mil gracias

Wrestling with inclusive God-talk

2012-01-23T08:16:00.000-08:00

I struggle with inclusive God-talk. The word ambivalence describes how I feel. It’s a good word, a word that includes the idea of a dual between values and the resulting confusion. That’s me. I value knowing that God is not a male, and I value the theologians and seminaries that want to communicate this to the wider body of Christ. But I also value beauty in language. My editing hand slashes unmercifully at clunky constructions, in my own work and when I’m editing someone else’s article. As a poet, I know that form has to embrace and embody meaning if a good poem is to result. Both/and, not either/or.

It’s the form part that bothers me when I read something like, “God communicates God’s will in God’s own time to God’s people.” When I complained that there was just a little too much God in that sentence, a theological friend piously replied, “Can one ever have too much of God?”

Well, no….I guess not. But that’s not the point. It just sounds so awkward—almost ugly—to say it like that.

I remember well when I first became fanatical about applying inclusive language to people. I happened during the sermon one Sunday morning years ago. As usual, my restless spirit seemed to be putting up a block against the barrage of words, my definition of preaching at that time in my life. The pastor was urging us to be “mighty men of God.” I knew he was meaning all of us, men and women alike, and I was trying to mentally accommodate the language.

For some reason, I just stopped trying that morning and began paying attention to the images in my head. As we were encouraged to be men of prayer, the picture in my brain was of a group of white men, dressed in business suits, kneeling in prayer. All the mighty men of God were just that, white men in business suits. I watched the images come and go through each point of the sermon, and every reference to men carried its corresponding male image.

Realizing that for our pastor, the word “men” was a collective plural noun that automatically included women, I tried putting women into the pictures in my head. It didn’t work. I simply could not force my brain to picture women under the covering label of men. I was nowhere in the images that Sunday morning.

I realized that this was part of my problem with church and sermons, that the intuitive sub-conscious center of my brain, the place where the pictures are born, was not cooperating with my efforts to apply the male words to myself. That’s why church made me so tired and restless (or at least that was one of the reasons; immaturity may also have had something to do with it).

So I applaud efforts to make language about people inclusive, although this becomes awkward at times. I also applaud efforts to be more accurate in our language about God. So why do I struggle so much with inclusive God-talk?

Since the books of the Bible were originally written in patriarchal contexts, it’s not surprising that so much of biblical language portrays God with male images, “Father” and “Son” being primary examples. But the deeper revelation behind the stories and images whispers the mystery of God who is transcendent and Spirit and so far beyond language that words can only falter and trip.

The book of James marvelously illustrates the gender issues that surround our understanding of God. In one of my favorite images, James calls God “the Father of lights,” the giver of all good gifts (1:17). A decidedly male image. But James follows this with a description of what this Father of light does for us. He gives us birth through the word of truth. There you have it! A Father who gives birth! God our Father/Mother. Creator/birth-giver. Source of all life.

This doesn’t settle my dis-ease with modern amorphous God-talk, but it does make me smile. And it reminds me that this mystery runs deeper than words.

On slow learning

2012-01-12T21:18:00.000-08:00

by Scott Cairns

If you've ever owned
a tortoise, you know
how terribly difficult
paper training can be
for some pets.

Even if you get so far
as to instill in your tortoise
the value of achieving the paper,
there remains one obstacle--
your tortoise's intrinsic sloth.

Even a well-intentioned tortoise
may find himself in his journeys
to be painfully far from the mark.

Failing, your tortoise may shy away
for weeks within his shell, utterly ashamed,
or, looking up with tiny, wet eyes, might offer
an honest shrug. Forgive him.

Best books of 2011

2012-01-04T10:58:00.000-08:00

One of the best gifts my parents gave me was a love of reading. No matter what else I’m involved in, there’s always a book in the background—not as a means of escape but rather as a way to keep a larger perspective. What I read and how I live go together. The following are the books that most affected me in 2011, no matter when they were published.

Contemporary novels:

Kathryn Stockett, The Help: Compelling treatment of relationships between black maids and white mistresses in Jackson, Mississippi in the 1960s. The author uses the technique of deliberate exaggeration (stereotyping) of some of the white women, while, in contrast, developing more fully the characters of the black women. Good on interracial relationships, prejudice, hypocrisy, friendship and the power of the written word. I also enjoyed the movie.

Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games; Catching Fire; Mockingjay: Provocative and violent futuristic fantasy books for young people about peace. It was almost impossible to put them down.

Stieg Larson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest: Well written, if rather violent, murder mysteries with an underlying message about violence against women. I tried but could not watch the corresponding movies because of the violence.

I love reading stories set other cultures, especially when the authors are from that culture. My favorites in 2011 included Abraham Verghese, Cutting for Stone (set in Ethiopia and India); Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Half of a Yellow Sun (Nigeria); and Chris Cleave, Little Bee (Nigeria and England).

Old novels: I also re-read several old favorites.

Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina: Tolstoy is probably my favorite author.

George MacDonald, Lillith: Every time I re-visit this old friend, I find new treasures. This is my favorite MacDonald book and represents his mature work. A fairy tale for grown-ups, it contains one of the most inspiring visions of heaven I have ever read (an influence on C. S. Lewis, precursor to the scenes in The Last Battle and Perelandra).

Pearl Buck, The Good Earth: The values embodied in this book reflect Buck’s growing up in China and her bi-cultural nature.

Memoirs: This was the year of the memoir, and I read some great ones.

Three were written by Christian theologians: Stanley Hauerwas, Hannah’s Child: A Theological Memoir; Roberta Bondi, Memories of God: Theological Reflections on a Life; and Eugene Peterson, Pastor.

Other memoirs I that impacted me include two books by Iranian author Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Iran and Memories: Things I’ve Been Silent About; Mary Karr, Lit: A Memoir (an unusual conversion story); and Jeannette Walls, The Glass Castle (the best insider’s view of poverty in the US I have ever read).

Other non-fiction books I found engaging include the following: Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life; David Allen, Getting Things Done; Pete Grieg, God on Mute: Engaging the Silence of Unanswered Prayer; Joan Chittister, The Gift of Years: Growing Older Gracefully; and Thomas Kelly, The Eternal Promise.

I’ll save poetry for another blog. I’d love to hear about the books that impacted you.

A Christmas God-freck

2011-12-29T09:39:00.000-08:00

We just returned from spending the Christmas holidays with our daughter and family. We were delighted to discover that the two oldest grandkids are into homemade gifts. Six-year-old Paige made us a book, and I now want to share it, part of my vocation of encouraging young writers.

Christmas is the best holiday ever

(by Paige Gault)

I like Christmas a lot not decause of the prestents decause of God

I also like things like elfs maby I mostle like snowdall the Elf I like him a lot

I mit also like Santa and reinder bat I mostle like GOD!

I am a God freck a Big Woon!

I like the manger set a lot,

bet I do like presits a lot too!

Merry Christmas and happy new years

Happy holydays to you, too. From another God-freck (a Big Woon).

Mary's song

2011-12-19T10:01:00.000-08:00

by Luci Shaw

Blue homespun and the bend of my breast
keep warm this small hot naked star
fallen to my arms. (Rest...
you who have had so far
to come.) Now nearness satisfies
the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies
whose vigor hurled
a universe. He sleeps
whose eyelids have not closed before.

His breath (so slight it seems
no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps
to sprout a world.
Charmed by dove's voices, the whisper of straw,
he dreams,
hearing no music from his other spheres.
Breathe, mouth, ears, eyes
he is curtailed
who overflowed all skies,
all years.
Older than eternity, now he
is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed
to my poor planet, caught that I might be free,
blind in my womb to know my darkness ended,
brought to this birth
for me to be new-born,
and for him to see me mended
I must see him torn.

Christmas program

2011-12-14T07:54:00.000-08:00

(North Valley Friends Church, 1979)

Bales of real hay
clump around
the false manger.
The choir files in,
an unheavenly host,
to predestined slots on stage.
I spot David,
my almost angelic son;
Our eyes connect;
he grins.
Joseph and Mary arrive.
The mini-Madonna clutches the Babe;
his plastic head sticks out, unsupported,
and does not fall.
"Tough kid," I think.
Pajama-clad animals
mill around the manger.
My small daughter, a miscast lamb,
flops her ears
and bleats to the music, all mischief.
For the next twenty minutes
I strain on the edge of the pew
as bathrobed wise men
and mock shepherds
march in and mumble their lines.
The third wise man sneezes,
Gabriel giggles,
and I suppress my own mirth
when suddenly
I see the Christ,
perceive the glory,
and adore.

A Quaker response to Christmas

2011-12-06T10:44:00.000-08:00

We Quakers are in a good position to respond to the Christmas season. With our dual nature of being both Friends of Jesus and those who quake in the presence of the living God, at our best we bring together both the imminence and transcendence of God. Thomas Kelly described the early Quakers as being “ablaze with the message of the greatness and the nearness of God.”

Christmas demands we bring together the nearness and greatness of God. God sent Jesus in an intimate, down-to-earth form—as a helpless baby, needing to be held, changed, fed. That’s the imminence part, God’s nearness to the human condition.

The angels and shepherds got the transcendence part right. I love the King James description of the shepherds being “sore afraid,” uniting pain with terror. More than a helpless baby, this child was the Lord of lords and King of kings in unlikely disguise. Something for the heavenly hosts to shout “Hallelujah!” about.

Sunday in programmed worship, Cherice Bock, our message-bearer, quoted G. K. Chesteron: “Man is bored to death listening over and over to a story he has never heard.” As we listen again to the Christmas story, which we have all heard over and over, I invite you to join me in opening the “eyes of our hearts,” and seeing afresh in the baby, Emmanuel, God with us. Then let us, in the words of the old hymn, become “lost in wonder, love and praise.”

Stripes on the beach

2011-11-30T10:49:00.000-08:00

November was a red-letter month in that I saw the publication of two books. Two! And one of them is a real book.

The real book is called La iglesia latinoamericana: su vida y su mission (The Latin American Church: Her Life and Mission). I coordinated the three person editorial team (with Alberto Roldán and Chuck Van Engen) of this book of essays from 11 Latin American scholars. It’s published by Certeza, a Protestant publishing house in Buenos Aires. It’s been a long and arduous process, but I’m pleased with the result. The book is academic and in Spanish; if these are not barriers, please look it over! (I may blog later on some of the essays, including my own.)

The other book, which is even more “real” (in the velveteen rabbit sense) is published through Bapa Creations Unlimited. You’ve probably not heard of it. It’s my very own (and very unofficial) publishing house. “Bapa” was Alandra’s word for Grandma a few years back. I publish these books around Christmas time, usually in runs of three (one goes to Rwanda, one to Springfield, and one stays home with me).

This latest creation couldn’t be farther from the volume published by Certeza. Rather than academic in level, its destined readership is a three-year-old autistic boy named Peter. The English is pretty straight forward.

One of Peter’s fixations is stripes. He sees them everywhere. A few weeks back when Hal and I were at the coast, I took a walk one day and, like Peter, I saw stripes everywhere. So I took out my camera, and a new book was born. Following are various scenes from Stripes on the Beach.

I went to the beach

and what did I find?

Stripes, stripes, stripes

of every kind.

Wavy stripes in the sand

Ocean stripes

(otherwise known as waves)

swimming to the shore

Sea grass stripes

Shadow stripes

Drift wood stripes

Sky stripes

(otherwise known as clouds)

moving in the wind

Sea shell stripes

Long legged shadow stripes

Bird legs stripes

Wooden bridge stripes

Fuzzy hat stripes

Crooked tree trunk stripes

Stripes in the grass

Stripes in a fence

Venetian blind stripes

And last of all, here am I!

I've pudding on my face

and stripes on my clothes

and it's just about time to close

this book.

Bye bye, stripes! Bye bye, beach!

Prayer of the selfish child

2011-11-21T13:17:00.000-08:00

by Shel Silverstein

Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my toys to break
So none of the other kids can use 'em....
Amen.

(From A Light in the Attic)

Three women, three stories

2011-11-09T11:50:00.000-08:00

I recently read four non-fiction books chronicling the stories of three women. The life circumstances of these women couldn’t have been more different, but their reflections point to the universals of human experience. I’m fascinated by the shared aspects of their lives, the ways they differ, and the power of story to reveal truth.

Two of the books are the memoirs of Iranian writer Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books (2003) and Things I’ve Been Silent About: Memories of a Prodigal Daughter (2008). The third book is Hilary Spurling’s biography, Pearl Buck in China: Journey to the Good Earth (2010). And the fourth book is by theologian Roberta C. Bondi, Memories of God: Theological Reflections on a Life (1995).

All three stories reveal the power of place (cultural and historical context) to form lives. Pearl Buck grew up as a missionary kid in China and spent a good deal of her adult life there as well. And while she herself felt more Chinese than American, being a “foreign devil” during the Boxer Rebellion and the violent conflict between Chiang Kaishek’s nationalism and Mao Zedong’s communist revolution marked her life. Azar Nafisi was raised in the Muslim context of the Shah’s Iran and lived through the radical changes, especially for women, brought by the Islamic Revolution under the Ayatollah Khomeini. Roberta Bondi spent much of her childhood in the shadow of the Christian fundamentalism of rural Kentucky and later, as a young scholar, under the contrasting influence of a rational male-oriented seminary education. All these contexts, in different ways, devalued women, setting up similar struggles for all three.

All three women found solace and hope through the power of literature and language. As a girl, Pearl Buck learned Chinese and soaked up the legends and mythology of her people. As an adult her stories of the Chinese people earned her both a Pulitzer Prize and a Nobel award. Azar Nafisi’s book, Reading Lolita in Tehran, chronicles her clandestine reading group and how reflecting on the works of Nabokov, Fitzgerald, Henry James, and Jane Austen (all forbidden Western authors) helped her and her students find their way through the difficult days of the revolution. Roberta Bondi also writes of the books that helped bring balance and hope to her early years, but it was language itself, in particular the Hebrew language, that gave her a sudden epiphany, “a sense of cosmic goodness and joy in all created things I had never encountered before.”

All three women experienced the power of family to harm, as well as to heal, and a good deal of their personal development had to do with coming to terms with the damage. Buck and Bondi faced the trauma of harsh fathers, while Nafisi wrestled all her life in a difficult relationship with her tyrannical, emotionally unbalanced mother. In some senses, all these relationships with parents were abusive and all the women suffered the trauma of abandonment. In addition, all three entered into unfortunate first marriages and resulting divorces.

And all three women eventually find healing through understanding and forgiving their offending parent, all forming new relationships before the death of the parent.

Azar Nafisi does not write about any kind of relationship to God or the Muslim faith. Both Buck and Bondi were raised in Christian homes. Pearl Buck eventually rejected the Christianity of her parents and did not find a replacement. In contrast, Bondi outgrew the rigid fundamentalism that formed the backdrop of her childhood and slowly moved into a rich and deep Christian spirituality with a God of grace.

Pearl Buck died in 1972. Azar Nafisi lives in the United States, teaches college literature and directs the Dialogue Project at the Foreign Policy Institute of Johns Hopkins University. Roberta Bondi is Professor of Church History at Candler School of Theology, Emory University, in Atlanta, Georgia.

Of the three, the story that impacted me the most was Roberta Bondi’s, but that’s a topic for another blog.

The Thing on the Beach

2011-11-04T17:22:00.000-07:00

A sunny autumn day on an Oregon beach always amazes and delights me.

The other day as Hal and I ambled along on the sands, we saw something else that began to amaze us as we approached it. From a distance it appeared to be some kind of huge driftwood configuration, but it only grew stranger in appearance as we drew near. We named it The Thing on the Beach.

We decided it must be a log with three people sitting on it, having a chat. Yes. “I’m sure they’re moving,” Hal said. The knobs on the log did seem to be slightly swaying in the breeze. But the closer we came, the less they moved.

Finally we closed in. No people, but rather an upside-down complex root system that further stimulated our imaginations. The Thing on the Beach became the Congress of Beasts.

The snooty llama was obviously trying to assert her leadership.

The giant bull frog grumpily complied.

The long-necked fox let his point of view be known.

The earless camel joined the debate….

…as did the sleepy walrus….

…and the pig.

No consensus was reached on any of the items discussed, but at least they were all facing the same direction. I suppose that in itself is amazing in any kind of congress.

The good death

2011-10-26T08:27:00.000-07:00

I just found out that Al Lehman died on Monday. It’s been a long journey, this death.

Al and Lois have been part of North Valley Friends since before its founding. I remember when Hal and I were newly married and began attending Springbrook Friends, one of the meetings that merged to form North Valley. Al was teacher of the adult Sunday school class. Newly graduated from college, as well as newly married, I was a bit of a rebel at the time, highly critical of anything to do with church. But I loved that class. More to the point, I loved Al and his gentle way of opening the Scriptures and of encouraging us to engage with them and with each other.

In the following years, each time Hal and I would return from Bolivia for our furlough year in Oregon, Al and Lois were a stabilizing factor for us in the church. They were like parents in the faith and never seemed to change, were always part of the life and health of the community we came home to.

I was with the elders visiting Al and Lois in their home on Sunday afternoon. Al never woke up during that time, and his labored breathing formed a sort of background music to our visit. We sat with Lois and Bev, sang some old hymns, with Hal’s harmonica accompaniment—songs like “Blessed Assurance,” “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” “When the Roll Is Called up Yonder.” We then all talked about what Al had meant to us, and the strong testimony of a consistent, faithful, gentle life unfolded.

Lois shared that the day before God had given her an unexpected gift. Al woke up and was conscious for about an hour. During that time they again expressed their love to each other. Lois was smiling as she told us, “I didn’t think I get another chance to tell him I loved him.” Bev shared about how her father never wanted his last months to be like this, did not want to be so dependent on family for every need, but that as his condition gradually worsened, he just seemed to accept that this was how it was to be. He walked gently and submissively through the whole experience.

We prayed for Al and the family, sat around for a short while longer and left, not realizing this was his last day with us.

I’m remembering reading about the spiritual discipline of the “good death,” a practice in years gone by, not spoken of much anymore. For the life of me (interesting phrase), I can’t find the source of my reading. I’ve googled it and find thousands of references to a “good death,” all contemporary. Today the phrase pertains more to the medical profession than to Christianity, and is linked with practices such as hospice care. It basically means a death with as little physical and spiritual pain as possible. That’s good. Al and the family benefitted from hospice care during the last several months.

But the “good death” as a spiritual discipline has another sense entirely. Rather than something the dying person receives at the hand of others, it is a gift that person gives to others. It refers to letting one’s death be as full of Jesus and of the fruits of the Spirit as one’s life was. It means letting the way the person handles death become a ministry in itself, a blessing to the community. It results in a deep joy that mingles with sorrow as the person finally slips over the edge and into Life.

Of course, for that to even be possible, a person would have to have lived a consistently Spirit-filled life. Over a long period of time. Al Lehman was such a person, and while we will all miss him, I smile as I imagine him now in the presence of the One he loved. And I thank him for giving us the gift of a good death.

How it sometimes happens that i am reduced to writing

2011-10-19T07:24:00.000-07:00

It starts in the middle of the night
--the witching hour
--the pull of the moon
i slip from sleep
drawn to the lip of chasm
bend in & begin to
spin down & down
i grow small small
as the cone of the vortex
whirls the colors & sounds
& senses of all i’ve ever known
fast fast so fast i forget my name
around & around the dark
shines twirling tumbling me
sucks out my words
my words my very
life until
it slows slows
& stops i
never know how or when
but the vortex vanishes
& i uncurl in the gentled night
hold in my hand
a small pile of words
a singular piece of
poem

Secret sunshine

2011-10-11T11:36:00.000-07:00

I watched a very disturbing movie last week, and it continues to prod me. I love foreign films, in part because of insights gained from looking at life from other cultural perspectives. This one was from South Korea, a prize winner in the 2007 Cannes Film Festival, so I ordered it.

Entitled Secret Sunshine, the film tells the story of a widow who, along with her young son, decides to honor her late husband by moving to his home town, a small city actually. (The translation of the town’s name is “Secret Sunshine.”) Shin-ae begins to make a few friends, finds a job and puts her son in the local grade school, but nothing comes easily. As she explores her new environment, in the background of several scenes Christian groups are singing choruses and testifying in the streets. The local pharmacist tells her earnestly that she needs God and invites her to church, an invitation Shin-ae shyly turns down. But Christianity keeps poking its head around the corners of the film and I wonder, is this the “secret sunshine”?

Tragedy strikes and Shin-ae’s son is kidnapped, then brutally murdered. The perpetrator is apprehended and turns out to be the school-van driver. Shin-ae, overwhelmed by grief, finds herself one evening in a healing service of the very church to which her pharmacist had invited her. She breaks down in the service and people gather to lay hands on her and pray. The next scene shows her at peace, giving her testimony in a small group. A Christian now, with a new “family,” she is learning to sing the songs, read the Scriptures, and submit to a theology that encourages her to accept her son’s brutal death as somehow “God’s will.”

It all breaks down when she goes to the prison, accompanied by church members, to tell the murderer that she forgives him. The criminal smiles tenderly at her from behind bars, informs her that he, too, has become a Christian, that God has completely forgiven him and he is at peace and praying for her.

