Something to Contemplate in the Holiday Season

I came across this article a few months ago on the excellent Experimental Theology blog. It was published back in 2007, but it’s one of those things that is relevant at the beginning of every liturgical year.

In Praise of Christmas Shopping:

Excerpt-y!

Thus, before we denounce the commercialization of Christmas, let’s pause to note that all those shoppers are SHOPPING FOR SOMEONE ELSE! And that is a very deep spiritual realization. All those shoppers are not thinking of themselves, they are thinking of someone else. When during the year do we spend this much time thinking about the needs and wants of the people in our lives?

Overheard on the Train

Riding in to work on the train today before sunrise, I could not help but overhear a conversation the two women directly behind me were having.

It started out with the flat statement, “My father-in-law is in the hospital with stage 4 cancer.”

Being the person that I am, I immediately started silently praying for this person and their family. I work for a hospital in a non-clinical role, and I sometimes feel like my job is really tangental to the patient care aspect, but one thing I have done is taken to praying on those rare occasions I do see patient identifying information.

Silently, and quietly, and never writing it down or telling others what I’m doing or whom it was. Because I take HIPAA seriously.

The woman, oblivious to what was going on in the seat before her, continued to discuss the situation with her friend. From what I was hearing, and my tangental connection to patient care, I heard her discuss the way the doctors were handling the case which sounded to me like the traditional treatment of stage 4 cancer, but she was complaining that, because he wasn’t getting better, this was a sign that the doctors didn’t care.

She then brought up other situations where her family members had been in hospital and things that had happened to show that the doctors just don’t care.

Doctors are doctors. I can’t do anything about doctors. I can’t make them sit down and describe to every relative of every patient exactly what they are doing, and why they chose that course of treatment. Especially if the relative is not the primary caregiver or legally approved medical decision maker. HIPAA again.

Her friend, in an attempt at comfort, told her, “Hospitals just don’t care.”

Doctors are doctors. I can’t do anything about doctors. Or nurses, or CNAs, or administrators, or management. But by God and all the saints above, *I* care.

I wanted to turn around in my seat and demand recognition for my work. I wanted to explain to these women the nature of the healthcare system. I wanted to explain to them how absolutely dumb they were for expecting one magic pill to cure all ills. I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake them until they acknowledged they were wrong and I was right, until they acknowledged my anger and frustration at a system I am embedded in, a slow moving behemoth with tendrils in every life for better or for worse, was just as valid as theirs.

The train trundled across the Steel Bridge, and I looked at the pink ribbons of clouds reflected in the windows of the downtown skyscrapers. I said a prayer for those who were angry and frustrated, whether they were on the patient’s side or the hospital’s side or somewhere in between.

When my work email booted up, I saw an automated note from the HR people, autosigned by the President of the hospital, thanking me for five years of service.

I’m Special!

One of my hobbies is reading about New and Emerging Religious Movements (NRMs).

That’s the academic term for what the media calls ‘cults’. Not all NRMs are cultish, but all cults are NRMs until they’ve been around a couple centuries.

I’m utterly fascinated by them, which I think stems partially from growing up in an area with a high percentage of Mormons and being told I was excluded from their Temple. Unless I went through all the work to get a recommend.

But if you tell me there’s secrets, I want to know them. So when I was younger, I spent a lot of time in the library’s religion section. And now that I’m older, I… still spend a lot of time in the library’s religion section. But I also use this handy device called ‘The Internet’, and I’ve satisfied my curiosity as to what happens during the LDS Temple ceremonies.

One common thread of NRMs is that knowing the secret knowledge of the group makes you special. This is a part of NRMs because it’s also been a part of pretty much every religion in the history of ever, and hey, you gotta go with proven marketing strategies. Even us Christians used to spend three years in study before being initiated into the Church through the mystery of baptism.

Now it’s a six month class. Well, at my shack, anyway.

This idea in religions of all shapes, sizes, and ages, leads to the inevitable divisions of people into groups. We know the secrets. We know the truth. We are the special ones. Those who don’t know the secrets are different.

Us vs. Them.

And we are humans. We like feeling special. We like finding out secrets. We like our black and white answers– you’re in, he’s out, we’re right, they’re wrong.

The problem with Christianity is that when you get to the heart of the faith, the secret that lies there is that yes! You are a special, amazing, wonderful, beloved child of God!

And so is everyone else.

Even– and especially!– those who are not like you. Those who do not know this secret. Those who know the secret but don’t act like it.

Those who hate you.
Those whom you hate.

Oh, hi there.

Been a while. I kind of took an unannounced break because, well, Life Happened.

Anyway, if there’s anyone still out there, I’d like to ask y’all keep me and the rest of the folks in my catechumen class in your prayers. We’ve got a couple adult baptisms, a handful of confirmations, one or two receptions, and me and a couple other folks are renewing our baptismal vows in front of God and the bishop and everybody.

Technically, I should be one of those being received since I’ve got this tendency to run and hide when there’s a bishop around. In discussing it with the group it was decided that since I’ve been rolling with the Episcopal Church for eight years, 3 as a Vestry member and now 1 as a delegate to Diocesan Convention, I’m in common-law fellowship with the Communion.

So on Pentecost the Bishop’s going to put his hands on my head and pray that the good work begun in me continues.

….Oh, for the flamboyant love of God!

