle between being so eternally grateful for my step-mother and so furiously angry  that there is no space for me to mourn that I miss the mother that gave me birth. David Bruni tells that story well. That's not what happened yesterday. Yesterday, as we told the story of the complicated story of Abraham and Sarah, I struggled with that identity question of being a woman. It's the other part of this celebration on Mother's Day that I find troublesome because I really do still dream about going toe-to-toe with that warlord. I'm not so sure I want to be a mom. So, I find myself wondering: are women defined only as mothers? Is that really what it means to be a woman? Carol Howard Merritt offers this lovely affirmation. Still, I find myself wanting to talk about the nuns and the ways that their feminine identity makes the whole world nervous. That's the kind of woman that I most admire. That's who I want to celebrate -- mostly because I want to see that in myself.

Urgency, Courage, Wisdom and Love

Yesterday, I sat in the bliss of the shining sun on the beach reading the final chapters of Diana Butler Bass' Christianity After Religion: The End of Church and the Birth of a New Spiritual Awakening. These are truly words of hope. These are words that remind us that we are creating something new with God. We aren't the victims of history but we are able to create the future in the ways that we choose to act now.

In the United Church of Christ, where we are blessed (and sometimes cursed) without hierarchical structure, it seems that we wouldn't fall into the trap of believing that we can't change the system. In a tradition that proclaims a Stillspeaking God, we seem to be just as burdened as other mainline Protestants with the familiar refrain, "But, we've always done it that way." After reading these words, I am more convinced that this is the one phrase that will determine the future of Christianity. If we allow this phrase to dictate all of our conversations, then we will get stuck. We will never be anything else. History will swallow us because we made the conscious choice not to do anything.

I've been reading a lot about the power of conversation -- how the simple act of engaging in conversation with another person can change the world. That might be too simple for you, but I believe it. I believe in the power of our stories. Diana Butler Bass pushes me further into this faith simply because she points to the fact that what people really want right now -- that is, where there is real movement among the people -- is to emphasize "connection, networks, relationship, imagination and story instead of dualism, individualism, autonomy, techniques and rules." We want to hear more about how we're related. We want to understand each other's background and what makes each person tick in just the way that they do. There's something about this current moment in time that requires us not only to listen but to start talking. 

Something about me wants to lead this movement. I am fully aware that that is crazy -- but it seems that this is where the world's deepest need fits my greatest passion. It's the vocation to which I seem to be called. I want to help others figure out not only how to listen but to tell their own stories. I realize that this is a huge shift for many. Historically, we are comfortable with the leader being the one that has all of the answers. We are expect the leader to have certain qualifications either by academic merit or learned experience that will make that leader the expert we require at this moment in time. I am no expert. I am fumbling along through life and faith -- but I have this one qualification that doesn't fit anywhere on a resume. I want to realize this possibility. I want to find a way for you to tell your story -- but that's not all. I want you to listen to what others have to say. There is no way to become an expert at creating this space other than a willingness to engage in its discomfort. So, I'm heartened by the words that Diana Butler Bass offers to leaders in her conclusion. She reminds us that, right now, leaders

"are not needed to comfort people feeling lost in times of change. Instead, spiritual leaders need to help transform these fears into urgency and courage. People cannot stay in a state of perpetual fear. To enable and empower people to move ahead calls for wisdom and love, two qualities we seldom speak of in political leadership. It also calls for patient insight twinned with the ability for prophetic proclamation of the new world." 

It strikes me in this call for leadership that it's not one person out front. We tend to think of our leaders as the one in the balcony or the one in the front or the one going ahead -- but this kind of leader is smack dab in the middle. She's not rushing ahead because whatever will be hasn't come yet. She isn't even the one that has all of the gifts and talents to realize that next reality. Instead, her task is to captivate the imaginations of others. Her job is to say as many times as she can: "You can do this." I don't think there is a bolder prophetic vision than to love and trust the community of believers enough to start talking to each other about what their dreams really are. When I talk with older generations about these things, they talk about beliefs. They seem particularly concerned that the whole world believes in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior, but that might not really be what our world needs right now. It might not be that every knee should bend to worship Jesus. It may instead be that we finally find some way to make the realm of God tangible. It's not a theological reality but one that exists in the way that Jesus imagined the Spirit of the Lord to change the world. You know, in that amazing possibility that there might be no more hunger and the oppressed go free. I hope I'm not the only one that has the courage to say as many times as I can: "You can do this."

A Beautiful Change

This month, my friend Katherine's first book entitled Any Day a Beautiful Change: A Story of Faith and Family released. It's the second publication of The Young Clergy Women Project imprint with Chalice Press and I'm thrilled to celebrate Katherine's voice among this circle of talented young clergy women that I call my tribe.

In celebration of this release, Katherine has asked her blogging friends to blog about the beautiful changes in our lives. This stumped me when the email arrived a month ago inviting my participation. (I openly admit that I have not read Katherine's book though I know it will be wonderful because I literally cried on the treadmill reading this excerpt in The Christian Century.) As much as I wanted to hype this talented colleague, I had no idea what I could articulate to be my beautiful change -- if there is indeed only one. I feel like I'm waiting it. I want it to happen. It just hasn't happened yet so I had no words. And then, I read this beautiful reflection by my friend Lee.

My mind raced back one whole month where I sat in the luxury of a hot tub overlooking a vineyard in the home that I rented in Sonoma to celebrate my 33rd birthday with my nearest and dearest. On this particular night, it seems that most everyone had gone to sleep except for my two non-Christian friends. This is an important fact only because this was the moment that I tried to explain resurrection. My hands skimmed the top of the water as I tried to explain the holy days that had just come to pass. Of course, my monologue was not really about how the church celebrated the resurrection. It was how I felt surrounded by the love of these friends all week in a beautiful place with wonderful wine. I've already told this story here but sometimes it feels like beautiful things need to be repeated. We can talk and talk about the power of friendship, about the awesome mystery of being truly known and the redeeming power of laughing until your sides ache -- but it's an idle tale until you experience it again. For me, it seems that I needed to gather every important person in my life (with the profound awareness that there were still some missing) to remember what it feels like to be loved. It may sound silly or trite -- but that trip really has changed everything. It has reminded me of something that I had forgotten in myself and something I needed to hear from a friend who has known me since we ate lunch together every day in middle school. It reminded me that I am deeply loved. At least for now, this is the beautiful change I needed. My restless spirit always wants more love and more justice and more peace. But, while I try to be patient in my practice of resurrection, I can always smile to remember what it felt like to be that loved for one week.

This is just one story. This is just one beautiful change. I encourage you to consider your own -- and please do read these wise words from my friend Katherine who encourages to remember how beautiful change can be. Find out more here.

That's my President!

Today, after yesterday's news in North Carolina, I can once again say: I'm proud to be an American. It's not just what the president says. It's the fact that I live in a place where we celebrate individual testimony. I'm grateful for this place where we can tell the truth -- and hopefully seek more love together no matter what our hesitations.