Too much. She walks out of the prison in stunned silence, accompanied by the “hallelujahs” of the brethren, then collapses in the parking lot. The remainder of the film portrays her rejection of Christianity, psychotic breakdown, hospitalization, and subdued return home. Heavy stuff.

One of the most difficult aspects of the film for me was the portrayal of Christianity. It was fairly honest, not exaggerated. I recognized the music, the forms, the types of relationships because I have heard and seen them all—throughout Latin American and in the United States, representing mainly the neo-charismatic movement, but corresponding to some denominational groups as well. I recognized all the songs, which included contemporary worship music, Bill Gaither (“Because He Lives”), traditional hymns (“Blessed Assurance”) and one song I couldn’t recognize which might actually have been Korean. The Christians were good people, wanting to be helpful.

But the overall impression was of a church that was not Korean in form or content, that was offering superficial answers to the deep struggles of life.

I know something of the large evangelical church in Korea through my Korean friends (including some of my students), through reading the history of the church in that country, and through reading some of her theologians. I know that something good and real concerning the Kingdom of God is taking place in Korea.

But the questions the film poses need to be listened to deeply, not just in the context of Korea, but around the world where the church has taken root and sprung up in diverse cultural contexts. Why, in so many of these places, do the forms and even the content of the gospel seem so similar to what we see in church movements around us? Where are the unique contributions that different cultural expressions of Christianity could offer the whole church? Where is the profound grappling of gospel and culture producing a theology that touches the deep hurting places in life today?

Invitation

2011-10-03T18:31:00.000-07:00

It comes when least expected.
In the middle of the night
I awaken, dream pictures
drifting away,
and on the edge of consciousness,
"Follow me."
At my computer
pondering how to respond
to a difficult message,
the reminder,
"Follow me."
Walking to the post office,
head down, worrying
this task or the other,
a gentle nudge,
"Follow me."
At the moment of temptation
to irritation--the inappropriate
remark, the socially inept
gesture--he whispers,
"Follow me."
It's there at the unanticipated
turn, the interruption,
the sudden darkness.
Throughout the day
and into the night,
alone or in a crowd,
when I'm thinking about him
and when I'm not,
the offered hand,
the quiet word, "Come.
Follow me."

Ready or not, Lord,
here I come.

(From Mark 1 & 2)

Shakespeare in prison

2011-09-27T11:39:00.000-07:00

“In nature there’s no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind. (Shakespeare, Twelfth Night)

Saturday night we enjoyed a rare privilege. We watched a production of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. That alone would have been great fun, but it was the the venue of the event that added adventure and heightened awareness. We were at a medium-security state prison in northern Oregon, and inmates preformed the play. It was an experience I’ll never forget.

A close friend of ours, let’s call him Dave, is a prisoner there. We keep in regular telephone contact, and have been able to visit about once a year. He continues to bless and encourage us with the realities of repentance and transformation. But he remains a prisoner. And we remain close friends, doing all we can to make the encouragement mutual.

As a participant in the production, Dave had secured our tickets and urged us to attend.

We arrived in the early afternoon, in time to take advantage of visiting hours before the evening performance. Two other friends had joined us, and we sat with Dave around a small table, in a room full of other such small groups of inmates and guests. Guards stood around the walls. Dave was in high spirits and our conversation lively. We ended in prayer and left to check into our motel, grab a bite to eat, and return in time for another lengthy check in process.

I didn’t know what to expect. This would clearly be an amateur performance, with minimum staging and props. I had seen Twelfth Night years ago, along with members of the high school freshman English class I was teaching at the time. To refresh my memory I consulted Wikipedia’s synopsis of the play. But I was basically here to support Dave, not to experience great drama.

We conversed with our friends in the hushed tones the prison atmosphere inspires as we again went through the identity check, got stamped, found our group, and were ushered through the series of locked rooms and corridors that finally ended up in the multi-purpose room. But as we arrived this time, I immediately noted a change in the atmosphere. Instead of being separated and strictly guarded, the inmates, in their colorful Elizabethan costumes, mingled with the crowd. People were laughing and talking. Dave was playing medieval music on a synthesizer up front.

At exactly 6:00, we found our seats and the play began. Time passed more quickly than I would have imagined as we laughed and applauded for two hours. I loved watching men take the role of the women in the play, just as it was done in Shakespeare’s time. The role of Viola was especially funny as a man played the part of a woman pretending to be a man. He gave a convincing portrayal. This was real theater. It was really Shakespeare in one of best live performances I have seen. I was frankly surprised.

But it was what happened afterward that made the evening so unforgettable. The play ended, and we were invited to have refreshments and mingle with the cast. They were all beaming, buoyed up not only by our response but by knowing they had actually pulled it off. After refreshments, we gathered again, took our seats, with the cast sitting in front (much like a Quaker facing bench!) and talked together.

Cast members came from varying backgrounds, some with minimal education, only a few having read Shakespeare before, and most with no theater experience. The genesis of the project came from the director of the play, Johnny Stallings, a professional in theater who volunteers his time in the prison. A few years ago Stallings began visiting the prison once a week just to facilitate conversation among a group of inmates who wanted talk about life and death, family, freedom, and so on. For three hours a week these men forgot they were prisoners.

At one point one of the prisoners suggested they read a Shakespearean play together, and Stallings was more than glad to facilitate. This was a first for most of them, but with help they came to appreciate and enjoy Shakespeare. Then someone suggested they perform a play, an audacious idea, and one that took time to run through the system and secure the necessary permissions.

But it happened, and three years ago the prison troupe preformed Hamlet. Last year, it was A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream. A change in this year’s performance was the addition of costumes, on loan from the Portland Opera. The troupe gives three performances for the public, on an invitation only basis, mostly to friends and family members. They perform at other times for fellow inmates.

As the cast members spoke, it became clear that the process itself was transformative. The challenge of moving beyond themselves, of doing something new and totally out of their experience, of entering the world of great literature, and succeeding, well, who wouldn’t be changed? One of the cast members said that the opportunity to make us laugh, to give us such a good gift made it worthwhile. Another testified that the surprise of knowing he could come to understand and like Shakespeare, let alone perform a play, has changed how he sees himself. Just seeing all of them beam with pride and pleasure as we again broke into applause brought tears.

And I realized these men were not the only ones to forget they were prisoners.

In my past visits to the prison, to this very room, while I thoroughly enjoyed my time with Dave, I had been reacting with suspicion to the others in the room. The whole experience of the careful check in process, the multitude of locked doors and guards, the prison garb itself had combined to make me afraid. It was through the lens of fear that I had been viewing the other men in the room, wondering what they had done, not daring to look directly at any of them. Another word for it would be prejudice. And I had not even recognized it.

Before Saturday night. What happened to me through the performance, through the time of visiting with the cast and then through hearing their stories was a transformational experience of my own. I saw men of talent and courage, men capable of great feats of memorization and performance, people with something to say and something to give, people I would like to have as friends. People worthy of respect. People.

I thank God for an experience that went beyond entertainment. I thank God for people like Johnny Stallings who continues to drive the three hours from Portland to the prison once a week. I thank God for hope in dark places. I thank God for Shakespeare in prison.

And I’m thankful that God can change even me.

Continuing the conversation: an exercise in paying attention

2011-09-22T08:35:00.000-07:00

At North Valley Friends Church, we are beginning a year long sermon series on discipleship, focusing on the book of Mark. Concurrently, a new Wednesday evening class for adults, called “Continuing the Conversation,” is starting up. The intent of the class is to instill in us the disciplines and dispositions to become better at listening and discerning what God is saying as we gather for worship on Sunday morning.

As I prepared for last Sunday’s time of worship, I found helpful the instructions that the class facilitator sent to us. The process he suggested to us is as follows:

1. Participate in worship service, take notes.

2. Later in the day on Sunday, spend a few minutes reflecting on the meaning of the service and pray for guidance in application.

3. Between Sunday and Wednesday, write a brief reflection paper. Use the following prompts as a guide.

a. What were key themes that were present in the service?

b. Do you sense a continuous flow during the meeting,

c. How did you feel and what were you thinking during the time?

d. What confusion or lack of clarity did you take away from the service?

e. What are you prompted to do as a result of the sermon?

f. What passages of scripture come to mind, what can you read to extend the learning about this service?

4. Engage others in conversation on Wednesday night. Make commitment for continued reflection and application. Explore scripture passages and other related readings

5. Write one more follow-up prior to next Sunday’s service ( a brief journal entry or two).

6. Notice, reflect, pray and report.

My reflections from Sunday morning

I went to church primed and ready to receive. I prayed that God would help me not be so focused on this process and on how I would respond on Wednesday evening that I would neglect to worship.

It helps that I attend the early unprogrammed meeting, which becomes not only a preparation for programmed worship, but a worship experience in itself. The gathering word came from a quote by Carolyn Stephens about God who communicates: “The one cornerstone of belief upon which the Society of Friends is built is the conviction that God does indeed communicate with each one of the spirits he has made, in a direct and living inbreathing of some measure of the breath of his own life; that he never leaves himself without a witness in the heart as well as in the surroundings of man; and that in order clearly to hear the divine voice thus speaking to us we need to be still….”

Several people spoke into the silence, one about an atheistic scientist who found Christ through research on the human genome project, the other a personal story about seeing a deer in a small forest in the middle of Newberg. I felt awe and gratitude before the fact that God communicates with us in so many ways.

So many aspects of programmed worship spoke to me. The words of the songs became prayer: “Knowing you, Jesus, there is no greater thing;” “Oh draw me, Lord, and I’ll run after you;” “We have decided to follow Jesus.” During the baby dedication, I had the strong sense of the community vowing to follow Jesus in the care and discipleship of our children. I felt his pleasure and was moved by the seriousness of this commitment.

Lynn preached on several passages from Mark 1 and 2, and the parts that stood out to me concerned Jesus’ calling of the disciples. “Follow me.” Here are some of the points I noted down about the call to follow and our response:

--Jesus calls his disciples into a community of followers.

--We don’t necessarily get to choose our companions on this journey.

--Jesus initiates the call.

--He calls ordinary people.

--Worse (or better) than that, he calls sinners, traitors and sick/wounded people.

--The call to follow in the Jesus way is integral, involving all of our life.

--The decision to follow is made over and over again.

And mixed in with these formal elements of worship were the greetings, conversations, warm connections with my fellow followers. This, too, is worship.

Now, several days later, what is lingering and growing is the voice of Jesus throughout the day, inviting: “Follow me.” On Monday, as I communicated with the students in my online class, as I interacted by email and phone with other members of the administrative team, as I prepared for the writers group and, later that evening, led a meeting of the elders and pastors, this invitation accompanied me. I had a very real sense of following Jesus in each endeavor.

This continues and has become a profound and deeply encouraging experience. I know what Jesus is saying to me through the Sunday worship. Now I broaden the question: What is he saying to us as a community?

A mouse ate my poem

2011-09-19T07:17:00.000-07:00

and I'm really mad.
It had been months since the words flowed
from brain to hand to page and I was anguished,
wondering if my muse was on extended coffee break
or if this was a clear-cut case of abandonment.
But then, last night as I was brushing my teeth,
it came to me, pure and full-blown, the perfect poem.
So I rushed from the bathroom to my desk,
grabbed paper and pen, put it all down,
then basked for a moment in creative relief.
I left it there on the edge where I'd be sure
to see it first thing in the morning.

It's morning now, but all I find are nibbled margins,
a few Sanskrit footprints in the dust,
and down on the carpet,
barely visible, one small grey poop of a metaphor.

(From The Secret Colors of God: Poems by Nancy Thomas, Barclay Press, 2005)

My lips are sealed

2011-09-09T03:42:00.000-07:00

Right now Hal and I are in Springfield, Oregon at our daughter’s home, helping out with the grandkids. We are giving Kristin time to do her online courses, while we care for three-year-old Peter. Peter is legally blind and autistic. Other than that, he is a bright, beautiful, active toddler. And life is an adventure.

Among the many things we’re learning about autism are the unique ways people with this condition process language. They think in pictures and take things very literally. They have trouble with metaphors and imagery.

The other morning I was getting Peter up and I said something that irritated him. He ordered me to “No Grandma talk!”

I responded with, “You don’t want me to say that? All right. My lips are sealed.”

He immediately sat up in bed, dug his stuffed seal out of the covers, found its mouth and said, “Seal’s got lips. Seal’s got lips.” (Repetition is another characteristic, usually more than twice.)

I laughed and tried to explain what I meant. We then got him dressed and headed down the hall to breakfast. Entirely out of context, he said, “Peter’s lips are sealed,” then changed it to a question, “Are Peter’s lips sealed?”

We enjoyed his remark so much that he has adopted this phrase and at various times throughout the day, always out of context, he will inform us that “My lips are sealed.” The new bed time ritual involves picking up his seal and making some comment on his lips, after which he’s free to go to sleep.

Life is indeed an adventure, and young Peter is teaching us much. He certainly keeps me on my toes. (Now how would he picture that phrase? Grandma in a tutu, doing pirouettes?)

Though his lips may be sealed, Peter can still grin.

I collect, therefore I am

2011-09-01T11:30:00.000-07:00

Several centuries ago, René Descarte wrote, “I think, therefore I am” (1637), thus laying one of the foundational stones of Western philosophy. Modern thinkers challenge Descartes’ affirmation, in search of a more holistic image of human existence. But approaches to the essence of humanness abound. The Latin American equivalent might be, “I relate, therefore I am.” Some would say that the North American version is, “I consume, therefore I am,” or, for the workaholics among us, “I produce, therefore I am.”

Recently I spent a delightful afternoon with a friend. Gary talked about his writing projects and among them was a reflection on his collections. The idea originally came from an exercise in self-reflection, pondering what the things we collect say about who we are. I found his article fascinating and insightful and decided to do the same exercise myself.

I’ve been a collector all my life. Much of this stuff I no longer own. My stamp collection became too expensive and demanding, so I finally just gave it away. I outgrew the dolls and comic books. But I still collect. And while I don’t really believe my collections define my existence, it’s still an insightful exercise.

I collect heart rocks. Why? Because they’re small, pretty and very inexpensive. And because I love the way they feel in my hands and the way they sound when I tumble them together. And because it’s a bit of a challenge to find them. Whenever I go to the beach I manage to bring home one or two. When a visitor to my home admires my heart rocks (and not everyone even notices them), I invite her to take one home. For keeps, as my grandkids would put it.

I have a wooden bird collection. These come from Bolivia and show both the beauty of Bolivia’s tropical woods and the skills of her craftsmen. My wooden goose accompanies me every day as I work at my computer, reminds me of where I’m from and what I love.

My wooden puzzle collection speaks mainly to my role as a grandmother. The grandkids love these animal puzzles and, although they’re harder than they look to put together, the kids have become quite good at it. These come from Costa Rica, a place I visit frequently as a teacher and have come to love. They represent the colors, creativity, and natural beauty of this place.

Hal and I both collect books and some of our rooms look rather like libraries. We have several categories of books, and my favorite collection, that includes movies as well as books, has to do with stories about cultural values, communication styles, and intercultural relationships. I especially like books and movies produced by the culture they represent. Favorite authors include (among many others) Khaled Hosseini (Afghanistan), Ynag Erche Namu (southern China), Naguib Mahfouz (Egypt), Isabel Allende (Chile), Ernesto Cardenal (Nicaragua), Sandra Cisneros (Hispanic American), Maxine Hong Kingston and Amy Tan (Chinese American), Jung Chang (China) and Jhumpa Lahiri (Indian American). The movies include my favorite, Babette’s Feast (Denmark), The Necessities of Life (Inuit culture), Eat, Drink, Man, Woman (Taiwan), and Departures (Japan). There are many more, but you get the idea. This reflects my life as a poet, writer and participant/observer, having lived most of my adult years outside the US.

I collect words. I collect them as favorite poems, some committed to memory. I collect funny (always insightful) things my kids and grandkids have said. I remember interesting conversations (some overheard) and billboards along the highways. I store in my mind words that sound beautiful, funny or interesting, as separate entities or in phrases. I use them when appropriate. Hal and I read good books out loud to each other, partly because we like the sound of the words. When we were reading Jacob Have I Loved (yes, a book for young people), we came across the word lugubrious, and just stopped to admire it, guessing its meaning from the context (and later looking it up). I then wrote this poem in honor of the word:

A WORD LIKE LUGUBRIOUS

needs a poem of its own.

Consider the slime and the slink of it,

the slightly sinister wink of its eye

as it peeks from behind potted plants at wakes,

lingers at the altars of Protestant revivals,

or sobs with soap opera heroines.

An irreverent Uriah Heapish word,

a marbles-in-the-mouth sound,

it offers no apologies

for its lumpish singularity.

Some suggestions for everyday use:

--"This piano is lugubriously out of tune."

--"He shed a lugubrious tear

as she passed him the marmalade."

--"This morning at exactly 5:37,

a lugubrious lummox was sighted

at the corner of 11th and Lucerne

in downtown LA. We have investigators

on the scene and will interrupt our broadcast

to bring up-to-date coverage

on this fast-breaking story."

--"Not tonight, dear. I'm feeling lugubrious."

What are some of your collections? What do they reveal about you?

Another dance of contradictions

2011-08-25T15:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve been reading—and enjoying—two books that might X each other out. They seem to say two opposite things. The title of David Allen’s book, Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity, actually embarrasses me. I don’t usually read this kind of book. The other, more my style, is Richard Rohr’s Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life. But I am finding value in both books. I love sorting through mixed messages and finding that it’s another both/and situation, rather than either/or. Since I’m having fun, I use the term “dance of contradictions.”

The Getting Things Done book came highly recommended, so I ordered it, thinking, “This might be good for Hal.” I should have learned by now not to think that way. While it might indeed be good for Hal, I’m finding it good for Nancy as well. Basically a system for time and task management, I’m finding Allen’s approach practical and doable, even if I choose to apply only parts of his system. The clutter on my desk top, in my files, and even in my mind is beginning to rearrange itself into orderly patterns. That’s good. Efficiency and productivity are good. North American culture certainly values them.

Actually, I’ve always rebelled at the emphasis on efficiency, although I’m told I’m very efficient myself, a good executive secretary type. The librarian in me smiles at this. But the poet scowls. I really prefer intuition, creativity, freedom. At least most of the time. Some of the time?

Well anyway, the other book appeals to my poetic and mystical self. In Falling Upward, Catholic priest and spirituality guru Richard Rohr claims that adult spiritual development falls into two phases of life (based partly on Jungian psychology). The tasks and values of the first phase include establishing one’s identity, climbing the ladder of success, hard work, productivity, achievement, and getting things done. Rohr sees this as a necessary stage.

In the second stage of spiritual development (which, the author claims, not everyone reaches), the person moves beyond the emphasis on doing to a focus on being. More than productivity, the person is content to live out his or her identity, to simply be the person God created her to be. Gratitude, harmony, relationship, wisdom are all values of this stage of life.

Sounds good. I’ve always been drawn to being above doing, even during my most productive years. At the same time, I’m addicted to lists and love crossing off items as the day moves forward. Getting stuff done feels really good. I’m told schizophrenia runs in the family. Is this evidence?

Probably not. It’s another Mary/Martha story. Mary sits at the feet of Jesus, listening, being, “falling upward,” while Martha fusses and cooks and gets stuff done. Jesus praises Mary’s receptivity and rebukes Martha’s fussy anxiety, but I don’t think he makes this into an either/or choice: be or do. Following the story beyond this incident, we see Martha continuing to fix meals, but with a holy attitude. Apparently we can learn to be and do at the same time.

Are the “real” Quakers the silent, mystical contemplatives or the activists for mission and social justice? Or both at once? Or something beyond the stereotypes?

Even the word “poet” is helpful to me at this point. It comes from the Greek verb “poiew” which means “to make” or “to do.” I’ve always wondered how “poetry” came from this linguistic root, other than the fact that poets make poems. It’s an active, doing (literally) verb, and poetry has always fallen to me on the being side of the continuum. But, there you have it.

So I guess I can still be a poet and have my daily to-do list at the same time. I’d reflect further on this fascinating subject, but I need to draw this to a close. I’ve got way too much stuff to get done today.

Aaron's clothes

2011-08-15T07:01:00.000-07:00

Robinson Jeffers has two wonderful concluding lines to his poem, “To the Stone-Cutters.” He writes that in spite of the ravages of time, “Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found/The honey of peace in old poems.”

For the past month I’ve been savoring the honey of peace in an old poem by George Herbert (1593-1633). The poem is entitled simply, “Aaron.” Brother of Moses and first High Priest to the Hebrew nation, Aaron was required to don elaborate ceremonial robes before he could minister to the people. (You can read the details in Exodus 28.) This poem about Aaron’s priestly clothes points to our only source of adequacy in ministry and gives me hope. I need this reminder often.

AARON

Holiness on the head,
Light and perfections on the breast,
Harmonious bells below raising the dead
To lead them unto life and rest:
Thus are true Aarons dressed.

Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest:
Poor priest thus am I dressed.

Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
Another music, making live, not dead,
Without whom I could have no rest:
In Him I am well dressed.

Christ is my only head,
My alone and only heart and breast,
My only music, striking me e'en dead,
That to the old man I may rest
And be in Him new dressed.

So holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tuned to Christ (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest),
Come, people; Aaron's dressed.