That’s what slipped out of my mouth in a fit of frustration earlier today. My brain likes to invent new statements like this at times. Yesterday and for the week and a half prior, it was “Flaming boogers!”

Now, apparently, it’s the flamboyant love of God.

My twisty little brain sent me scurrying off to the dictionary to see what exactly I was calling up when I called for the flamboyant love of God. TheFreeDictionary informed me that flamboyant can mean:

1. Highly elaborate; ornate.
2. Richly colored; resplendent.
3. Architecture Of, relating to, or having wavy lines and flamelike forms characteristic of 15th- and 16th-century French Gothic architecture.
4. Given to ostentatious or audacious display.

Hm. Let’s try it out.

The highly elaborate love of God.
The resplendent love of God.
The ostentatious and audacious display that is the love of God.
The flamboyant love of God.

I like it.

My theology, let me show it to you

I was going through some really old posts on my other blog, and came across this:

It also included a fun-sized Nestle Crunch bar and the greatness beverage in pouch form EVER, a fruit punch Capri Sun.

I agree so vehemently I must immediately post a blog entry of my own to let y’all know that, in fact, the best thing about Heaven is when you walk in the door, St. Peter hands you a fruit punch Capri Sun.

I’m certain someone out there disagrees. BUT THEY ARE WRONG!

I could probably make this a metaphor for anything I darn well please right now in Christianity and the Anglican Communion and the world in general, but mostly? Right now I really want a Capri Sun.

Soliciting book recommendations for a wacky idea.

There’s this thing I’ve been kind of half-arsing through in my spare time (in between teaching myself the ukulele, playing Pokemon on my Nintendo DS, and creating geeky cross-stitch patterns). It’s called the Personal MBA and at its essential base it’s a list of books that, if you went through a MBA program, you would more than likely have read.

So, here’s the question: What kind of books would be on a Personal M.Div. reading list?

For those of you who have gone to seminary, what books were you assigned there were, in your opinion, the best, and had the most impact on your lives and ministries?

For those of you who haven’t gone to seminary, what books have you read that were, in your opinion, the best, and had the most impact on your lives and ministries?

Best laugh of the day, courtesy of the CofE

NO WAIT! COME BACK! It’s not about *that*!

No, someone just linked me to the Church of England’s Prayers for the World Cup.

There’s one for the players and workers and spectators, yawn. There’s one for South Africa, standard stuff.

Then there’s this one:

A prayer for those simply not interested

Lord, as all around are gripped with World Cup fever,
bless us with understanding,
strengthen us with patience and
grant us the gift of sympathy if needed.
Amen.

Open Letter to the ABC

Dear Rowan, Archbishop of Cantebury,

Hi! I see you and your staff have sent out a couple letters recently. I apologize, I haven’t been able to read them. You see, I’ve been at church! It’s been a very exiting time here, we’ve added a mass midweek, and we just got finished hosting a community conference. We’ve barely had time to wash all the coffee cups, and now we’re hosting another conference, this time ecclesiastical! The kids in the cooperative daycare have painted tiles and are helping to build the mural alongside the outside wall, along with our Buddhist building partners. And there’s the music studio, and the free lunches for job seekers, not to mention the fundraising for Haiti relief!

So, I hope you’ll understand if we don’t get back to you quickly. Ooops! It’s my time to go turn the compost. We’re trying out some new initiatives to be better stewards of our Earth, and I’m sharing my talents and knowledge of how to turn garbage and rotten things into good, rich soil, perfect for growing things. I’ve got your letters around here somewhere, I’m sure I’ll get a chance to read them here any day now.

Until then, I’m going to sing when the Spirit says ‘sing!’, and obey the Spirit of the Lord.

Love,
this Child of God,
Mary Sue,
Laywoman

From One Who Has Died

The guest priest at my parish this week was significantly less formal than my Anglo-Catholic heart is comfortable with.

But I subscribe to the theory if you’re always comfortable in church, you’re doing Christianity wrong.

I sat in the back practicing my patience. Has anyone ever mastered patience, I wonder? I know I practice a LOT. And as with anything you’re busy practicing, whether it’s patience or ukulele, practice means you mess it up a LOT.

(But you keep trying, which is important both for the ukulele and for patience.)

The priest opened the sermon with the question, “Is there life after death?” Every time he repeated it, I practiced that patience thing and didn’t shout out, “I’ll tell you when I get there!”

I’m sure I looked like I was chewing on a lemon, but I felt secure enough in the wayfarback of the Sanctuary that the guest priest couldn’t see me. About halfway through, though, I had a realization.

He’d never died.

Matter of fact, it was statistically likely I was the only one in the congregation who had.

It wasn’t that flashy, folks, it wasn’t like the television where there were medical personnel working frantically to save me. I calculated a toxic level of a medication, doubled it, swallowed it, and I lay down to die.

[Missing Scene]

I sat up, and began to speak. That was the first day of my life after death.

I’ve had about 6300 days of life after death now.

The priest said in his sermon, he straight out said, “What do we do in the life after death? It sounds boring, doesn’t it?”

Oh. Sweetie.

No.

It’s not boring.

Dull and frustrating and angry and brilliant and happy and awe inspiring and cranky and depressed and joyous and glorious and dusty and new and stinky and electrifying and with all that going on before 10am on a Monday morning, how could you possibly be bored?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pay some bills.