The slug and I

2011-08-09T12:31:00.000-07:00

It’s not that I like slugs. I don’t. I find them repulsive in their sluggish sliminess. But I have a certain narrative relationship with this ugly but innocent beast. Slugs are part of my story.

It started when my kids were little. Out of pure whimsy, I began slipping slugs into the story books I read and re-read to them. Only now and then, in odd places, without skipping a beat, I would read, “As the prince slipped the glass slug on Cinderella’s foot….” And Kristin would giggle and say, “Mom, it’s a slipper, not a slug!”

Interestingly enough, when I try it on my grandkids, it doesn’t work. Instead of amusement, they get mad, as in, “Come on, Grandma! Read it right!” So much for whimsy.

And then there was the time when David, on some Boy Scout hike, took on a dare to kiss a slug. Later he told me it was a scientific experiment, to see if kissing a slug really does make your lips go numb. It does.

The next time slugs enter my story, I’m in graduate school. To help support my addiction to education, I worked as research librarian in the same school. As such I was in charge of making sure all theses and dissertations passed the muster in regards to margins, headings, grammar and references. As if that were not fun enough, I also got to edit the school’s style manual.

To be perfectly honest (which I try to be), academic style manuals are not my favorite literary genre. And the manual I inherited needed extensive editing.

Again, my sense of whimsy clicked in. Partly in order not to go crazy with academic jargon and stylistic rules, I began subtly inserting slugs into the text. As long as it didn’t interfere with the manual’s purpose to give clear formatting instructions, I figured my slugs did no harm. They certainly made my work more fun. I’m sure my co-workers in the office occasionally wondered why I was at my desk giggling.

I inserted most of my slugs into the examples, not the actual instructions. “References Cited” provided rich opportunities. The school used the reference system of the American Association of Anthropology, and I selected my examples from various journals. Slipping a slug into a title was easy. Samples:

Rumekkiart, David E., and James L. M. McClelland. 1986. Parallel Distributed Processing: Explorations in the Microstructure of Cognition among Slugs. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Rogers. E. 1963. The Hunting Group: Hunting Territory Complex among Mistassini Slugs. Bulletin No. 195, Anthropological Series No. 63. Ottawa: National Museums of Canada.

Legge, Anthony J. and Peter A. Rowley-Conwy. 1987. “Slug Killing in Stone Age Syria.” Scientific American 257:88-95.

Fawcett, William B., Jr. and Alan C. Swedlund. 1984. “Thinning Populations and Population Thinners: The Historical Demography of Native American Slugs.” Review of Their Number Become Thinned, by Henry F. Dobyns. In Anthropology 11:264-269.

In the capitalization guide to theological terms, the “S” list contained the following words:

Satan

Savior

scriptural

Scripture

serpent, the

slug, the

Son of God

Spirit, the

(Although slugs deserve respect, you don’t have to capitalize them.) I found many other hiding places for my slugs.

For several weeks after the revised edition of the style manual was published, I held my breath, wondering if the Dean would call me into his office and fire me. Now, some years later, I admit to being disappointed that no one has ever mentioned it. But, after all, who reads all the examples in style manuals? Not me.

Currently Hal and I are in the middle of a new slug adventure. And this one is alive.

It’s called kombucha tea, and the recipe asks for tea, sugar, water and a SCOBY. That stands for “Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast.” We call it simply The Slug (upper case letters required). It floats in a gallon jug of tea, in a dark corner of our laundry room. And there in the darkness, it quietly procreates. Every few days I siphon off a quart of the fermented kombucha tea, replenishing the brew with fresh sugared tea. Then Hal and I actually drink the stuff.

For our health, of course. Our daughter-in-law, Debby, first got us on to this. (Our grandkids refer to their SCOBY as The Octopus.) The use of kombucha tea has been traced to ancient cultures in both China and Russia, and its health claims make it worth trying out. It tastes just strange enough that you know it’s got to be good for you. Adding apple juice helps.

There you have it. My life with the slug. What will the next chapter bring?

Three streams and a place of peace

2011-07-30T08:24:00.000-07:00

At this moment I find myself at the confluence of three streams, and the waters toss and tumble as they meet and widen into a river. The Yearly Meeting of Northwest Friends has just ended on a high note with the confirmation of Becky Ankeny (Hal’s cousin) as the new superintendent. An excellent choice. Hal and I presented two workshops, met with the mission board and spoke at the women’s and men’s banquets. God was gracious and once again these two introverted servants made it through their public responsibilities alive and well.

At the same time, we are in the midst of helping our children and their children prepare for their return to Rwanda. So, concurrent with yearly meeting, it’s been a week of sorting, cleaning, packing, running errands, and much prayer for peace and grace. An undercurrent of grief runs through it all. Four years of separation is a long time.

The third stream that chatters and bubbles in the background is preparation for my trip to Costa Rica on Monday and four intense days of curriculum revision for PRODOLA.

Part of my spiritual discipline recently, and a way to keep my spirit centered in grace and peace, is memorization (in some cases, re-memorization) of favorite poems. I’ve printed each poem on a 6 x 4 card and play with it as we take our early morning walk (another spiritual discipline). This one by Wendell Berry keeps me centered in grace, even when I can’t get out into the nature he writes about. It helps the streams inside me gather into a place of still water.

The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
or grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

I see you

2011-07-21T09:33:00.000-07:00

Recently I discovered a short poem by W.S. Merwin called “Sight.” I’ve been memorizing it on my morning walks. It goes like this:

SIGHT

Once
a single cell
found that it was full of light
and for the first time there was seeing

when
I was a bird
I could see where the stars had turned
and I set out on my journey

high
in the head of a mountain goat
I could see across a valley
under the shining trees something moving

deep
in the green sea
I saw two sides of the water
and swam between them

I
look at you
in the first light of the morning
for as long as I can

The last stanza, “I look at you in the first light of the morning for as long as I can,” touches an inner chord. I now find myself repeating it in my early morning prayers, accompanied by a stab of joy I can’t explain.

About the same time, a Brazilian friend sent me a YouTube song in Portuguese, saying it reminded him of me. Since it’s a beautiful song, that makes me feel really good. The chorus repeats variations on the phrase, “I can’t stop looking at you.” Again, I have been singing this phrase as prayer to Jesus throughout the day. (Go to the link at the end of this blog.)

Last week Hal and I watched the movie, “Avatar.” I had wanted to see this film for a long time and, while our TV set doesn’t do 3D, I was not disappointed. I loved the geography and culture depicted on the moon Pandora, as well as the story of supposed enemies becoming friends. I was a bit discouraged when what at first appeared to be an anti-war message turned out to illustrate a just-war position.

But all that aside, I was especially taken by the way “people” on Pandora express love. Instead of “I love you,” they say to each other, “I see you.” Of course that phrase means more than, “I acknowledge your physical presence.”

Now and again, throughout the day, when I breathe the prayer, “I see you” to Jesus, I sense him whispering back to me, “I see you.” This exchange of love expresses both present reality and longing for more.

All three phrases say the same thing, and all three come from secular culture as expressions of human (or Pandoran) love. Yet they have turned into prayer for me.

I love it when this kind of convergence happens. It affirms the Spirit’s leading.

I am currently reading Everything Belongs: The Gift of Contemplative Prayer by Richard Rohr (another convergence), and he makes the point that “true seeing is the heart of spirituality today.” “Prayer is not primarily saying words or thinking thoughts. It is, rather, a stance. It’s a way of living in the Presence, living in awareness of the Presence, and even of enjoying the Presence.”

I feel the Spirit lifting me to a new plane of prayer, where instead of words, I simply gaze. Sometimes the Presence is so close, sight fades. Other times, like the mountain goat, I look across a valley and see “under the shining trees something moving.”

I stand still and watch.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SUCDyTZsbuE

Wimpy, Grandpa Clyde and our African heritage

2011-07-13T10:30:00.000-07:00

This last weekend 34 members of the (much larger) extended Thomas clan gathered at my daughter Kristin’s home. Four generations were represented, the oldest being Hal’s parents, now in their 90s. Each family unit set up its tent on the lawn and was in charge of one meal. The outdoor porta-potty helped with other logistical matters.

We had invited Larry and Dee Choate to be with us for the weekend, to tell us stories about our African heritage. Larry grew up in Burundi during the colonial era; his parents, Ralph and Esther Chilson Choate, were Friends missionaries. Esther’s parents, Arthur and Edna Chilson founded the Quaker work in Kenya and Burundi back in the early 1900s. So Larry, a Quaker MK (ie, “missionary kid”) intimately knew Hal’s grandparents, Clyde and Mary Thomas, and his uncle and aunt, George and Dorothy Thomas, also Friends missionaries in Burundi. We simply wanted him to share his memories.

And he did. On Saturday afternoon we gathered the clan in Jon and Kristin’s spacious living room and listened for several hours as Larry told stories. But let me back up a little. Grandpa and Grandma Thomas (great-great grandparents to the youngest among us) raised their five kids here in Oregon, waiting until the kids were all married and more or less settled before beginning their missionary career in Africa, thus fulfilling a life time dream. Hal remembers them well and also remembers his sense of the unfairness of it all—his grandpa and grandma leaving him. He must have been around four years old, but the feelings were strong.

Hal’s loss was Larry’s gain. With his own parents totally involved in their mission work, Larry needed live-in grandparents, and Grandpa Clyde and Grandma Mary carried it off with flare, met his need for attention and hands-on love, as well as the occasional disciplinary thump on the back of the head. Grandma Mary (Aunt Mary to the MKs) taught in the compound grade school, while Grandpa Clyde worked in carpentry and construction projects, always taking time to train his young disciples, which included Larry.

The Wimpy stories were among our favorites. Grandpa Clyde bought (“adopted” would be a more accurate term) a chimpanzee on a trip to the Congo, brought it home and raised it. Larry reports that Wimpy was more like a son than a pet, showing very human characteristics. He was affectionate, intelligent, and extremely mischievous. His room was the top of a tree in the yard, and he always stuck his head in a gunny sack (his “blankie”) when he went to sleep or after he had broken some rule and knew he was in deep trouble. Grandpa disciplined him regularly, and Wimpy always responded with great relief.

Wimpy would occasionally hide along the path outside the compound and jump out to scare people. In a better mood, he would simply approach all passersby, his hand stretched out for a shake. Those who knew him would give him a hand; others just got spooked and hurried down the path, much to Wimpy’s amusement. Larry reported that Wimpy loved to ride on the back of Larry’s motorcycle, his head out to catch the wind. When Larry would turn to glance at him, he always saw Wimpy’s big monkey lips flapping in the wind. It inevitably made him laugh.

What Larry remembers most about Grandpa Clyde was his joy. Grandpa smiled with his whole face, eyes sparkling. And he smiled often. He also remembers his long sermons, delivered at high velocity, but full of biblical truth and wisdom. He remembers Grandma Mary mothering him, understanding his particular pain as an MK.

Larry’s memories of Uncle George and Aunt Dorothy are also strong. He reported that George loved to hunt and was skillful, keeping the missionary community supplied with good meat. But at one point, George sensed God speaking to him, telling him that He had not sent him to Africa to hunt, but to be a missionary. George felt God asking him to give up hunting, and Larry remembers well the disappointment of the missionary community on hearing this. Thus followed four years without good meat (from the viewpoint of the other staff), at which time George sensed God lifting the hunting ban, and he began again to hunt game, although with more moderation. What impressed Larry as a young boy were Uncle George’s integrity and obedience, an example he’s never forgotten.

We ended our story-telling session (although it continued informally the rest of the weekend) by praying for Larry and Dee, then asking them to pray for us. We have a strengthened sense of our identity as a family, and a realization of how important these stories are. We also realize that this clan has gathered in many non-Thomas born “outsiders,” such as myself, people who have married into the family, and that we all bring our own stories. These, in turn, become part of the overall family narrative. In future gatherings, we want to give time to listening to more of these stories.

We’re a people on a journey, following our Lord, knowing that what we all contribute makes the whole story more interesting, more complex, more beautiful. It’s been good to listen to some of the African segments of our story. Where is this all taking us? I can’t wait for the next chapter.

Sleeping facilities

Hal and his parents lead the singing

Larry Choate telling stories

This is great stuff.

Different generations join in.

Simplicity of heart

2011-07-04T08:53:00.000-07:00

As anyone who has attempted to de-clutter their life knows, simplicity can be complicated. It involves tackling not only the accumulation of stuff—those bins of college syllabi, old magazines, childhood treasures—but extra tasks we’ve taken on, organizations we’ve joined, the demands other people make on us, and all the clutter in our minds.

Recently as I was walking the labyrinth our Friends meeting has constructed in an adjacent field, I found myself repeating a simple prayer: “You are my life. You are my life.” It was as though God was reeling me in, bringing me back to the basic simplicity of soul from which all else flows. I found myself asking, with the psalmist, “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire beside you” (Psalm 73).

I felt God reminding me that simplicity begins in the heart. It flows from a life oriented to the source of all life, from the deep knowledge that in God alone we “live and move and have our being.” That’s basic to Christianity, yet somehow I keep forgetting.

As I walked that trail, I began to affirm, “Above all relationships and roles—spouse, parent, grandparent, friend, minister—you are my life. Above all I possess or hold on to for security—my home, my books, my insurance policies, my investments—you are my life. Above all the intangibles I cling to—my health, my education, my achievements, my talents, my rights, my dreams—above all this, you are my life.” And I found myself praying, “Oh Lord, let it be. Change my heart. Keep reeling me into yourself.”

I am sensing that only when I live from the center of a life oriented to God can I move out freely into the world as God’s agent of reconciliation and peace.

When will I start remembering this so much that I live by it? When will this attitude become a holy habit?

Prayer: “Take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess the beauty of thy peace” (John Greenleaf Whittier).

The very worse grandma ever

2011-06-27T06:26:00.000-07:00

Hal and I just spent a week taking care of our three young grandchildren while their parents led a group of middle schoolers on their annual trek to Washington, DC.

I approached the week with both fear and anticipation. We had planned a list of fun activities and a menu of meals we hoped would please as well as nourish. We knew the behavioral rules and household routines their parents follow and determined to lovingly but firmly carry these out. I had even asked a group of close friends to be praying for us during the week. (Am I wimpy, or what?)

All this preparation and prayer helped. But I am again impressed by how challenging it is to raise children. Especially little children. They can be tough critters.

One of my tasks became combating the perception that the role of grandparents is to be on continuous call to entertain, to engage in a non-stop marathon of sword fights, hide-n-seek, I-spy, story books and movies, bike and scooter races, Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, X-box (I don’t even need to try and lose), drawing dinnosaurs, making tents in the living room, trips to the park and on and on and on. Not to mention the special needs of our three-year-old autistic grandson who loudly repeats every demand until he knows without a doubt he holds your full attention.

I simply did not have the energy to keep up the continuously fun-loving grandma facade. I found myself mentally repeating, “You are an adult. Respond like one.” The low point came early in the week when I caught myself in the middle of a fight between the eight- and five-year-old, yelling at them to “stop all this yelling!” At that moment I felt like the world’s worse grandma.

But that was not the norm for the week. My mature self did eventually kick in. Hal and I were able to support one another and find balance, to be ourselves and the grandparents these kids needed.

Many highlights brightened the week, like the morning Paige and I spent building a fairy house. Her idea, this was to be a refuge for fairies from the rain, hidden under a bush and behind a rock. We traipsed all over the yard gathering moss, leaves, pine cones, petals—anything that might make a cozy fairy house. We then made and posted signs saying, "Fairy house, right this way ---->", in case it was too well hidden.

At one point, Paige turned to me—totally serious—and said, “I have to tell you something, Grandma. Fairies aren’t real.”

“Oh?” I responded, waiting for what would come next.

“But I think God could make some fairies if he wanted to.”

“Yes, he probably could,” I replied.

Long pause.

“Don’t you wish he wanted to?”

Yes, Paige, I do wish that.

And I wish God would make me into the perfect grandma. But that may be a long-term project. And by the time the project is complete, you’ll be all grown-up, with new needs and other people in your life.

In the meantime, I’ll do my best to support Paige’s mom and dad, with a new appreciation of just how challenging their role is.

The kids were glad to see their parents at the end of the week (perhaps not as glad as we were!), but I was encouraged that Paige asked me, “Do you have to go now, Grandma?”

The challenge of X-box

Peter, a blend of innocence and mischief

Living room tent

Confessions of a lapsed contemplative

2011-06-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

For years contemplative prayer has drawn me, like the vision of a mountain stream on a hot city day. I’ve read the right stuff, from the classics (Julian of Norwich, The Cloud of Unknowing) to the moderns (Basil Pennington, Thomas Merton, Richard Foster). I’ve gone through the disciplinary paces, practiced the helpful techniques—repeating slowly the name of Jesus, even doing breathing exercises to control my brain waves.

I believe the books. I accept the testimony of the saints that this is all real. The problem is, it doesn’t seem to work for me. At least not on a consistent basis. Not that I haven’t had moments of ecstasy. I have. But they are short and seem to come about once a decade.

Perhaps my expectations are too romantic. The idea of simply being in God’s presence, without words, basking in the glow of divine love—well, who wouldn’t want that ?! But even as I ask the question, I imagine any number of my friends who would think this is supremely silly. Maybe not everyone would want it. But I do.

Perhaps my imagination is the culprit. It has always been active, mostly giving me pleasure, but sometimes giving me fits. In a typical attempt at contemplation, I begin by praying for God’s protection and invoking the Spirit’s presence and help. Then I begin to “center down.” But hardly a minute passes before the most mundane, funny, or downright irreverent thought comes to mind, and without realizing what’s happening, I’m off on the trail of an interesting tangent. I’m reconstructing a frustrating conversation I had the day before (my imaginary remarks are always more brilliant than the stuff I actually say), or getting a head start on worrying about next week’s deadline. Suddenly I realize, Oh no! I’ve done it again! I quickly offer my tangent up to God, try hard not to feel guilty (as the books tell me I mustn’t), and again begin breathing the name of Jesus. But within minutes I’m mentally composing a poem about frogs to send my grandson for his birthday.

I’m currently taking a contemplative break. By that I don’t mean I’m on a spiritual retreat where I contemplate for two weeks. I mean I’ve put my devotional guidebooks back on the shelf and, for the time being, am sticking with more active ways of prayer.

At the heart of my struggle is a longing for intimacy with God, a desire to hear his voice as part of my everyday experience. And, thanks to God, contemplative prayer is not the only way this happens.

God speaks in many ways, both ordinary and extraordinary. He even uses my imagination. Part of my growth has been learning to recognize his voice.

A few years back God spoke to me through a dream that seemed anything but spiritual. I dream a lot, mostly weird stuff I forget as soon as I wake up. But every once in a while God speaks through a dream.

In this particular dream I gave birth to a little girl, and she was beautiful. About four months old at birth, and healthy. But what a pooper! As I was holding her in my dream, admiring her, she started doing her thing, filling up her diaper. She about doubled in weight (which is only possible in a dream). I handed her to Hal who willingly cleaned her up. He then gave her back to me, naked, and she started in again.

In the dream I remember feeling that all the poop was just a necessary part of having a baby. It was inconvenient and definitely messy, but quite natural. Our little daughter was worth all the inconvenience involved in raising her.

As I told this dream to my sleepy husband, he said, “Nancy, God is telling us something important.” He interpreted it to be a message about the ministry we were still in the process of beginning in the university. Essentially what we had given birth to was very good, but a natural part of the birth of anything (whether a masters program in missions, a book, or a baby) is the mess. I think God was encouraging us to put up with the messiness of the process, faithfully clean it up, and go forward.

It seems I’ve gone from the sublime to the ridiculous, from basking the in silent fullness of God’s presence to dreams of baby poop. The point is that God speaks to his listening children, and the messages take many forms. Some are sublime. Some are hilarious.

I’m still drawn to contemplative prayer, and I still hope that someday I’ll get it right. Meanwhile, speak, Lord. I’m listening to whatever you want to tell me, however you want to say it.

(Adapted from the archives, but just as true today. Originally published in Quaker Life, 2002.)

Invocation of the Holy Spirit

2011-06-13T12:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Pentecost Sunday. Although we Quakers don’t follow the liturgical calendar, this has become one of my favorite days. And we did focus our attention on the birth of the church in yesterday’s worship service.

I am posting here the Pentecost prayer from the Celtic Daily Prayer book. The prayer is entitled, “Invocation of the Holy Spirit.”

Most powerful Holy Spirit
come down
upon us
and subdue us

From heaven
where the ordinary
is made glorious
and glory seems
but ordinary,

bathe us
with the brilliance
of Your light
like dew.

Coming to terms (or not) with an automated world

2011-06-08T08:15:00.000-07:00

I love the library in our town. It’s one of my favorite places, whether I’m accompanying my grandchildren (50 books are the limit; 50!), or going by myself with no specific book in mind. Browsing, we call it. A good word.

Since this is a small town, I usually run into someone I know. I come so often, the librarians are familiar faces. One is my friend. So, in spite of the encouragement to be quiet, the library has become a social watering hole as well as a place to get books. That’s all good.

This past year our library introduced an innovation that favors efficiency in checking out books—an automatic scanner. As the librarian showed me how to use it, she told me that I would never again have to waste time standing in line, never again have to have a person wait on me from behind the counter. The scanner does it all, in much less time, automatically spitting out my list of checked-out books, plus due dates. Nifty. Quick.

I tried it and felt that glow of accomplishment I usually get when I can make a machine work for me (which doesn’t always happen). But something in my spirit hesitated, and I’ve been pondering my hesitation ever since.

I’m thinking of the grocery store I usually go to and the new, efficient scanner for those who do not want to stand in line and have a person wait on them. I’m thinking of the efficient e-tickets and the automatic check-in at airports, especially handy if I’m running a bit late. And of course, online shopping saves time and interaction with slow people, who can be grouchy at times.

Some aspects of this I like better than others. I am one of those weird women who hate malls, so the online shopping bit is great, as long as I don’t need to try on something. And who likes waiting in line in any circumstance?

Well, sometimes I do, actually. If I’m not in a hurry, striking up a conversation with the stranger ahead of me feels good. Even talking with the checker, if he’s not having a bad day, can be stimulating. If he’s in a grouchy mood and I’m not, being pleasant is a challenge I enjoy taking on. (Can I make him smile?)

So…I’ve decided not to use the library scanner, even when the desk is empty and all the librarians are in the back room binding books or whatever it is they do when they’re not waiting on people like me who won’t use the scanner. That means I may disturb someone, making her come out from the back room just to wait on me. That may be selfish on my part. Even so….

There’s something good about having a real live person at the end of my library visit.

When children suffer

2011-05-30T10:48:00.000-07:00

Many of us in the northwest have been praying for 5-year-old Kate and her battle with leukemia. She’s been struggling for much of her short life, and at one point it seemed she was breaking through. But a few months ago, the news that the disease was reasserting itself shocked and saddened us, and so the battle continues.

On Saturday Kate successfully received a bone marrow transplant using cord blood, and now our prayers are for her body to receive the transplant, as we continue to pray for her family and for the light of Christ to fill her and heal her. The road ahead is not clear, but our commitment is.

All of this highlights the ongoing discussion about the mystery of human suffering, and especially the suffering of children. The Psalms of Lament and the book of Job are some of the passages we turn to. Other recent reading has also been helpful. Last week I re-read Stanley Hauerwas’ God, Medicine, and Suffering (1990) in which he specifically addresses the suffering of children. Hauerwas is uneasy (to put it mildly) with theodicy (the discipline that tries to explain evil) as a legitimate theological enterprise and exposes the shallowness of some of the arguments given for why good people suffer: “I believe that the most decisive challenge which the experience of childhood illness presents is our inability to name the silences such illness creates….I cannot promise readers consolation, but only as honest an account as I can give of why we cannot afford to give ourselves explanations for evil when what is required is a community capable of absorbing our grief” (xi). (Hauerwas’ own recent memoir, Hannah’s Child: A Theologian’s Memoir 2010, shows how his own suffering has honed his views).

Another book I read earlier this year, Peter Greig’s God on Mute: Engaging the Silence of Unanswered Prayer (2007), also encourages us to rest in the mystery of God, even as we search for answers. The background of the book and informing all its arguments is a brain tumor that continues to torment the author’s wife. Greig, himself a leader in a national movement for intercession, asks the same hard questions that Hauerwas addresses, and in spite of continuing questions, encourages us to faithfully keep praying.

For me the best resources on the subject, other than the Bible, are Gregory Boyd’s treatments of theodicy and suffering: God at War (1997) and Satan and the Problem of Evil (2001), among others. Boyd’s academic, yet pastoral approach gives depth to the subject. His strong chapter on intercession encourages me to keep praying, in spite of unanswered questions, and to keep affirming my faith in a sovereign, loving God.

But one of the most encouraging things I’ve read recently is a blog posting by a young Quaker whom I’ve known since her birth. Part of the same Quaker meeting that I still call home, Emily was born with all sorts of physical problems and, at the age of two, underwent a risky liver transplant. A recent university graduate, Emily is currently working as an intern at the Friends Twin Rocks camp on the Oregon coast and exploring the possibilities of graduate school.

She writes, “Glory be! To God for His incredible love for us! It’s May 20th again, and again I am humbled and awestruck by the power God displayed, and continues to display, as each year this borrowed liver holds out. Each year I hear another amazing story from one of my parents that I had never heard before, and each story is further evidence that God intervened every step of the way through my illness and the transplant.” Go to her blog, "A Ray of Sunshine," to read the story she refers to here.

Emily concludes by saying, “I am humbled at the heroic and miraculous efforts God made on my behalf. I may sound like a broken record when I say I sincerely hope I can live up to the person God had planned for me to be even back then….Every day really is a gift!”

I remember the way the congregation gathered around Emily and her parents in prayer. I remember occasional feelings of hopelessness. I am glad for the stories of answered prayer; I draw courage from them. And I am learning from the stories of unanswered prayer.

I bring all this to a focal point in my commitment to Kate and her family. I commit myself (again and again):

--to the courage to face hard questions;

--to faith in the goodness, power, and sovereignty of God; to respect before the mystery;

--to the task of prayer;

--to the body of Christ, realizing that my prayers join those of many others, and together we call down God’s mercy and power, the manifestation of God’s kingdom in this child;

--to support for the family in whatever practical ways might be appropriate, including silent accompaniment (realizing that my closest link is to Kate’s grandmother who happens to be my long-time friend).

Lord Jesus, have mercy on us all. Have mercy on your beloved child, Kate. Let your healing love and light surround and penetrate. Thank you for the wonders of medicine; let the transplant “take,” the medications be effective. Strengthen and encourage Kate’s family. Be glorified in all of this. Keep teaching us how to pray so that we might cooperate with you in your purposes. Amen.

Doing it right

2011-05-23T07:59:00.000-07:00

"You need to learn to swear," he told me.
"A Quaker like you, so controlled
--it's not healthy."

I wondered if he might be right.
I did feel choked up at times
by the undone dishes and frayed edges,
not to mention the major injustices of life.

Leaning into memory, I brought up
words from TV and novels, phrases
my grandfather had used when provoked.
I rehearsed them mentally,
avoiding the mirror.

A few weeks later,
something he said (I can't remember what),
--a twist of sarcasm, a patronizing hint--
and a voice whispered, "Now."
I looked straight at him
and with a keen and measured ferocity said,
"I just don't give a hell."

In the following silence, I realized
I hadn't quite brought it off.
Finally he said, "If you're going to swear,
at least do it right."

Warning: I'm practicing.
Next time I'll get it.
Mountains will quake.

On googling my name

2011-05-18T11:21:00.000-07:00

Recently I googled my name to see what information was out there on the WEB. The search reminded me of just how common my name is. Even a check that included my middle initial, J., netted some 14,600,000 sites! It was hard to find me in all the Nancy Thomases scattered throughout the virtual universe.

Actually, I did find me on page 5 of one of the searches, with a link to my Barclay Press blog. Further down the list (and many pages later) I came up with my own blog, mil gracias. It took a bit of patience; I’m well hidden.

A Book Finder search uncovered quite a list of publications by Nancy Thomas, and interestingly enough a book I edited, Footprints of God: A Narrative Theology of Mission, led the list. Other books by Nancy Thomas in that list included The Great American Afghan, The Great Tiki Drink Book, When Love Is Not Enough: A guide to Parenting Children with Reactive Attachment Disorder, and Infectious Diseases of Wild Birds. I had no idea I was that versatile!

In other words, if someone met me, remembered my name and then tried to find out more about me on the Internet, here’s what he might learn:

--that I am one of the leading authorities on parenting emotionally disturbed children;

--that I am a nationally-known contemporary folk artist who does prints, abstract children’s art, children’s calendars, ceramic figurines, sculpture, hooked rugs, pins, stained glass, all kinds of stuff for home and garden. My work is prized throughout the country. My latest abstract, “Couple Dancing in the Snow,” sells for $100;

--that I am a celebrated documentary photographer whose “ART captures the Physical, Mental and Spiritual experiences that constitute LIFE.” (I’m really good);

--that I am a taxi driver in Milton, Vermont;

--that for more than 25 years, I have “been the editorial voice of the most widely circulated knitting magazines, including Vogue Knitting, Family Circle Easy Knitting, and Knitter’s Magazine.” My latest book is A Passion for Knitting, hot off the press;

--that the Nancy Thomas Award was set up in my name to honor professionals who are addressing the issues of the inclusion of young children with disabilities;

--that although I hold a degree in electronics and engineering, I am a story-teller at heart and believe that “writing is a door into a world of possibilities;”

--that I have been a non-dieting fat woman since 1976 and am one of the founders of the FAT LIP Readers Theater;

--that I own and run the Duncanville Feed Store in Texas;

--that I practice clinical psychology in Ponte Vedra, Florida.

I even came up with a site that invited me to read my obituary, but I declined.

A bit overwhelming, to say the least. It tempts me to feel generic.

But I’m not generic. None of us are. I am unique, in spite of my common, ordinary, repeatable name. Actually, I began to love my name when I discovered what it meant. Both names, Nancy and Jane, mean “grace.” I don’t think my parents knew that when they named me; Nancy and Jane were favorite aunts and cousins on both sides of the family.

But they did indeed name me “Grace Grace,” God’s double-whammy grace child. My unique name/person is etched on the palm of God’s hand, and God needs no search engine to find me.

Neither do you.

The shining prepositions

2011-05-09T07:57:00.000-07:00

Several weeks back the gathering word in our unprogrammed time of worship came from 2 Corinthians 4 and contained this verse:

For God who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shined in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ (2 Cor. 2:4).

I responded in two ways. The first was amazement at the scope of what Paul is saying, almost to the point of incredulity. Secondly, my professional editorial self kicked in and I thought, “You can’t string together five propositional phrases. That’s not good writing. At least not in English.” That’s true. If I found that many prepositional phrases all in one line, I’d re-write the sentence.

But here you have it. Creator God, the one who said, “Let there be light,” shines that light into our hearts to give an incredible gift:

The light
--of the knowledge
--of the glory
--of God
--in the face
--of Jesus Christ.

And I’m not about to edit any of it out.

Actually in Greek, there is only one prepositional phrase and four possessive nouns (genitive case, for you Greek scholars). In other words, God shines into our hearts the light pertaining to the knowledge that pertains to the glory that belongs to God in the face (the lone prepositional phrase) that belongs to Jesus. Technically, it still seems to need some editing.

Beyond the technicalities, I continue to bask in the amazement. It’s simply too big to take in with my mind. But I feel my heart expanding.

What is it exactly that God beams into our hearts? Basically, it’s knowledge. The knowledge of God’s glory. This has to be a knowledge that goes beyond rational possession of information. It’s experiential, intuitive, deep-level revelation, the how-can-this-be-true sense of wonder at something utterly beyond and above us.

“The glory of God.” Perhaps we’ve heard and repeated that phrase so much we’ve become immune to the wonder. The glory of God—the beauty, might, mystery, majesty of the Creator—a theme that runs through the Scriptures from that first “Let there be light” to the final vision of the glorious city with her shining King. A theme that runs through creation, that roars in the oceans, whispers through the trees, teases us with hints of more in all the mountain wildflowers of all the far and near places in all the world. The glory of God.

And how do we have access to the knowledge/experience of this glory? It comes as we gaze at the face of Jesus Christ. Intimacy with Jesus opens us up to the shining gift.

How can this be? How can I just keep walking around, conversing with people, eating sandwiches, opening and closing drawers just as though life should go on as normal, when I know of the very real possibility that God will zap my heart with the knowledge of glory. Is possibly doing it right now. I think of the line from ee cummings’ poem about the good Samaritan who lifted the wounded man into his arms and “staggered banged with terror through a million billion trillion stars.” That seems like a more appropriate reaction.

Yet life does go on as normal. And I’m glad, not yet being prepared to handle too much glory. I think of all that’s happened since my last blog:

--the media images of the killing of Osama Bin Ladin, scenes of people rejoicing in the streets of New York and numerous small towns across our nation, and my mixed reactions—patriot, Quaker pacifist, compassionate missionary;

--a week of work both stimulating and tedious, interacting with students, preparing documents, getting ready for a trip;

--time with family, celebrating the 16th birthday of my granddaughter, long phone conversations with my daughter on how she’s dealing with her son’s autism, early morning walks with Hal.

All of the ordinariness and holiness of life. Normal, common life in a small town on planet earth. But it’s here where that amazing, shining string of prepositional phrases begins to operate. God, shining into my heart, the light

--of the knowledge
--of the glory
--of God
--in the face
--of Jesus Christ.

Oh, my Lord, how can this be?

Messages from another world

2011-04-28T10:36:00.000-07:00

When Hal was about 9 years old, his parents gave him several sets of encyclopedias, rejects from the Christian school to which they had been donated. Too out-dated for the school to use, they provided hours of fascinating reading for a young boy curious about all of life. We recently came across these volumes while sorting through the boxes in the old family home. They make even more fascinating reading today, almost seeming like messages from another world.

The five-volume American Educator Encyclopedia has the ambitious subtitle, “A Thoroughly Modern Work Designed to Meet the Needs of Every Age,” (1936. Wallsworth D. Foster, ed., Chicago: The United Educators, Inc.). The following come from the sections on commerce, religion and war and show a certain idealism that was just beginning to fade in the time of the rise of Hitler.

Commerce: “In commerce there is an exchange of property, in which each party gains what he desires. But commerce is no longer the mere barter of savages. It is a vast system is which all the world shares. It helps to make prices and wages more equal. It also keeps them more fixed, for, if one group will not pay a fair price, the goods may be sent elsewhere….It brings people all over the world into greater sympathy with each other, and gives them more knowledge of each other” p. 433).

Religion: “All men are religious. No tribe has been found so low in savagery or barbarism that it did not acknowledge some relation to a supreme being and in a crude way try to give expression to that relationship” (p. 3046).

War: “…though an enemy may be starved into surrender, wounding, except in battle, mutilation and all cruel and wanton devastation are contrary to the rules of war, as are also bombarding an unprotected town, the use of poison and the employment of torture to extort information from an enemy. Works of art and the industries of peace are usually considered as exempt from destruction. The World War, however, showed that in actual conflict all these rules may be disregarded by a wanton adversary….The supreme problem before civilization at the present time is not the mitigation, but the abolition of war” (p. 3802).

Would that the results of commerce and globalization were greater sympathy, but it seems that the supreme problem before us is still the abolition of war.

More lenten poems from the book of John

2011-04-22T10:13:00.000-07:00

Day 29, John 14:15-31

How can you make your home in me?
I’m too small. There’s no space
for infinite Trinity in here.
The rooms are crowded, and some
of the windows haven’t been opened
in years. The air is stale.
Cobwebs hang in the corners of the
ceiling. The whole thing needs
a spring cleaning and a new
paint job. With my current means
and energy level, I can’t possibly
get it ready for you, Lord, even if
you could find a way to fit. I guess
you’ll have to do it yourself.

Day 30, John 15:1-27

How can I abide in you,
my Lord? I go for hours
without even thinking of you.
Prayerless days are not
uncommon, and if I’m
not in crisis mode, I find
my joy in other pursuits.
I don’t naturally turn to you
in my open spaces. I don’t
gravitate to the center.
Some kind of centrifugal
force spins me away,
in spite of my longing
to abide. Please help me.
Pull me in to you.

Day 33, John 18:1-27

“I am he” is the seismic center.
It spreads in expanding rings.
The bodies fall outward,
circle a setting sun.
Torches, weapons,
a bloody face, arrest
and betrayals spin,
but the center holds.
Even so, night deepens.
Even so, this unbearable cold.

Day 34, John 18:28-40

“What is truth?”
the politician asks,
not sticking
around for an answer.
The question hangs
in the air while
the man born
to be king awaits
his coronation
in silence.

Day 35, John 19:1-27

“Dear woman, here is your son.”

Even from the cross
you attend to the details,
express affection,
provide for your own.
It’s from the cross
that you provide for all
your own, bring into line
the messy details of all
our lives, say your immense
and costly I-love-you.
From the cross.

Day 36, John 19:28-42

Out of the pierced side
of the God who died
flow all the terrors
of all the nights
the rapes the abductions
the children lost and
the mothers mourning
sirens and sleeplessness
thunder in far off places
the confusion of the archangels
and all my tears, all my sorrows
carried in the stream
that flows from his side.

Day 37, John 20:1-18

Missionary, apostle to the apostles,
beloved friend of Jesus,
tears still wet on your face,
it was love that thrust
you forth, joy that gave
your feet wings, wonder
that filled your voice
with gospel. Woman of God,
pure and trembling one,
you will remember always
his voice, “Mary,” forever
calling your name, “Mary,”
causing you to run
from the garden to the city,
from Jerusalem to Bombay,
to Barcelona and Cleveland,
to Cochabamba and Kigali,
telling us all,
“I have seen the Lord!”

Day 38, John 20:19-31

All doors being closed
you came and stood
among them. Even now you
defy our doors and doubts,
choose to stand
in our midst. Glory.

Down on the farm: toward a Quaker missiology

2011-04-18T10:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday in unprogrammed worship, the gathering word came from George Fox’s “Epistle to all who go to plant new farms in America:”

In all places where you do outwardly live and settle, invite all the Indians, and their Kings, and have meetings with them, or they with you; so that you may make inward plantations with the light and power of God and the grace, truth, and the spirit of Christ, and with it you may answer the light of truth, and the spirit of God, in the Indians, their Kings and their people, and so by it you may make heavenly plantations in their hearts for the Lord, and so beget them in God, that they may serve and worship him, and spread the truth abroad; and so that you may all be kept warm in God’s love, power, and zeal, for the honor of his name.

In certain circles of the contemporary Quaker movement, people are attempting to express a Quaker theology of mission (ie, a Quaker missiology), drawing from the writings and the history of Friends. (See, for example, Ron Stansell’s book, Missions by the Spirit: Learning from Quaker Examples, 2010.)
(Perhaps a brief definition would be helpful here. By “missiology” I refer to the theory or theology behind the participation of God’s people--the church--in God’s purposes in the world, purposes that encompass the whole of life.)

A hour’s reflection on George Fox’s advice to colonizing farmers in the 17th century, corroborated by many other documents, yields the following Quakerly missiological principles:

--This is mission for the lay person, not a called out missionary band (although that is another way God works). These agents of mission were farmers going about the business of homesteading and cultivating the land, their first vocation.

--The field of service was wherever they happened to be. As they carried out their vocation, they were to partner with God in God’s work with the people around them.

--Although immigrants, they were not to remain strangers in the land. Fox admonished them to reach out to the original inhabitants. They were to enter into relationship with their neighbors, to “have meetings.”

--Mutual respect would characterize these relationships, with either party—farmers or Indians—initiating the meetings. Fox’s advice hints of hospitality and reciprocity.

--In the term “all the Indians and their Kings,” there seems to be some attempt to understand and respect the leadership structure, and perhaps other aspects of the culture as well, although we can’t read the insights of modern anthropology into Fox’s understandings. But at least we find here a seed of cultural respect.

--There is a consciousness that these Quaker Christian farmers had something of value to share, “the light and power of God and the grace, truth, and the spirit of Christ.”

--There is also a consciousness that God is already at work among the Indians, that “the light of truth and the spirit of God” in these people will answer to that of Christ in the immigrant farmer/missionaries. Not only do these farmers not start from ground zero as they share the light of Christ, they have something to learn from the Indians. Again, we see that note of reciprocity and respect.

--Fox focuses on the inward work that results in new life, the “begetting” of conversion that issues forth in worship and the further spreading of the light of Christ.

--There is no mention of the need for cultural change, for civilizing the Indians, winning them over to Western ways. This may be an illogical argument from absence, but it seems to accompany the focus on inward change.

--Fox has an expectation of ongoing mission, as the Indians themselves spread the light of Christ.

--Fox acknowledges the joy and satisfaction (being “kept warm”) of participation in the missional purposes of God in the world.

This is an ideal missiology, garnered from principles in Fox’s admonitions to these farmers. In understanding and expressing a Friends missiology, we also need to look at history, and history often falls short of the ideals of a group or its founders.

In our meeting, after a time of silence, Arthur Roberts cited the Apostle Paul in his observations that “we have this treasure [the gospel of the light of Christ] in jars of clay,” (2 Cor. 4:7). He pointed out that these very immigrating Quakers farmers were, perhaps unknowingly, participating in an unjust colonial system, and that in retrospect, some Quakers have felt the need to make reparation to the original inhabitants. Nevertheless, God worked through Quaker immigrants.

We need to weigh early Quaker ideals in a balance with history. I know very little about Friends relationships with the indigenous peoples of this land, other than the noteworthy experiment of William Penn and his just treaties, and the short term visit of John Woolman to a northern tribe. Were Friends involved, along with other Christians, in the extraction of Indians from their culture in order to “civilize” and “christianize” them?

Arthur Roberts himself has documented the story of Quaker mission among the indigenous people of Alaska, a story that illustrates many of the principles gleaned from Fox’s advice to immigrant farmers, and a story that has resulted in an indigenous Quaker church (Tomorrow Is Growing Old, 1978).

Hal and I have been involved in Quaker mission work all our lives, and we’re still learning. I think Quaker perspectives have much to offer contemporary missiology, ever more important in this age of globalization.

Forty days with the book of John: a poetic response.

2011-04-11T07:13:00.000-07:00

As part of our meeting’s Lenten experience, we are reading through the book of John in 40 days. I’ve made a commitment to write a poem a day, something that rises up from my time of meditation on the passage for the day. It’s been a deepening, if somewhat uneven, experience. (I plan on taking a day’s writing retreat next week to write the poems for the days I’ve missed.) The poems are turning into prayers and I find myself being both challenged and stretched. And some mornings, moved to tears. That’s good. Here are a few of the prayers/poems.

Day 1, John 1:1-18

You were there.
You called forth all things,
Maker and Namer and Poet.
And you come now and stand among us
call us daughters and sons,
out of your fullness
give grace upon grace.

Unspeakable glory,
give us strength to bear the joy.

Day 4, John 2:13-25

This harsh angry Jesus alarms me.
He makes a weapon,
lifts it against both men and beasts.
He even attacks the furniture.
He throws money about
in what looks like a first class
temper tantrum, the seeds of war.
He yells and commands, casts
people out. Apparent pride
and a complete lack of trust
in his fellow human beings
round out this ugly portrait
of a man who scares me.
His Father may have
“so loved the world”
but his son doesn’t appear
to even like it.

Day 6, John 3:22-36

Teach me to step down, my Lord,
to rejoice when I see your Spirit
poured without measure
on other writers, speakers, teachers,
on my children and grandchildren,
on those much younger than me.
Teach me the joy of praying
from the sidelines, “Thy kingdom
come. Thy will be done.”
Let me move with grace into
my changing role. Let it be
all joy.

Day 11, John 6:1-24

This reads more like a Marvel Comic
than the Bible. Multiplied food,
walking on water
through a storm, no less,
followed by laser travel
to a distant shore.
Who are you anyway?
Don’t you see why
people have trouble
swallowing more than
bread and fish?

Day 21, John 10:22-42

I’m not sure I like
being called a sheep
but I do want to be one
who recognizes your voice,
listens and follows you.
Work in my life, Good Shepherd,
Sweet Jesus. Do what it takes
to sharpen my sense of hearing.
Help me to live on tip toes,
alert, attentive, eager
to hear you tell me, “come.”

Day 23, John 11:38-57

Forgive me, Lord,
if the re-telling of this story
has made it so familiar
I lose the amazement.
I should gasp, scream,
cover my face, flee in fear.
Faint, at the very least.
Restore to me, my Lord,
the terror of resurrection.

Day 27, John 13:18-38

As night comes on
and Jesus knowingly faces betrayal,
crucifixion and death, he prepares
his disciples by giving them
two commands: serve one another,
love one another. As though
this is what is needed to face
the dark.
When light is gone,
when the wind howls and
the temperature drops, I’m to
wrap a towel about my waist,
bow down before my peers
and wash their feet
with love. Not the poor,
not out in the streets or
on the mission field. My peers,
my colleagues, my team members.
And after those, all the rest.
Lord Jesus, why is this sometimes
the hardest of all?

The active contemplative: another take on Martha

2011-04-04T08:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday in programmed worship, the sermon was from John 12 on the anointing of Jesus’ feet. One thing I like about the sermons at our church is that they frequently combine the preparation of the preacher, the active participation of the congregation, and times of dynamic silence where we are encouraged to listen to the Spirit. All of this happened yesterday. As the preacher, Cherice did a good job of leading us through the passage and helping us connect it to our own experience.

In one exercise, we were asked to imagine ourselves into the scene and identify with one of the characters. Am I at all like Mary with her extravagant, but appropriate, worship? Am I like the self-serving Judas? Or am I more like practical but critical Martha, frowning from the kitchen?

At the suggestion of the “practical but critical Martha,” my mind did one of those something’s-wrong-with-this-picture double-takes, like with those drawings in kids’ magazines where you have to find all the things that aren’t quite right—the upside-down clock, an ear where a nose should be, etc. The frowning Martha wasn’t quite right.

This suggested image harkens back to an earlier story, of course, where Martha does indeed frown and complain about her sister’s inconsideration in not helping with meal preparation (Luke 10:30-42). Jesus’ response both challenges and comforts: “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered [here I can see him lightly touching her face], “you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

I love it that Jesus says her name twice. In so many of his conversations with women, Jesus addresses them simply as, “Woman.” This repetition of Martha’s name is full of affection and affirmation, even as he takes her attitude to task.

The story in Luke ends with Jesus’ rebuke to Martha, but Martha’s story continues. Here we have to read between the lines (or, better stated, between the stories). My educated imagination sees Martha as teachable. I think she took to heart what Jesus told her, helped along by how he said it. I see her mulling over the “one thing needed” that her sister had got right. I see her changing, perhaps not all at once, but ever more deeply, learning to find her own way of listening to Jesus and letting her service become worship.

One clue that this might be happening comes in a story that falls between the Luke 10 and the John 12 stories. In John 11, Jesus again comes to the home of Martha, Mary and Lazarus. This, of course, is the story of the resurrection of Lazarus from the dead, but much of the detail involves Jesus’ interactions with the two sisters. It’s interesting that John states, early in the chapter, that “Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus,” specifically naming Martha.

Martha, still the more practical, cerebral sister, is the one who comes out to meet Jesus, and their conversation reveals her growing faith and understanding of who Jesus is (although a few surprises await her). I see here a different Martha, one who has changed from the woman Jesus rebuked earlier.

Mary is still the more emotional, intuitive sister, the one who leads from the heart. Her beautiful costly sacrifice as she anoints Jesus' feet (John 12) continues to inspire and encourage those of us who would also be followers and lovers of Jesus.

But I can’t see Martha in this scene as the critical, resentful woman she once was. The only thing the text says about her in this story is simply that “Martha served.” Martha is still Martha, more prone to action than reflection, called to a life of practical service. But as she watches Mary pour out the perfume on Jesus’ feet and wipe those feet with her hair—strange behavior indeed—and as the fragrance begins to fill the room, perhaps something deep within Martha whispers, “Yes.” Perhaps she slowly begins to smile. Perhaps she, too, worships. Perhaps.

Anyway, a thank you to Cherice for opening the Scriptures to us in such a way that we enter the story. Or, better yet, that the story enters us. I take as my challenge this week the joining of my active and contemplative responses as I seek to follow Jesus…

--with both heart and head…
--in silence and in service…
--extravagantly and in simplicity…

Yes, Lord.

Just Moms

2011-03-27T04:20:00.000-07:00

This week I finally received my copies of Barclay Press’ new book, Just Moms: Conveying Justice in an Unjust World, edited by Melanie Springer Mock and Rebekah D. Scheiter. Let me shamelessly quote the blurb on the back: “In this poignant, honest, and sometimes witty collection of stories, 27 women share their adventures and misadventures modeling social-justice principles for their children and communities. Just Moms is about moms bending their own rules and redefining success as they work to raise kids who value peace, equality, truth, simplicity, and love.”

Having previously read only my own story, I’ve been thoroughly enjoying reading through the other chapters, feeling more and more the privilege of being included among this group of creative, thoughtful women who all struggle with the complexities of bringing up children with strong kingdom values. One thing I like about the book is that no one attempts to tell us how to do it. No formulas here, but stories that flesh out struggles, failures and grace-filled moments of success. I also appreciate the good writing. And the variety of issues addressed.

For example, in “Cat on a Hot Ride’s Roof,” Willi Tranmer writes of the challenges of adopting two black children from backgrounds of mental illness and alcoholism. Amy Lutz’s story, “His Pink Shoes,” deals with passing on the values of gender equality and roles. (What do you do when your little boy loves Hello Kitty pink tennis shoes and want to wear them to school?). In “Gun Control,” Doreen Dodgen-Magee wrestles with the tensions of passing on pacifistic ideals while letting her son experiment and come to his own conclusions. (Do you let him buy the airsoft gun?) My story, “One Small Miracle,” tells of teaching children to pray and then working through the times when it doesn’t “work.”

Reading through these stories (and I’m not finished yet), I find myself renewed in courage. I’m not the only one to struggle in these areas. I am not alone. Neither are you. Please buy this book. Give it to your sisters and daughters and friends. Use it as a prod for discussion in small groups or parenting classes. Our children are worth it.

Praying for the world

2011-03-12T10:04:00.000-08:00

I sense the arrogance of this title, “Praying for the world.” Who am I to think I can make any difference at all? Yesterday morning I woke up to the sound of a Tsunami warning, and while nothing came of a possible big surge on the Oregon coast, the news of what Japan is facing continues to weigh. Add to that the news that Gaddafi is pushing back the opposition in Libya, and my prayers seem small indeed.

Yet I’ve known for years that God is calling me to do two things: write and pray. No matter what else I’m doing, or not doing, I hope I can write and pray my way forward for the rest of my life. Ironically, these “activities” have more to do with who I am than with what I do.

Part of my calling to prayer has to do with intercessory prayer, and a part of this is praying for the world. I’ve been learning how to go about it for some time, yet I still feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.

Right now, for example. How do we pray for Japan and Libya in a way that will make a difference?

I sometimes begin by affirming the sovereignty of God over the nations and over creation. (This does not mean that I believe that because God is sovereign, everything that happens is God’s will. I reject naming natural disasters as “acts of God.” Our theology needs to take into account God’s decision to make us free agents, which leads to an open universe and the possibility of evil. I do believe that the conclusion of “all things” will be the victory of the kingdom of God, but what happens in the meantime (sometimes very “mean”) is not so certain. God asks us to co-labor with him in this mean-time towards bringing about his kingdom purposes, and one of those ways of co-laboring (collaboration) is prayer. This is mystery to me—that God works through our prayers, that they can make a difference.)

After affirming God’s sovereignty, power and mercy, I ask, “Help me to pray for Japsn (or Libya, or….).” Then I hold this concern in the light (a good Quaker phrase), waiting in silence until I’m ready to respond with words and petitions. And periods of listening silence intersect the words. Even in my way of praying, I am attempting to cooperate with God, to let God set the prayer agenda.

This morning Hal and I prayed together for the cooling of the nuclear reactors, help in rescuing people still trapped under buildings, comfort in grief, a rallying of the international community to help in practical ways in the months ahead, and that the mercy and love of God through Jesus would be manifest in many ways. I asked God to make me faithful to continue holding Japan up in prayer.

Sometimes, in spite of my affirmation that our prayers matter, I wish I had some proof, a sign that my efforts helped prevent meltdown in reactor #6, for example. But this line of work offers little feedback. And so I stumble forward, more faithful on some days than on others. I join the disciples as I continually ask, “Lord, teach me to pray.”

Quote by Dorothy Day

2011-03-02T07:17:00.000-08:00

"The older I get, the more I meet people, the more convinced I am that we must only work on ourselves, to grow in grace. The only thing we can do about people is to love them."

From All the Way to Heaven: The Selected Letters of Dorothy Day, 2010.

A general apology

2011-02-24T08:59:00.000-08:00

The Apostle Paul, versatile saint,
became all things to all men
so that by all means he might win some.

As for me, I have enough trouble
just being myself. Sometimes it seems
that I have become no one to no person
so that by all means I might
get more sleep.

I owe you all an apology.

I’m sorry, first,
to you, my love,
for not being more consistently
romantic submissive sweet;
for falling asleep during the stories;
for shining at times when I should
fade; for becoming invisible
when you need me stellar.

To you, my children,
when instead of being a sage,
I am merely a clown; for not
being as smart as you thought
I was (I knew you’d find out
one day); for losing some of
the memories; for growing too tired
too soon.

To you, my grandchildren,
for my lack of bright ideas,
my wrong choice of movies;
for old stories that are, of course,
boring, boring; for not being
plump and grey and aproned and
rosy-cheeked; for losing the rules
to Mexican Train and eating the chocolates
behind your backs.

To you, my sisters and brothers,
members of the household of faith,
for being a wimpy elder—age without
wisdom; for my waffling and uncertain
stride; for a whimper when you needed
a clarion call; for not calling;
for a seeming shrug when you needed
an action plan; for being neither prophet,
priest nor pastor; for my day-dreams
of defecting to the Catholics; for my
restless doubts and clawing prayers.

To you, my neighbors,
for not learning your names; for not
bringing you chocolate chip cookies;
for not praying for your salvation; for
not knowing, not knowing, not
knowing.

To you, distant neighbors in Afghanistan,
for seeing my problems as larger than
yours; for not seeing that my problems
contribute to yours; for not sending
money clothes medicine—or for sending
them as a guilt offering; for my lack of tears
and my resounding silence.

To you, my Lord,
for being so intimate I forget
to tremble or being so busy about your work
I ignore you; for inattention even when
in your presence; for starving my spirit
while seated at your banquet table;
for not looking at the world
through your eyes;
for being so underwhelmed
so often.

To One and all,
a general apology.
Forgive me.

Ferocious deliberations

2011-02-12T07:34:00.000-08:00

I just received an invitation from the Lausanne Committee for Evangelization to a gathering in Orlando, Florida later this year, a “Leadership Consultation on Evangelism and Missions.” I am invited because of my “passion for Evangelism and Mission in our nation and around the world.” (Do they know me?) I am encouraged also to invite “other select leaders,” especially those under 40 years old. (No, they don’t know me.)

But the part of this invitation that stands out, partly because it is in bold print, is the description of what will happen at the consultation: “We will pray with intensity, deliberate with ferocity, make friends, form alliances, and bless each other in our Kingdom pursuits.” Friends, alliances and blessings are good. And I understand the part about praying with intensity. But what does it mean to deliberate with ferocity? I picture a room full of ferocious evangelicals, teeth bared, claws sharpened as the fur begins to fly. Praise the Lord.

Ok, so help me again, Mr. Webster. Here’s what he says: ferocious—“exhibiting or given to extreme fierceness and unrestrained violence and brutality.” See what I mean? Strong language there. At least it’s all for the Kingdom.

Alright, so there’s another secondary definition, one slightly milder: “extremely intense.” I suppose this is what the writer of this piece of publicity means. Extremely intense deliberations. I do wonder, though, why the prayer is merely intense, while the subsequent deliberations are to be ferocious?

And is this something I want to be involved in? As a Quaker is it even legal for me to get ferocious?

Currently I am serving as clerk of elders in our local meeting, and we are facing some difficult decisions as a community. It what has become a long, drawn-out, and complex process, I think we are slowly making our way toward some clarity. (This is really mild language, isn’t it? We’re as funny as “they” are, just at the opposite end of a continuum. The lions versus the lambs.) Some of our deliberations have seemed, if not ferocious, certainly intense. Yet our commitment to affirm one another, even when we differ, and together to seek the mind of Christ has held us through a tough time. I have hopes that some decisions lie in the near future, and that we can move on to being the church.

And it has been intense, at times extremely so. But we still love one another. No fur has flown, and none will. Our Quaker/Christian values help keep us in the path of peace, even while dealing with hard issues.

Actually, I appreciate the Lausanne Movement, recognize its contributions and benefit from fruit the movement has borne in the past (for example, the Lausanne Covenant, a faith statement that is holistic and profound). But I do get angry at exaggerated language, especially in Christian publicity. In fact, I get very angry.

But even so, I fall short of ferocity.

On giving a present to a nine-year-old

2011-02-07T13:37:00.000-08:00

Not at all prepared, the Big Day
sneaks up and I have to buy
something, anything. So
I settle for a grab bag type
of gift—an assortment
of surprises. Why is it so
important that she like it?
Is this how she measures
my love? At nine-years-old,
perhaps. So I assemble, first,
a stuffed jack rabbit,
its quirky extended
front feet redeeming it
from the mass of beasts
already littering her room.
And the small glittering
butterfly broach, almost like
real jewelry. Good enough
for her? I hope so. For good
measure I throw in crayons—self-
sharpening—and an artist’s tablet
of blank paper, prods to her
imagination. Back home,
I realize I don’t have wrapping
paper, so the plastic bag
announcing “Staples” in bright red
letters will have to do. As I get out
of the car, I fret, “Will she like this?
Is it enough? Can she sense
how special she is to us?" Then
the relief, the silly relief.
“Grandma! Is this for me?!
I love his feet! How soft!
And this too? How beautiful!
Can I pin it on now?”
Such small things. I continue
to wonder, how does the love
manage to seep through?
Happy Birthday, Alandra.

Autism as a sacred trust

2011-01-31T07:09:00.000-08:00

I’ve just returned from a week in my daughter’s home. I give Kristin and her family a week each month, to help with the kids and give Kristin some space as she is working through an online masters degree program. The two older kids are in school, Reilly in third grade and Paige in kindergarten, which leaves two-year old Peter at home. So, for five days I essentially am on “Peter-patrol.”

Peter is bright, beautiful and quite a handful. He has already defied a diagnosis of blindness (see earlier blogs), although he probably will be classified as “legally blind” once he is old enough to respond to the vision tests. But his continued quirky behavior has led the people working with him to suspect autism. He is currently in the middle of a series of tests, and the results seem certain at this point.

Autism—this mystery condition that seems to be affecting more and more people in our country. As if Peter’s visual impairment were not enough, his parents now add this to the challenge of raising this little boy. The crisis element of this news has passed, and we are all on a journey of exploration. What exactly is autism? What does this mean for Peter and his future? What does it mean for Jon and Kristin, for the hopes they cherish for their children?

Our family recently watched the movie, Temple Grandin, and I am currently reading Grandin’s book of essays, Thinking in Pictures: My Life with Autism (2006). Grandin’s amazing story documents her struggle through childhood, her social and educational challenges, and her discovery of a connection with animals. This connection eventually led to her Ph.D. as an animal scientist and her remarkable contributions in the design of livestock handling facilities.

One thing that seems clear from this story is that Grandin’s contributions would probably not have been possible without the uniqueness of her autism. It was the specific traits of autism—the visual thought patterns, the intuitiveness, the connection with animals—that enabled Grandin to design the cattle chutes and curved lanes that have made the handling of these beasts much more humane. Grandin writes, “I love nothing more than surveying a plant I’ve designed where the animals are calm and quiet. One third of the cattle in the United States are moved through handling facilities that I have designed.”

Kristin and Jon have taken the position of accepting Peter as he is and considering him God’s gift. The total package includes the autism and visual impairment. This is part of who Peter is. They are actively pursuing resources for ensuring that their son has every chance in the world to become the person God created him to be.

I affirm them in this, although I will continue to pray for God’s healing light to be at work in Peter. I’m open to miracle. I wouldn’t be offended if God took away the autism and give Peter 20/20 vision.

On the other hand, I see the wisdom in my daughter’s attitude, and I admit my lack of perspective. I don’t yet know what God has in mind for Peter. I wonder sometimes, “Is there some way that Peter will bless the world, not in spite of, but because of the special challenges he has?” Is Peter’s autism part of the sacred trust that God has given to us?

So I continue on this journey of prayer and service to my family. Perhaps my best praying is simply being there for them. I’m certainly learning a lot. Already the blessing that is Peter has touched us all. What will this gift to the world become?

Gifts from the sea*

2011-01-22T19:33:00.000-08:00

I am writing this on a personal retreat. Hal and I are staying at the Captain’s Cabin, part of Twin Rocks Friends Camp in Rockaway, Oregon. This place is a gift, and this retreat so far has been full of gifts. Here are some of them.

--We drove up on Tuesday night, after a day of work and meetings. Because of flooding, the main highway to Tillamook was closed and we had to travel north, way off the usual route, causing us to arrive at 1:00 a.m. But the forest we traveled through in the dark was vast, mysterious and beautiful, even at night. At one point, as we slowed down to go through a small town, we saw deer on the road ahead of us and were able to stop in time. But as we stopped, we realized that these huge animals immediately in front of us were not deer, but elk. And that there were not just two of them. We had driven into the middle of a herd of about 20 elk. Most of them were on either side of the road; apparently the herd was in the process of crossing when we came upon them. They didn’t linger long to let us admire them, of course, and within probably 10 seconds, they were gone. But what a privilege and joy to be in their midst, however briefly. We carried a sense of awe with us for the rest of the trip.

--Yesterday morning, well before dawn, we walked the beach under a clear sky brightened by a full moon. The moon was setting over the sea, and as we walked, the path of light over the water followed us. With still a few hours before the winter sun would crest the hills, the sands shone in the moon light. Overhead, only a few stars managed to shine through.

--A sunny day in January is always a gift, but enjoying it at the beach is a bonus we don’t take lightly.

--I found the perfect walking stick, sturdy, smoothed by the waves, and just the right length.

--Dragons! The shores were populated by driftwood dragons, some of them vanquished, others in repose, waiting for the next challenge.

--More heart-rocks for my silly collection.

--A sunset whose swirling colors clearly proclaimed the glory of God.

--Time to work (we called this a “working retreat,” not a vacation), pray, talk, read, watch movies, sleep-in. Yes.

--This cabin itself. The Captain’s Cabin was a gift to Twin Rocks many years ago, but a gift with a stipulation. This small house overlooking the beach is to be used primarily by pastors and missionaries, at an economical rate that makes it possible.

I am grateful and I feel renewed in spirit, ready to go home and face the work I have been given. I guess that’s what retreats are supposed to do.

(*Thanks to Anne Morrow Lindberg for the title)

More monsters

A fellowship of poets

2011-01-14T09:18:00.000-08:00

I spent yesterday at a conference entitled, “A Celebration of the Life and Poetry of William Stafford,” sponsored by the Peace and Justice Center of George Fox University and a society called the “Friends of William Stafford.” The conference focused on the life, poetry and peace stand of Stafford, as well as on the nature of poetry. The cast of presenters and readers was impressive, including current and former Oregon Poet Laureates, Paulann Petersen and Lawson Inada.

I feel strangely at home in the company of poets and lovers of poetry. I say “strangely” because I met most of these people for the first time yesterday. But poetry involves a unique set of values and a certain way of looking at the world. We agreed, in the words of a Stafford poem that was read several times during the day, that “it is important that awake people be awake…the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—should be clear: the darkness around us is deep” (“A Ritual to Read to Each Other”).

At different times during the day, people told stories about William Stafford. I had my own story to tell. In 1992, a year before his death, Stafford did a poetry reading in Newberg. Only about 25 of us gathered at the Catholic Church in town to hear him. At the end of the reading I mustered up the nerve to approach him and tell him that I, too, was a poet. His response was not only warm and accepting, he asked to see some of my poems and wrote out his address. I sent him a few poems right away, keeping my expectations somewhat low. After all, he was a Poet Laureate and I, an unknown.

But his response came immediately. He said he liked my poems. He asked if Hal and I might like to come to his home and get better acquainted. He drew me a map to his house.

I still have that letter, tucked into one of his poem books. We spent a wonderful morning in his house in Lake Oswego, sitting in the breakfast room, overlooking his garden. He read new poems to us, I read mine to him. We talked about the writing life. I learned that he got up every morning at 4:00, sat awhile in the silence (how Quaker-like), then wrote from what he received. Every morning. And he was a prolific poet. What impresses me today about this memory, added to the other stories I listened to yesterday, is what a gracious person William Stafford was. A poem, as well as a poet.

Recently a movie was made about Stafford and the peace movement, based on his journals and including the testimonies of other contemporary poets. It has a great title, “Every War Has Two Losers.” I bought a copy but haven’t viewed it yet. I did see at the conference another movie about the friendship between Stafford and Robert Bly, “A Literary Friendship.” Excellent. I will watch it again this week. Another testimony to the fellowship of poets.

When I returned home a package awaited me in the mail, a small volume of poems, hot off the press, written by Chilean poet (and friend) Luis Cruz Villalobos. He had previously sent me a digital copy, but this is the real thing. His first published book of poems, Breve mente, a play on words that could simply mean “briefly”—and many of the poems are strings of brief stanzas—or it could mean “brief or little mind”—a typically humble statement (like Saint Paul’s “I am the least of the smallest of all the saints”), or even “snippets from the mind”. I know enough about poetry not to ask, to simply let the ambiguity play in my own mind.

I am touched to see that Luis dedicated the book to me, and to another poet friend of his. This is a first, and I accept with gratitude and with a renewed intention to “be awake” and let the signals I give be clear. It helps to know that, while the darkness around us is deep, there is a gathering place where friendship, poetry and peace are possible. Our mandate is to extend it gently into the darkness.

Best books of 2010

2011-01-04T09:48:00.000-08:00

Hal gave me a Kindle for Christmas. We had been discussing whether or not to take the plunge with this new technology, and now we’ve done it. I’m trying to get used to it, and I can already see that this will never replace the feel of a real book in my hands. But it has its advantages. This will definitely allow us to travel lighter, and we travel a lot. And I appreciate how gently the larger print treats my eyes. The first book I uploaded was a free copy (imagine that!) of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, a book I’ve been meaning to re-read, and I feel like I’m flying through it, partly because my eyes don’t burn. A detail, but an important detail for my future with books.

But now, a look at the past: 2010. I love reading other people’s list of favorite books and movies, and their recommendations lead me down exciting paths. So, here’s my list. The year 2010 refers to the books I read last year, not books that were published during the year. These are not in any particular order.

Mary Doria Russell, The Sparrow (1996) and Children of God (1998): Fiction. I read these novels at the recommendation of my friend, David Gilmore, and was delighted at the quirky coming together of science fiction and mission theory. These chronicle the improbable missionary adventures of Father Emilio Sanchez (and company) as he attempts to spread the gospel among the alien population of a distant planet. The books treat serious issues, such as how to communicate the gospel and plant churches while respecting the culture of the recipients. They also deal with the redemptive suffering of God’s servants. Plus, the story itself is gripping.

Geraldine Brook, March (2005): Fiction. The other side of Little Women, this story follows the father of the March girls to the Civil War and gives an inside view of the horrors of war.

Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, The Gurnesy Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (2009). Fiction. Another insider view of war, this novel in letter form narrates life during the German occupation of Gurnesy, an island in the English Chanel. It also shows the power of great literature to give insight and meaning to life in difficult times. This was one of my favorite books last year.

Alan Patton, Cry the Beloved Country (1942): Fiction. One of my all time favorite books, I again wept at this story of a family in the throes of cultural upheaval, a story of suffering, loyalty, love and transformation.

George MacDonald, The Tutor’s First Love and The Lady’s Confession: Fiction. Hal and I read these aloud, enjoying the simple old-fashioned tales and MacDonald’s insights into how the fruits of the Spirit are fleshed out in God’s sons and daughters.

Greg Mortenson, Stones into Schools: Promoting Peace with Books, not Bombs, in Afghanistan and Pakistan (2009): Non-fiction. Again we found ourselves moved by Mortenson’s quiet, behind-the-scene attempts to build peace through education in this difficult place.

Evelyn Underhill, Concerning the Inner Life (1926): Devotional. This is a book I want to read at least once a year. Underhill beautifully integrates contemplative and intercessory prayer, showing how our loving worship of God leads to missional involvement with God’s purposes in the world.

Eugene Peterson, Practice Resurrection: A Conversation of Growing Up in Christ (2010): Theology, spirituality. An encouraging journey through the book of Ephesians, unfolding a spiritual theology of the church. Peterson gives me courage to stick it out, to see the glorious Reality of the church behind all the disturbing realities of whatever local congregation we happen to be involved in. A key insight is that the local church is God’s chief means for bringing transformation, both on the personal and on the broader cultural levels.

Luis Cruz Villalobos, Brevemente y más (2010): Poetry, Spanish. Luis Cruz Villalobos of Chile is becoming one of my favorite Latin American poets. Chile has produced some of the best poets (Pablo Neruda, Gabriela Mistral, José Miguel Ibáñez), so Luis stands in good company. This is his first published volume as a “real book,” although he has published widely on the Internet (http://www.benditapoesia.webs.com/).

Wendell Berry, A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems (1979-1997): Poetry. Wendell Berry always feeds my spirit. I’ve put a line from one of these poems by my desk: “When we work well, a Sabbath mood/ Rests on our day, and finds it good.”

Michael J. Gorman, Cruciformity: Paul’s Narrative Spirituality of the Cross (2001): Theology, spirituality. A profound study that finds Paul’s spirituality and missiology to be rooted in the cross, both as exemplified in Christ and as lived out in Christ’s servants today. Gorman presents a missional spirituality of suffering and service that is paradoxically joyful. My Mennonite friends Mark and Mary Thiessen Nation recommended this book.

Dave Eggers, What Is the What (2006). Autobiography/Fiction. I picked this out in an airport bookstore and was not disappointed, although it’s definitely not easy reading. It’s the fictionalized true story of Valentino Achak Deng, one of the “lost boys” of Darfur. It’s impactful because it gives a human face to the suffering in the Sudan.

I read many other books in 2010, and I’m sure that after I post this, I’ll think of another one that should be on the favorites list. I blogged about some of these earlier in the year (eg.,Children of Fate, The Peaceable Kingdom, The Essentials of Orthodox Spirituality, The Unbearable Lightness of Being). I would love to hear about your favorites.

Celtic invocation

2010-12-29T06:55:00.000-08:00

Hal and I have been using the Celtic Daily Prayer book this past year. The invocation at the beginning of the book is a powerful and beautiful prayer. I pass it on to you.

INVOCATION

Most powerful Holy Spirit,
   come down
      upon us
and subdue us.

From heaven
   where the ordinary
      is made glorious
   and glory seems
but ordinary,

bathe us
   with the brilliance
   of Your light
like dew.

From Bolivian mud

2010-12-18T06:51:00.000-08:00

Lord God Almighty, Powerful King,
   Maker and Mover of mountains
   and universes,
we're stuck in a river.
We've been here for over an hour
   and what I want to know is--
   why don't you get us out?
Sure, the scenery is great,
   but I'll bet it's just as pretty
   'round the bend.
Those mountains--
   you raised them up from nothing
   with a mere creative word.
Why are you mute now?
Speak, Lord, and resurrect this hunk
   of steel, fiber glass and rubber
   from its muddy grave.
Move, miracle worker, feeder of 5000,
   elemental wine maker, curer,
   creator.
I know you can do it.
After all, I'm here on your business.

But here I sit.

Could it be
   you're trying to tell me something,
   something I can only hear
   from this river bed?

Could it be
   you have your reasons and lessons
   and character sessions
   better learned mid-stream
   than mid-church service?
OK, Lord,
   I give in.

Pardon my griping
   and teach me
   what I need to know.
In all of this
   I'm still your
   wet but
   willing servant.

(From The Secret Colors of God: Poems by Nancy Thomas, Barclay Press, 2005)

Quaker business and the silence of God

2010-12-12T08:35:00.000-08:00

After years of sitting through Quaker business meetings Latin American style, I am currently experiencing the practices, policies and quirks of doing things in the older traditional Quaker way, US style (and, presumably, European as well). For the most part, I’m drawn to what I see—the focus on waiting on God and seeking God’s will, on genuinely listening to each other, even all the language and formalities that at times seem so, well, old-fashioned. And the time all this can take. There’s a sweet seriousness about it that I sense pleases God.

But it doesn’t always work as smoothly as it’s supposed to.

I’m currently an elder in my congregation. A year ago in the midst of a budget crunch, the congregation gave the elders the task of coming up with some creative alternatives for the configuration of our pastoral team. This deepened into a visioning process that involved the whole congregation asking such questions as who are we and why has God placed us in this particular place at this specific time. The focus on the calling, as well as on the needs of the church, was to guide us elders to a proposal for our pastoral team.

So we have been meeting regularly for over a year now, usually with our three pastors, occasionally without them. Without going into the particulars that have made this into such a complex task, let me just say that it’s proved to be daunting. When we finally presented a proposal to the October business meeting, I was tempted to jokingly label it “Revision #467.” And now we see that our church body is finding it just as frustrating. After three business meetings (and more revisions) it seems like we are making little headway to a contented “sense of the meeting,” other than “this is really hard.”

I believe that God speaks to his people, that he reveals his will. And I know that this sometimes takes time, especially as we emphasize the community nature of discernment. During the year I’ve occasionally taken God to task, saying, “OK. So what is it? Tell us. Show us your plan. It’s time.” But for some reason, God is not speaking clearly to us, at least in terms of a plan for the pastoral team configuration. This has not been easy for the congregation, the elders, and, particularly, for the three dear people that have served us well as our released pastors. So, why the silence on God’s part?

But even in the middle of all this, I’ve sensed the presence of God. While silent, God has not been absent. A few months into the process I began to wonder if God might be telling us that the particulars of the plan were not as important as the process, that he wanted us to use our minds, to listen well, to treat each other kindly, and to take the time necessary.

Then one night I had a dream. (Let me say here that my life among Latin American Friends has helped me be open to dreams as one of the ways God speaks to us. If the dream is of a certain quality and if it stays with me in detail after I wake up, I pay attention.) In the dream I entered the sanctuary at the end of a Sunday morning worship service. People remained in the room, some seated, some standing in small groups, quietly talking or just holding the silence together. No one seemed in a hurry to leave. I asked a friend what was going on, and he replied that the Spirit of God had been so present to the body that they all wanted to stay awhile and bask in the love and warmth. Our pastors were part of the congregation; it was not evident which one had been leading the meeting.

I sense that the Spirit wants to bless us, move among us, and use us in greater measure. And I sense that this does not depend on the configuration of the pastoral team, as important as that is. When I shared this in the business meeting, there was agreement and encouragement. I sense consensus in that basic Quaker (and Christian) value—that there is One, Christ Jesus, who can meet our need, that Jesus is among us to be our pastor and teacher, that he wants us to deepen in this reality. And I sense consensus that we are a community, the people of God in this place, and that it matters that we continue to listen to each other, to treat each other kindly, and to take the time to work out whatever plan we come up with. We may never agree on all the details, and that may not be so important. We may all have to give and take some, to practice mutual submission, to lay down personal preferences. Uniformity on details is not what Quaker practice is all about. At least not always.

It probably won’t happen in this situation. I certainly wish for a speedy end to this continuing saga. On a certain level I would still like for God to just give us The Plan. Maybe another dream, with the actual blueprint? But no. That’s not going to happen. In some mysterious way, what is really happening among us is probably deeper and better than we could imagine.

Yesterday as I was praying (pleading, actually), three metaphors came to mind, coming from three poems that have ministered to me many times. I won’t quote the poems here (maybe in another blog), but the metaphors alone are apt. One is Arthur Robert’s poem, “Our Winter Is a Foggy Drive.” Another is William Stafford’s “Travelling through the Dark.” And finally, a poem I wrote about being stuck in a river, entitled “From Bolivian Mud.” They all speak of slowly working (or driving) our way through difficult circumstances where the silence of God is the loudest sound around.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us, your people. Show us the way. Amen

Praying through chaos

2010-11-28T07:55:00.000-08:00

Prayer is the most important thing I/we do. It is also the thing I feel least skillful at doing. These reflections are in part a response to Johan Maurer’s recent blogs on the topic (“Experimenting with prayer” and “More on prayer”). I write as a fellow-struggler in prayer, not an expert (such a nasty little word!), and I invite others to share their insights and struggles, because this is so important.

I write at a time in which I find myself in the middle of more crisis situations that is reasonable for one person to bear. And so I find myself throughout the day praying the Jesus Prayer in its briefest form, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy!” (Mercy on me, on whomever I am praying for at the moment, on different situations, and so on.)

Last Sunday (a week ago now) in unprogrammed worship, I got some insight on how to expand this cry to God. The centering Scripture for our worship was Psalm 136, that ancient liturgical prayer with its repeated refrain, “His mercies never cease.” So all this past week, to my cries for mercy I have added the affirmations of the psalmist. And, while I still sense the weight of the burdens I bear, a small and hopeful lightness has come into my prayers.

As I pray over impossible situations, I often find myself meditating on that mysterious image of creation in the first few verses of Genesis—the Spirit of God hovering over the chaos and darkness, waiting for God to say, “Let there be light.” I ask for the same Spirit to lovingly hover over whatever chaos I am holding up to him. I imagine the Spirit hovering over specific people and situations. I ask him to hover over Pakistan and Afghanistan. I ask him to hover over me.

Most of all, I pray the Lord’s Prayer, understanding that at its heart is the cry for the kingdom of God to be made manifest in the specific circumstances of life. It is asking that the future fullness of the kingdom come into the chaos and confusion of this present moment. I barely understand what I am doing as I sit in my chair praying this way. It’s audacious, almost arrogant. I’m sometimes asking for impossible miracles. And I just sit there, wearing ordinary clothes, sipping coffee, petting my cat and praying these extravagant prayers. What right do I have? Shouldn’t I at least be wearing a crash helmet? Shouldn’t I be more afraid?

Yes, probably.

I’m hesitant to write and post this. I have not been an exemplary pray-er. These past few weeks I have staggered through my prayers, sometimes sensing mostly desperation. The cry for mercy has been constant, especially when I don’t know what else to say to God.

Oh yes, there’s that other biblical prayer, straight from the mouths of the often befuddled disciples: “Lord, teach us to pray.” Yes, Lord, please do that. Amen.

Spirituality and small children

2010-11-10T08:23:00.000-08:00

For the past month I have not written regularly in this blog. Nor have I faithfully followed my usual spiritual disciplines. Prayer and silence have been scarce. And it all has to do with the intimate increase of children in my life.

My grandmotherly “duties” have clicked in big time. Of the past 30 days, I have spent 23 of them as a live-in grandma. While this is a privilege I relish, it also takes its toll. I do this alongside my work of being associate director and professor in a semi-virtual graduate school of theology for Latin Americans.

For two years now, I have been giving our daughter and her family one week out of every month. Kristin lives in a town two hours from us, so this means I pack my bags and move into Paige’s room. Kristin’s kids are 2, 5, and 8 years old, and they seem to be excited to see me each time I come. Spending time with them releases some of the pressure on Kristin and allows her to advance in her online courses. She is working on a graduate degree in special education, focusing on children with visual disabilities. (Her two boys are visually impaired.)

This is a special year for us in that our son David and his family are home on missionary furlough from Rwanda. They are living right here in our town. Their four kids are 8, 12, 14, and 15 years old. When David and Debby travel to report to their supporting churches, we stay with the kids. Since we don’t see them that often, we gobble up this opportunity to be a part of their lives.

Right before my last trip to be with Kristin’s family, I asked the small group I meet with to pray specifically that I would be able to find some kind of routine of spiritual disciplines appropriate for my time there. But somewhere in the middle of the week, I noticed that it just wasn’t happening. As I was considering this, a thought came to me and I recognized it as the voice of Jesus. He said, “Nancy, what you are giving to your children and grandchildren is a spiritual practice of devotion. I accept it as worship to me.” I felt immediate relief and joy.

I’m back home now, for a week, and I do enjoy the freedom to manage my time and have adult conversations. That’s one of the privileges of this stage of life. One of the challenges is the temptation to look back and wonder, “Did we make a solid contribution? Did it matter that we lived and worked in these particular ways?” Probably, yes, it did matter. I’m slowly learning to leave the results of my life in God’s hands and just rest in his presence.

But Hal and I agree that, however our life’s work will be judged or evaluated, the time we’re investing right now in the lives of our grandchildren is one thing, at least, that we’re getting right.

The unbearable lightness vs. the weight of glory

2010-10-30T08:51:00.000-07:00

I recently read The Unbearable Lightness of Being, partly because some fellow poets recommended it and partly because I love the title and was curious to find out what it meant. Written by Czech writer Milan Kundera in 1982, the novel takes place against the backdrop of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in the 1960s and follows the lives of a man and the two women in his life. I found it to be a dark little book, depressing to read. I almost didn’t finish it, but I always seem to chug through until the end, hoping for some redeeming value. The “lightness of being” refers to the insubstantiality of life without ultimate purpose and of relationships without commitment. And this lightness is, indeed, unbearable.

As I was reading and reflecting, a contrasting phrase from the title of one of C. S. Lewis’ essays came to mind: “the weight of glory.” Of course, this comes originally from the apostle Paul who wrote to encourage the believers in Corinth: “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all [“an eternal weight of glory” in other translations]. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Cor. 4:16-18).

Milan Kundera does speak truth, and I’m glad I finished the book. It’s just that he doesn’t know that the story has an alternate ending. I’m again impressed with the significance, the weight, of the gospel.

Another book I almost put down and then didn’t is Mary Karr’s Lit (2009). I checked it out of the library because I love memoirs by writers, especially poets. But again I found myself inside a very dark book. Slugging through the abusive childhood memories, the disastrous adolescent choices, the marriage that had “Danger!” stamped all over it from the beginning, I was tempted to just put it down. I happened to mention this to a friend at church, another lover of good literature, and she strongly encouraged me to keep reading. I did and was thoroughly surprised to find Karr’s tale turn into a conversion story, much in the same spirit as Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies. The unbearable lightness exchanged for the weight of glory.

Since this is turning into a review of recent books read, let me mention the three I’m in the middle of now. (Two are non-fiction and one is a novel. I can only read one novel at a time.) Hal and I are reading together Greg Mortenson’s second book, Stones into Schools (2009), and find ourselves moved and encouraged by this man’s labor of love in setting up schools for girls in Pakistan and Afghanistan. In the early mornings I am slowly reading through Eugene Peterson’s Practice Resurrection (2010), the fifth book in his series on spiritual theology. Peterson’s book is a commentary on Ephesians, a spiritual reflection on the Reality of the church (as opposed to the reality of the church, what we see and struggle with on a human level) and how to live in the light of this Reality. And I’m just beginning the novel In the Time of the Butterflies (1995), partly to accompany my granddaughter who is reading it for her high school Latin American literature class, and partly because I’ve enjoyed other books by Julia Alvarez.

What would I do without good books? I’d enjoy hearing what you’re reading.

Who? Me?

2010-10-14T20:57:00.000-07:00

“Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers and sisters” (James 3:1)

You got that one right.
I shiver at the thought of the men in my class—
leaders all of them, people
of prestige in their own circles.
The literature tells me I’m
not a teacher anyway. I’m
a facilitator, a guide, a fellow
learner, an along-side worker
in the construction of knowledge.
That’s almost as ugly
as being called expert. The term
that fits me best is simply imposter.
Lord, have mercy on us all.

High position

2010-10-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

“The brother in humble circumstances ought to take pride in his high position” (James 1:9).

Unemployed,
in danger of foreclosure,
dependant on hand-me-downs
and the government’s forced charity—
only a sliver of hope
keeps despair at bay.
The Sunday morning
pastoral prayer includes
me, along with the flood
in Pakistan, Mrs. Murphy’s
cancer and the missionaries
in Rwanda. Have mercy, Lord.
This high position I hold
is windy and cold.

On birth, life, hair-snakes and death

2010-09-29T09:54:00.000-07:00

September 29 (Feast Day for the archangels and me)

Today I celebrate 65 years of life. I used to think that was old. I know better now. I have a great job that lets me contribute to the building up of God’s kingdom on earth. I still enjoy being married to my best friend, plus I have warm relationships with my grown children and their children. I experience the reality Paul wrote about when he stated that “Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2. Cor. 4:16). Actually, at this point in time I have only hints of the outward-wasting-away part. I still ride my bike. And more importantly, I still write poetry.

Yet some things are different. Mainly, I now go to more funerals. And it’s not just the funerals of “old people.” Now I face the deaths of people who were my mentors and friends. This year has been especially heavy.

I just learned of the passing of Roscoe Knight. Roscoe and Tina have been mentors and close friends to Hal and me for almost 40 years. Pioneer Quaker missionaries to Bolivia, they first went to the field in 1945, the year I was born. They were there in the early years of our missionary service, our co-workers, mentors and encouragers. They knew David and Kristin as babies, kids and young people. In fact their participation in the lives of all the missionary kids characterized their friendship. Roscoe loved the kids. (Photo is of Kristin and Roscoe in 1978.)

Two nights ago our son David couldn’t sleep, thinking about “Uncle Roscoe.” He got and wrote down his thoughts. They included this story of one of Roscoe’s many jokes:

On holidays when the extended Friends missionary family would get together we kids loved gathering around Roscoe to hear his stories and jokes. On one holiday, the adults were scattered around the room in groups talking about their important stuff. We kids were with Roscoe. He had been talking with us for a while when he told us that he could make a human hair turn into a snake by magic.

We said, “Nah, you’re lying, that’s impossible.”

Roscoe said, “No, I mean it; it really is possible. But snakes are dangerous. No, we better not try here. A poisonous snake and all these little kids. It just wouldn’t be safe.”

We said, “Oh, please show us!”

Roscoe said “Are you sure you want me to try?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“OK, but we’ve got to be careful. I’ll need a hair and a glass of water.” Some of us offered our hairs, but he refused most of them. They were either too short, or had some other sort of problem. As best I can recall he chose one of Sara Stansell’s hairs because it was long enough and he felt it would make a good snake.

He poured the water in a nice thick puddle on a table. “Now look very carefully, but be patient. It takes a minute or two to start growing into a snake.” Then he carefully took the hair and laid it on the water. “I think I saw it move a little.”

We said, “Nah, you’re just joking, it’s still just a hair.”

Roscoe said, “You’re too far away to see. Get closer, so you can see him grow. There, see his tail moving?”

We all leaned in closer. And you know, it did seem to be moving a little. And it was true that Roscoe knew his snakes. We studied that hair closely.

Suddenly Roscoe yelled, “Watch out!” and slapped the table real hard!

We all came up stunned, sputtering and dripping wet. “Why did you do that!!?”

Roscoe, just as surprised as all the rest of us said, “Well, I had to kill it before it got too big and dangerous.”

Typical Roscoe Knight. I remember that joke, too, as well as my own wet face. And I remember all the attention Roscoe paid to the kids, letting them know they were valuable people in their own right.

David ended his reflections with these words: “I want to run my race like Roscoe ran his, with a deep faith in Christ, with a joy and zest for life, with a gift to make others feel valuable, and with a passion to see the Good News of Jesus free people still trapped in darkness.”

Well said, David. Well done, Roscoe. I celebrate your life today, even as I celebrate my own. As I imagine sharing my birthday with the archangels, I realize there’s now one more person at the party. I’m thankful for you and your life.

Pure joy

2010-09-25T10:23:00.000-07:00

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds” (James 1:2).

It starts out low and slowly builds,
a groundswell of holy laughter.
It mushrooms from forest
floors. Out of the darkness a thread
of light floats, begins to weave.
--Oui, sí, ya, jisa jisa jisa.--
From around the world, people
are saying Yes! They get it.
In hospital rooms, at the scene
of the crime, from refugee camps,
even at grave sites it comes—
the improbable chuckle,
the inappropriate snort, a giggle
in the night. Dag Hammarkskjold
once wrote, --For all that has been,
thanks. For all that will be, yes.--
It’s not faith but mirth
that moves these mountains.

The Thomases have landed!

2010-09-20T09:52:00.000-07:00

Missionaries coming home on furlough sometimes feel like they’ve landed on a new planet. David and Debby Thomas, with Breanna (15), Aren (14), Gwen (11) and Alandra (8) stepped off their space ship from Rwanda just a few weeks ago, so their impressions and observations are still fresh. Let’s let them speak for themselves.

Question: What, so far, has been strange, negative or scary about being back in the USA?

Alandra: The food. Not enough beans and rice.

Gwen: There aren’t very many people walking around outside. And there aren’t enough black people.

Aren: Too many new people. And lots of white people; they’re everywhere! But the scariest thing is going to a new school. Also lots of little things are strange. Like in restaurants, there are these big machines where you have to press on handles to get drinks and not knowing how to do it.

Breanna: The food hasn’t been amazing. And people are all in such a hurry.

Debby: We’re still in the honeymoon stage where everything is wonderful. Ask me this question in a few months.

David: I agree with Debby. It’s hard to think of negative things to say about being here. Let’s see. I guess I could mention being bothered by how much stuff people throw away. And that so much is automatic, and, well, you just can’t roll-start a car in automatic! But these are little things.

Q: What do you really like about being back in the USA?

Alandra: The food. And, while meeting new people is sort of fun, I really like seeing friends that we knew before.

Gwen: The food, stuff like pizza, bread and all the meat we can eat.

Aren: Being with relatives again—that’s the best part. Like Uncle Clyde. And seeing Mark’s sword-making stuff.

Breanna: The orderliness of life. I love the traffic here. And the phones. I love American fruit.

Debby: Life here seems so easy and breezy, like the driving and the availability of food. Everything works like it should, all the time: the electricity, the water, the Internet. Appointments happen on time. And people are so kind—in the stores, at the market, in the schools. The attitude of service is incredible.

David: I’ve noticed that people in Oregon seem to be exercising more, and there’s more emphasis on healthy organic foods. The other thing that stands out is politeness in traffic. During our first week here, my car broke down on a mountain pass and not only did someone stop to help me with his jumper cables, he ended up by giving me the cables, telling me to pass them on to the next person who needed help! Cars actually stop for people in crosswalks, and if someone wants to change lanes, other drivers give him space. Amazing!

Q: What are your hopes and expectations this year for the various ministries you left behind in Rwanda? (And how can we be praying?)

David: Our process of leaving went well, with good people in places of leadership in both the mission and the Rwandan Friends Church. We’re already getting good reports. We feel at peace about being gone for a year.

Debby: I agree. I think the Discipleship for Development program is not just going to hang on, it’s going to move ahead. As for the moringa tree business, I’m hoping and expecting it to make progress both in the government approval process and in actual sales. We need to find more investors in order to move to the next stage in the business, and that would be a good thing to pray for.

Q: What are your hopes and expectations for this year in the US? (And how can we be praying?)

Alandra: To make lots of friends

Gwen: For my dyslexia program to work and help me become a fluent reader. Oh, yes, and I want to make some good friends.

Aren: For me and Dad to go on a canoe trip on the Willamette River. Also I want to go snow-boarding.

Breanna: Good friends. I want to have found something here that makes me sad to leave.

Debby: I want to re-connect with the culture here, to understand the issues people our age face, what they’re thinking about, what their values are. I want for friendships to deepen. I’m also hoping for a good school year for the kids, that they can enjoy friendships and form positive connections to this culture. On a practical level, we need to raise our level of financial support so that we can return to Rwanda in a year. But the priority for this year is REST and rejuvenation.

David: I hope for excellent discussions with our Evangelical Friends Mission board on a transition strategy for the next five to ten years in Rwanda. I hope we can discern God’s leading for EFM’s future role in Rwanda, Burundi, and Congo. I’m also looking forward to developing friendships this year. But I agree with Debby that our priority for the year is rest. We’ve had an active and fruitful four years of ministry in Rwanda, and now we hear Jesus saying to us, just as he spoke to his disciples, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest” (Mark 6:31). I want to learn how to move more deeply in the rhythms of grace, to come to the place where my ministry flows from grace.

Interviewer: Nancy Thomas (mom--to David, grandma, and veteran space traveler)

The goose head

2010-09-12T07:34:00.000-07:00

I learned about a very strange incident this last week. If you’re queasy, don’t read on.

Two friends came to visit us on Thursday. We’ve known Louise for over 40 years, and we just met Elaine. Louise and Elaine are in their mid-70s, and they’re taking a three-week road trip from Washington State to Southern California. We were the second stop on their tour.

Our son David dropped in while they were with us. (Louise has known him since he was a baby.) We enjoyed looking at the photos, remembering times gone by, and especially honoring Alan, Louise’s late husband.

At the end of the day, we walked them to Elaine’s car where David noticed something strange lodged under the hood. He pointed it out to Elaine, and she immediately exclaimed, “Oh no! The goose head! I had forgotten all about it!”

“The what?” we asked.

“The goose head,” she repeated, and she told us this story. Just a week ago she had been driving down a country road when a wild goose flew into the front of her vehicle. A head-on collision. Elaine stopped the car, and ran out to see what had happened. The goose had been killed, and she found his body hanging down the front of the car, its head lodged in the hood. She tried to open the hood, but it was stuck fast.

Not able to work the goose loose, in desperation she gave one mighty yank, and the goose separated from his head. She quickly threw the body into a roadside ditch, got back in the car and drove on.

And, here’s the surprising part, she forgot all about it. (If I had a goose head stuck under my hood, I’d be thinking about it. A lot.)

So here we were, standing in the driveway, with our friends and their problem. David got some paper towels and began prying open the hood, coaxing the head, until it finally slipped out into his hand. It was, indeed, a goose head. Small, well-formed, complete, beak and all. It looked surprised, but that may well be my imagination. David disposed of the head, washed his hands, and we sent our friends on their way.

I still can’t fathom how the head kept its form. Or how it even managed to get into the hood of the car. Or what the goose was doing flying so low. It’s all so very strange.

When I started thinking back on this incident and writing this blog, I was focused on the strangeness and humor of the situation. But the more I ponder, the less funny it seems. I mentioned that the goose head was complete. I didn’t say that it was beautiful. But it was. Except for the fact that the life was gone.

I’m thinking about the conflict between nature and technology, remembering the title of a book I read for a literature survey class, The Machine in the Garden. So often the machine wins. This time it did.

No, I’m not going to let myself get overly sentimental about the death of this one goose, but I do feel sad. And I think the sadness is appropriate. As I understand Scripture, part of our being made in the image of God includes the assignment God gave us to be stewards over the creation, to love the earth, to care for the animals, to live responsibly. Terms like “road kill” are inherently offensive, yet they reflect a certain reality. “Road kill” is inevitable.

Why am I writing this? Is there a moral to this story, some point I can make about life or faith or something? I haven’t worked that out yet. I’m writing partly because the incident fascinates me and I’m still thinking about it. But I do sense a personal recommitment to doing whatever I can to care for creation and all its creatures, to respect and celebrate life. That includes the lives of my friends, Louise and Elaine. It includes remembering and missing Alan who is now with the Lord. It even includes feeling sad for the goose.

From the belly of the earth

2010-09-05T14:14:00.000-07:00

The situation of the 33 miners trapped now for a month 700 meters beneath the Chilean desert has captured the hearts of people around the world. I am drawn to pray for these miners partly because of my own background and the stories I grew up with.

My father was born into a coal mining family in Pennsylvania. The little town of Dirth existed for the mine, and with the depletion of the coal many years ago, the town itself disappeared. My dad was the youngest son in a family of 13 kids. Grandpa was the mine foreman, and my dad’s older brothers worked the mines. Later in life, two of my uncles died from black lung disease. Dad and his older sister Olive were the only kids out of the 13 to leave the community in order to get a college education.

But while he may have left the mines, the mines did not leave my father, and we, his children, grew up on the stories of the dangers the miners routinely faced, the accidents, the cave-ins, the diseases. These still haunt my dreams. My years of living in Bolivia contributed to this frightening connection; much of the history and current agony of this country was forged in her mines.

Right now I am riveted to the continuing drama of the Chilean miners. It’s what I think about when I wake up in the middle of the night. I join my prayers to those of many others for the success (and speed!) of the rescue operations and for the Spirit of God to enable these men to find healthy ways to cope while they wait and hope.

The fact of their very survival to this point seems miraculous, and that is certainly how the people of Chile are taking it. Newspaper articles and reports from my friends in Chile detail the universal sense of euphoria upon discovering that the miners were still alive. It seems that the streets erupted into one gigantic party!

One of my friends, Luis Cruz Villalobos, is a Presbyterian pastor and clinical psychologist in Santiago. He is also a poet, composer, troubadour and encourager of Christians involved in the arts. Luis is a PRODOLA student, doing his doctoral research in theology and psychology, looking at the intersection between faith and resiliency when people face crisis situations. His field study is with survivors of the February 2010 earthquake in Chile.

Naturally, the drama of the trapped miners affects Luis deeply. In a recent article posted on his web site, Luis reflects on five attitudes that contribute to the resiliency of these 33 miners. He identifies these attitudes as gratitude, humor, hope, solidarity, and faith. He points out the numerous expressions of gratitude in the messages the miners have managed to send up and sees the disposition to gratefulness as a fundamental spiritual resource in times of crisis. And humor, even there, in the belly of the earth where the situation is certainly no laughing matter, even there the ability of the miners to refuse to see themselves as victims, to acknowledge their human fragility and to deal gently with one another as they wait and hope, this is life-giving. Concerning solidarity, Luis notes that among the first questions the miners had once communication was established was whether or not their fellow miners had escaped.

A portion of Scripture that helps me as I pray for the Chilean miners comes from Psalm 40:

I waited patiently for the Lord;
he turned to me and heard my cry.
He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
out of the mud and mire;
and gave me a firm place to stand.
He put a new song in my mouth
a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear
and put their trust in the Lord….

Yet I am poor and needy;
may the Lord think of me.
You are my help and my deliverer;
O my God, do not delay.

Amen. So be it.

Stuff

2010-08-27T07:21:00.000-07:00

Stuff is one of my favorite words. I like the round plump way it feels in my mouth. I like the way it starts with a hiss, slowly snaking its way toward the light, only to come to an abrupt halt (we call it an alveolar stop in linguistics, in case you wanted to know), then ending in a slow flat leak of carbon dioxide (a labio-dental fricative). There’s a lot going on in your mouth when you say the “simple” word stuff.

But more than the sound and feel of the word, I like what it means and, more importantly, how it means it.

As with many words that appear simple, time spent in the Oxford English Dictionary quickly dispels that illusion. The noun stuff can mean a variety of things from supplies and possessions to textiles suitable for clothing, and even academic matter, as in “This teacher really knows her stuff.” It can mean something lofty, a fundamental substance, such as “the stuff of greatness.” Or it can be as specialized as the spin on a fast flying baseball (a new one to me). And, of course, we also have many verb meanings, derivatives (some very edible), and even a few expletives (among which, “O stuff and bother!” is the safest for Quakers to use).

There’s a lot of “what” to the word stuff, but the “how” is perhaps more significant. Stuff, in short, is not a reverent word. It is not likely to ever be incorporated into a liturgical prayer, carved onto a memorial plaque, or sung at a wedding. It struts down the halls with a casual, cocky air. Look closely and you’ll see a twinkle in its eye. It’s crossing its fingers behind its back.

Let’s consider stuff in the sense of personal property or possessions. “Hands off! This is my stuff.”

It’s precisely because of the irreverent casual feel of this word that I like to apply it to my possessions. In my heart of hearts, I find myself attached to my stuff in a most unholy way. When someone threatens to take what belongs to me, my emotions flare up. I can become very distressed at breaking some valued pot. Little kids running through my house unnerve me.

Labeling my things as stuff helps me put them in perspective. I desire to become less and less possessed by my possessions, freer to value what’s really valuable (like little kids).

As missionaries in Bolivia, we had to store our stuff in big barrels every time we came back to the States on furlough. These barrels had to be properly labeled in case something happened to us and the remaining mission staff had to sort, send, or sell our possessions. One time, in a fit of whimsy, I labeled our barrels “General Stuff,” “Specific Stuff,” “Favorite Stuff,” and “Stuff I could get along without if I had to but would prefer to keep if it’s all the same to whoever is reading this label.” (That one took five labels.) Fortunately, nothing happened to us.

I have this recurring Walter-Mitty-like daydream where my house and all my possessions burn down, but we escape unharmed. I remain calm and spiritual throughout the ordeal. When someone, dripping with pity, says to me, “I hear you were wiped out by the fire,” I reply, “Oh no, I’m still here, as good as ever. Just my stuff burned up.”

In my saner moments I laugh at that daydream. I know that a real fire would devastate me, that I would lose not only my “General Stuff,” but also my family photos, the teddy bear my daughter bought me, my great grandmother’s wedding dress, the stories the kids wrote when they were little, and other things I deeply value. I would need help in dealing with loss. This is reality.

John Woolman inspires me to put my possessions in perspective. I am especially drawn to the story in his journal about his growing retail business and his struggle with the “stuff and bother” of material success. He finally concludes that “Truth required me to live more free from outward cumbers,” and he simplifies his business so that he can give himself to traveling and encouraging his brothers and sisters in the Quaker family. Cumbers is another good word for stuff.

Jesus reminds us that God knows our need of adequate shelter, clothing, and food. Our Father is generous. We are to seek first his kingdom and righteousness, and he will supply all the stuff we really need (Matthew 6:33, Thomas version).

I need to be frequently reminded of this. I’m still far from John Woolman’s courageous act of throwing it all off. I’m still cumbered by more stuff than I need. But the desire for freedom and simplicity is growing. I pray God will help me to hold my possessions more lightly, and to know that, no matter how pretty, bright, or enticing, when all is said and done—it’s just stuff.

(This article originally appeared in the Evangelical Friend in March of 1992. I reprinted it here because I needed to remember it.)

Two love poems

2010-08-23T06:34:00.000-07:00

Today is our 42nd anniversary.

When Hal and I were first engaged, we came up with this wonderfully romantic plan. Every anniversary we would gift each other a poem. An original love poem. I still love this plan. But...

He owes me 41 poems.

Which, actually, makes me smile. Here is one I wrote for him around about our 4th anniversary:

ANNIVERSARY POEM

When I say
thus and such
and you respond with
such and that
I almost begin to realize
that you didn't at all understand
my this and there
thinking it instead to be
otherwise
and then I correcting spout
how as what
but you come back with
why and wherefore
and I meaning to point out
because furthermore and
therefore--

Oh, forget it!
Come kiss me.

I think humor has been one of the glues that has held our relationship together. When our son David was a wise 14 year old, he told me that my God-given mission in life was to make Dad laugh. (Hal can be rather serious and intense.)

As I was meditating in the early hours of this morning, thanking God for Hal and our marriage, I thought of the poem I will give him today, written by Wendell Berry. (I might also be able to come up with an original contribution before the midnight deadline. Or I might not.)

THE WILD ROSE
by Wendell Berry

Sometimes hidden from me
in daily custom and in trust,
so that I live by you unaware
as by the beating of my heart,

suddenly you flare in my sight,
a wild rose blooming at the edge
of thicket, grace and light
where yesterday was only shade,

and once more I am blessed, choosing
again what I chose before.

Thanks be to God for love that endures.

Don't touch the gringos!

2010-08-17T07:12:00.000-07:00

We arrived back in Oregon just a few days ago, and yesterday we welcomed our son David and his family, just home from Rwanda where they serve with Evangelical Friends Mission. A whole lot of hugging went on at the airport! These last two days I have been walking around wearing this huge smile that just won’t go away, knowing that for a year at least I’ll have my family all around me.

Speaking of hugging, I want to reflect on a conversation I had our last day in Costa Rica. We were saying our goodbyes to students and colleagues, knowing that we probably would not be seeing some of them again, especially the students of the 2009 cohort group. At one point Angela Durigan, a Brazilian Nazarene pastor, put her hand on my face and just looked at me. It was a beautifully affectionate gesture. And then she said, “I hope this doesn’t offend you. I know we’re not supposed to touch North Americans.”

Now that took me aback! Angela quickly added, “I know that’s not true of you.” I’m glad she recognized that. After a life time of service in Latin America, many of our natural preferences and reactions are more Latin than gringo. But in the conversation that ensued, she told me that part of the training Brazilian Christians receive for cross-cultural ministry is the warning to give North Americans plenty of space and not to touch them more than is absolutely necessary. Discrete formal handshakes are fine, but keep those Latin American abrazos for Spanish- or Portuguese-speaking colleagues.

I hate stereo-types. And while most cultural stereo-types are partially based in fact (North American Caucasian culture does indeed emphasize personal space), it’s the unthinking application of the stereo-type to all persons that causes damage. Actually, there are more personal differences within a given culture than there are personality or preference differences between cultures.

I think of other stereo-types I’ve struggled with. Are all Quakers naturally quiet and peace-loving by nature? (Thank God for the feisty prophets among us. Even extroverts can live out the peace testimony.) And what comes to mind with the label “missionary”? I’ve wrestled with that stereo-type all my life.

I think of the stereo-types we currently face, particularly that of “undocumented Hispanic immigrant.” May God help me—us—step beyond the stereo-types to see people that he created and gifted and called to lives of service. May he enable us to cross the cultural barriers and form friendships with those of different backgrounds.

I thank God for Angela and her expressive ways. All those goodbye hugs—as well as the daily greeting hugs—still warm me in memory. And I’m glad for friends who hold warnings such as “Don’t touch the gringos!” with a grain of salt.

Joseph, Teresa, Paulo and me

2010-08-09T18:16:00.000-07:00

For the last week I have been here in San José (Saint Joseph), Costa Rica, teaching the class “Culture, Spirituality and Mission.” This is part of PRODOLA, the Latin American doctoral program in theology. It was a different experience as I had only one student in my class, the others having dropped out for various reasons. Paulo Oliveira is a Brazilian translator, a member of Wycliffe Bible Translators. For 17 years Paulo and his wife Quezia have been working with the Tembe tribe of Brazil, living in a village, learning the language, “reducing” it to writing, and beginning the translation of the Bible. Early in the week, Paulo gave me a copy of the book of Luke in the Tembe language, hot off the press, and during the course of the week, he got word that the whole New Testament had just been delivered. The celebration and distribution wait for his return to Brazil. This represents a significant milestone.

Paulo and his family now live in Brasilia, in part due to the availability of resources for his son who has learning disabilities. His new role in Wycliffe is as a trainer of other translators, especially in the areas of anthropology and missiology.

We had a good week. The “class” was more like personal tutoring, and we talked our way through the material, applying everything to Paulo’s ministry situation and research project. We both learned a lot.

One of the themes we explored was the great Spanish mystics of the 16th century (Ignacio Loyola, Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross), their influence on Latin American Christianity, and what they might have to say to contemporary evangelicals on the continent. This is potentially controversial, given the anti-Catholic stance of much of Latin American Protestantism, but students at a doctoral level usually have an open mind and a willingness to explore.

The mystics always surprise me. I’m especially drawn to Teresa, with her fertile imagination (her images of spirituality are literally wonderful—full of wonder), her deep sense of intimacy with God, her encouragement to grow, and a humility that pops out here and there, in the midst of her incredible experiences (some of which scare me more than they attract me).

Teresa wrote her autobiography and her books on prayer out of obedience. Her superiors in the Catholic Church wanted her to put in writing her experiences and her teachings on prayer, for the benefit of other monks and nuns. Reluctantly, she put pen to paper. One of my favorite quotes comes from the introduction to one of her books, written by a friend and admirer. P. Gracian quotes Teresa as saying, “Why do they want me to write things?... Let learned men, who have studied, do the writing; I am a stupid creature and don’t know what I am saying. There are more than enough books written on prayer already. For the love of God, let me get on with my spinning and go to choir and do my religious duties like the other sisters. I am not meant for writing; I have neither the health nor the wits for it.”

I find that refreshingly funny, coming as it does from one who is now considered one of the greatest authorities on contemplative prayer. Apparently even Teresa struggled with the man/woman thing, feeling at times inferior, wanting to just be left alone. She might have been a good candidate for the Quaker movement, if only she had been born a century later, in a different country.

As a writer/teacher/pastor, I am sometimes tempted to say, “Enough! Let learned men do it! Let me get on with my spinning, etc…” (Actually, I don’t spin.) This is in part due to having a quiet personality. And, as in Teresa’s case, there have been many who have encouraged me to get over my reluctance and make my contribution. I’m grateful.

I’m grateful for the example of Teresa of Avila, and for those who insisted she write. I’m grateful for the chance to know people like Paulo Oliveira, to understand his life of joyful sacrifice, and the contribution he is making to the extension of God’s kingdom in Brazil. I’m grateful to be here this beautiful city named after Saint Joseph.

And now, back to my spinning….

Some images

PRODOLA at worship; Paulo is wearing the bright stripes.

The 2009 cohort group in a seminar on research design.

Hal in animated conversation with Luis Cruz of Chile.

Costa Rican folklore dance

Costa Rican coffee!

Another day, another planet

2010-07-30T07:53:00.000-07:00

July 29, 2010

I’m writing this seated in a plane, getting ready to take off from the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. We will touch down this evening in San José, Costa Rica. Once again, I’m changing planets.

We left Oregon early this morning, in the middle of Northwest Yearly Meeting’s annual sessions. Today is the final day. It’s been a good week, and I’ve felt gratitude for my Quaker heritage—participating in worship (sometimes with song, often in silence), listening to representatives gently work their way through business, taking (and presenting) workshops, sharing many conversations around meals. I’ve been with family, and I’ve loved it.

One small bright moment for me came at the close of one of the afternoon workshops. This was an open-mic poetry reading, with ten participants. We sat in a circle, read original poetry, shared observations and encouraged one another. At the end, a woman from Klamath Falls confessed that my poetry collection (The Secret Colors of God) is the only book she has ever stolen. I found that both wonderful and funny. (Actually, her “crime” was liking it so much she just didn’t return it to the church library. She has since repented, returned the book, and now has her own legitimate copy.)

The pilot is now apologizing for the delay and announcing that any minute we will be taking off, that the “little hole” in the fuselage has been repaired. (I’m not sure I’m glad he told us that.) I’m preparing my spirit to enter a new world. For the next two weeks we will be immersed in a Latin American milieu of theology, academic study, and warm fellowship of another kind. Our seminar times will be intense and our worship together will be loud, vibrant, and active. The only silence will probably be what I introduce the morning I bring the devotional. These are not Quakers. And Latin America is not the Pacific Northwest. But this is a world I also love.

In spite of the differences, strong threads connect my several worlds. We are all broken people in process of being transformed by the Spirit of God. And we are all followers of Jesus, seeking to make a difference in our world.

The little safety movie is now running on the plane’s TV screens, first in English, and then in Spanish. Hal and I have emergency-door seats this time, right over the wing, so I’ve reviewed the instructions on removing the door so people can escape. I trust I will not be put to the test.

I also trust in God’s accompanying presence on this journey and on his lovingly bringing together the various worlds of my life. Jesus is Lord.

The tale of a dollhouse

2010-07-23T21:20:00.000-07:00

It all started 30 years ago when we lived in Bolivia (a great place to raise kids). For Christmas one year we decided to make a dollhouse for Kristin. Hal designed a three-story-plus-attic house, then build it out of wood over a period of several months, using a friend’s shop. We painted it in vibrant primary colors—reds, blues and yellows—partly to match our daughter’s personality.

Kristin was thoroughly surprised and delighted. We furnished it together with stuff from the local miniature fair (“Alasitas”) and with handmade items such as the tuna can coffee table and the matchbox dresser. It brought years of fun and creativity, and when we left Bolivia, Kristin, sixteen-years-old, hated to have to sell it.

Ten years ago on a December visit to our son and his family in Rwanda, David said, “Dad, could you build Breanna a dollhouse for Christmas? Just like Kristin’s?” We agreed, and Hal set to work in David’s garage. We had three weeks to do the job and no place to hide. Breanna, five, and Aren, four, were fascinated, and Hal found ways to let them help him, always evading their questions as to what this interesting thing was supposed to become. We did the final assembly and painting Christmas Eve, after the kids were in bed. I’m still amazed that we managed to surprise Breanna on Christmas morning. All three of David’s daughters have enjoyed that dollhouse.

Yesterday we celebrated Paige’s fifth birthday with—what else?—a dollhouse. A year ago Kristin had said, “Dad, it’s our turn. Could you please build Paige a dollhouse? Just like mine?”

For the past several months, we’ve dedicated Saturday afternoons to the project. Hal used wood from the baseboards that were taken from his Grandpa Weesner’s house when it was remodeled to become a George Fox University dorm. (Grandpa Weesner would be Paige’s great-great-grandfather.) The last two weeks, the birthday deadline pushed us to spend more time in the garage. But it’s been a joy—a relief to Hal from the academic intensity of his job, fun for me as I’ve sanded and painted, imagining Paige’s delight and praying for her.

I think this one is Hal’s magnum opus. It’s beautiful. (See the following photos.) The night before the birthday Hal stayed up until 3:30 doing the final assembly and touch-up painting. The morning of the birthday we ran into a snafu as we discovered the thing would not fit into our car. (We had been imagining it fitting, but somehow neglected to take measurements. Go figure.) We live 1 ½ hours from Jon and Kristin’s home, so we had to scramble to borrow a van, but we made it a good hour before the party (missing lunch, however).

That was yesterday. Different extended family members had volunteered to furnish different rooms. (Kristin is organized!) Paige opened her first gift, a set of bathroom furniture. She lifted up the little wooden potty, looked quizzically at her mom and said, “This wasn’t on my list.” The following packages revealed more furniture, and finally she opened the box with the wooden family—parents, three kids, grandparents, just like her family. But she still didn’t get it. We then told her to go to her room for her final present. The dollhouse was waiting for her. It was great to see her look of surprise and the dawning understanding as all the parts and pieces came together in her mind. The rest of the afternoon we all arranged and rearranged furniture, built what was missing from Legos, and played.

We feel satisfaction at the completion of a big project, a job well done, a gift that will continue to bless our granddaughter, and add another chapter to our family story. Maybe someday Paige’s daughter will play with a dollhouse built with wood from her great-great-great-grandpa’s house!

Alandra and Gwen with the Rwandan dollhouse.

Beginning work on Paige's dollhouse

A labor of love

Ready to deliver

Paige Rebecca Gault at 5

Life is good.

Not safe

2010-07-16T10:02:00.000-07:00

“Come near to God and God will come near to you” (James 4:8)

After years of growing up in this house,
after all the warnings and hand slappings
--I am well trained, I am cautious—
why are you now telling me
to place my hand
on the glowing burner?

I’m no astronaut.
I barely made it through high school
physics. And you ask me
--without the suit, no oxygen tanks,
not even a rocket—to take a stroll
through the galaxies?

The Creator of volcanoes, black
holes, caterpillars and the beans
that morphed into this cup of coffee
has invited me over for a chat?
How do I get ready? What will
I wear? And whatever—in heaven
or on earth—will we talk about?

How does immaterial immensity
--or whatever God is—draw near
to an infinitesimal speck—that would
be me—without destroying it?
Where is the place big enough
for the meeting? Will it be an open field,
a mountain peak or a mansion?
How do I get there? A little girl again,
I dare to mumble my questions.

If I manage to find the place,
do I just ring the doorbell?
Will I be able to reach it?
Will a servant answer? Or God
himself? Do we shake hands?
What if he hasn’t any?
How will I know it’s really him?

Definitely not safe. An invitation
to play with fire, to enter
the ocean and swim with sharks,
to draw near to unbearable light.
Not safe. Not safe at all.

(From a collection currently in process, "At the Speed of Love: Some unorthodox commentaries on the book of James," 2010)

At Quaker meeting: Waiting for silence

2010-07-10T07:21:00.000-07:00

A poem by William Jolliff

Outside waits a day with four mountains:
Jefferson, Adams, St. Helens and Hood
are stretching their shoulders to the sky
like schoolboys hoping to be chosen first.

The light that sways through the window
of the meetinghouse falls like a warm kiss,
then bends to bless the pews and timbers.
I knew the man who crafted that altar—

I read his books. He cut the black walnut
on his farm and stacked the rough-sawn
boards to wait for the right purpose—this—
then mourned his sin in steel wool and tung oil.

And the young man speaking doesn’t have
Ezekiel’s hair only; he has a prophet’s tongue,
too, and a pure heart, nearly as I can tell.
So I’ve more to be forgiven as I turn

each muscle of hope toward what is still
to come, when the brilliance of good words
slows into nothing, and we settle at last
to the silence that calls us back, even from music

that draws us to the center, the sacred pit
of God’s belly, even on a four-mountain day.

(Bill Jolliff is a professor of literature and writing at George Fox University. He attends the North Valley Friends unprogrammed meeting for worship, where Hal and I also attend. This poem is from his book, Searching for a White Crow, 2009, Pudding House Publications—www.puddinghouse.com—and is posted here with the author’s permission.)

“Something better than revival”

2010-07-03T10:23:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I was browsing the June edition of Christianity Today when a photo grabbed my attention. “Hey!” I almost said out loud, “I know those people!” My friends Norberto and Carmen Saracco stood out in a photo of pastors in Buenos Aires, and the article, “Something Better than Revival,” by CT news editor Jeremy Weber, told the story of the Council of Pastors in Argentina’s capital city.

The article also mentions church historian, Pablo Deiros. Norberto and Pablo are teaching colleagues of ours on the academic council of PRODOLA, a Latin American graduate program in theology. Norberto had shared about the unity movement of churches in Buenos Aires, so the information was not new, but I gained a new sense of the scope and the significance of what CT is calling “perhaps the most remarkable experiment in citywide church unity today.” The story is fascinating, and I encourage you to read the article for yourselves.

It’s interesting to note how the movement has evolved from friendships between pastors across denominational lines, to friendships between churches, and now to united missional efforts in the center of Buenos Aires. One of their latest endeavors was the joint sending of a missionary couple to North Africa, a model that gives hope for carrying out the Great Commission in spite of the economic realities of Latin America.

This kind of unity has not been easy to achieve, especially given some of the differences between the more liberal mainline churches and the evangelical churches. Pastors have adopted certain basic theological elements and agreed to differ on the rest. It seems to be working. One of the founders, Juan Pablo Bongarrá, says, “Today the mainline churches are helping the evangelical churches do social work, and the evangelical churches are helping the mainline churches do evangelism work.” The article goes on to state that “Christians now enjoy greater leverage in the public square because they can present a united front when confronting the government.”

Something the article does not mention is the unity movement in Argentina between Protestants and Catholics, especially those that identify with the charismatic/Pentecostal emphasis. Norberto is also a leader in this movement.

I think of my own faith community, that of the Quakers, with all our divisions and differences. I’m encouraged by the convergent Friends movement, but I wish we as Friends could also make more intentional moves toward the greater unity of the whole body of Christ. Perhaps this is something better carried out locally than globally.

Meditation on Mark 4:35-41

2010-06-19T07:53:00.000-07:00

I must have been seven years old
the first time I heard the story
of Jesus calming the storm.

Being young and credulous,
I accepted it simply. The fishermen’s
amazement came to me

later in life. I, too, learned to question,
“Who then is this that even
the wind and the sea obey him?”

I also learned to question why
doesn’t he do it now. I watch
on TV the oil creep up the shore

of south Florida and I wonder
what the word of authority
would command and through

which channel the command
would flow. I guess I’m asking
how to pray to the One who is the same

yesterday today and forever. With what
words and to whom should I ask him to direct
them? To the ooze floating on the surface,

“Peace! Be dissolved!”?
To the breach on the ocean floor,
“Peace! Be closed!”?

Oh, Lord of the wind and the sea,
of the minerals and the gasses, of the fish,
the pelicans and the marshlands, say something

now. I strain to hear your voice
as the stench of our sin and the silence
of your people begin to overwhelm.

Beyond sacrament

2010-06-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

The comments on last week’s blog lead me to the university library next door and one of my favorite books, The Oxford English Dictionary. The article on “sacrament” gave three root meanings of this word that has wiggled its way through Latin and French into the English language: 1) oath; 2) something holy, dedicated, set apart; and 3) mystery (this latter being the 3rd century translation of the Greek mysterium, mirrored in the Eastern Orthodox view of the sacraments). In reference to ecclesiology across denominations, the word has become “the common name for certain solemn ceremonies of the Christian church…belonging to the institutions of the Christian church.”

I even found a reference to the controversy between the words “sacrament” and “ordinance”: “By some of the English Puritans and Nonconformists, the word was avoided as being associated with opinions regarded by them as superstitious; the usual term applied by them to baptism and the Lord’s Supper was ordinance.”

The OED gives the wider connotation of the word as “something likened to the recognized sacraments, as having a sacred character or function; a sacred seal set upon some part of a man’s life”, “a sign of grace.” As an example of usage (I love how the OED does this!) the Book of Common Prayer is cited (1604):

“Q: What meanest thou by this word Sacrament?
“A: I mean an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace given unto us.”

In the same vein, the OED cites W.R. Inge (1899): “To the true mystic, life itself is a sacrament,” along with a reference to a 1921 English translation of De Caussades’ classic, Abandonment to Divine Providence and its concept “the sacrament of the present moment.” We Quakers would add a reference to Thomas Kelley’s A Testament of Devotion and our testimony to the sacramentality of life.

But as meaningful as these definitions are, they still don’t address the issue of Christ’s command to “do this in remembrance of me,” as pointed out by my conversation partners last week. While embracing the Quaker perspective, I struggle with this aspect. And I love it when I visit other faith communities and can participate in the Lord’s Supper. On the other hand, afterwards I always think how nice it would have been to have followed up the experience with some gathered silence.

It’s usually in the waiting, receptive stillness that I best hear the voice of Jesus. That’s where communion with the crucified and risen Lord happens. And that’s what this is really all about.

A monk speaks out on Friends and the sacraments

2010-06-05T06:51:00.000-07:00

I recently read an excellent essay entitled, “The Essentials of Orthodox Spirituality,” by an anonymous author who simply calls himself “a monk of the Eastern church.” This reading is in part preparation for a course on Christian spirituality that I teach, and in part from a genuine interest in the subject.

I found the monk’s section on the sacraments especially enlightening. The subtitle is “The Holy Mysteries,” and the monk contrasts the Orthodox emphasis on the mystery of these means of grace with the Catholic familiarity and openness in regards to the sacraments.

But it was the monk’s comment on Quakers that most surprised and delighted me. Let me quote:

“There is ‘one greater than the Temple' (Matt. 12:6), and greater than the Holy Mysteries. The scholastic axiom ‘Deus non alligator sacramentis’—‘God is not bound to the sacraments’—may have a Western origin, but expresses quite well the Eastern mind. What Orthodox would dare to assert that the members of the Society of Friends are deprived of the graces that the sacraments represent? The angel went down at regular times into the pool, and whosoever stepped in first after the troubling of the waters was made whole; but our Lord directly healed the paralytic who could not step in (John 5). This does not mean that a man could disregard, or slight, or despise, the channels of grace offered by the Church without endangering his soul. It means that no externals, however useful, are necessary to God, in the absolute sense of this word, and that there is no institution, however sacred, which God cannot dispense with” (in Exploring Christian Spirituality: An Ecumenical Reader, edited by Kenneth J. Collins, Baker, 2000, p. 115).

I feel affirmed in my own faith and renewed in the conviction that one of the callings of Friends is to give witness to the truth of the spiritual reality of the sacraments and God’s ultimate independence of any external means.

On reading the Bible aloud

2010-05-31T10:50:00.000-07:00

A description from Alan Patton’s novel, Cry the Beloved Country (1942)

“Msimangu opened the book, and read to them first from the book. And Kumalo had not known that his friend had such a voice. For the voice was of gold, and the voice had love for the words it was reading. The voice shook and beat and trembled, not as the voice of an old man shakes and beats and trembles, nor as a leaf shakes and beats and trembles, but as a deep bell when it is struck. For it was not only a voice of gold, but it was the voice of a man whose heart was golden, reading from a book of golden words. And the people were silent, and Kumalo was silent, for when are three such things found in one place together?”

Cute

2010-05-22T07:06:00.000-07:00

Something strange happened to me recently in the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport. It was one of those little incidents that is no big deal, really, but that goes on tickling the brain for weeks afterward. My brain has now been tickled to the point that I need to write.

Hal and I were on our way to a Miami meeting of the academic council of the program we work with. We had a two hour layover in Dallas right at lunch time. Although I try to eat healthy food, even on trips, I occasionally I get the urge for a hamburger, fries, and coke. (This is a confession.) I knew of a place in the airport that serves gourmet hamburgers and I managed to talk Hal into it.

We found a table in the crowded mall and slowly ate our burgers, thoroughly enjoying this slightly sinful luxury. We were not too aware of the people around us, but as we got up to leave the restaurant, a young couple at a nearby table stopped us, and said, “You guys are so cute! How long have you been together?”

I managed to mumble, “Oh, about 43 years,” and Hal added, “We really like each other.” “We can tell,” the woman said, and we moved on.

But I was stunned and not altogether pleased. It seemed like something one said to wrinkled people with white hair who hobble down the street holding hands. And who are, indeed, cute. I know I’m growing older, but I don’t think I’m ready for cute.

There was a time, of course, when cute mattered. I was a serious adolescent, a student, a reader of Great Literature, a poet, and so on. But in my heart of hearts I longed to be a cheer leader, go steady, and be considered cute.

Thanks be to God, I outgrew it. As an adult cute ceased to occupy a place on my list of values (except for the time when, as a young mother, I was relieved that my babies were cute). I haven’t worried about cute in years, and I certainly don’t want to now.

I guess this is really about growing older and accepting this season in life. I’m not sure how I’m doing with this. I need to admit that as soon as I got home from Miami, I bought some hair color, part of my anti-cute remedy. But this, of course, doesn’t solve anything. I think I just need to confess my dis-ease (what I’m doing here), laugh about it, and focus on what matters. So, what matters? How about—“To do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God”?

Sort of makes cute seem irrelevant.

The grandchildren speak

2010-05-14T07:44:00.000-07:00

Paige

I was sitting in the easy chair a few evenings ago
when Paige, pajamed, brushed, and smelling of toothpaste,
came over, placed her hands on my knees, put her face
up into mine, and purred, "I won't ever kill
you, 'cause you're my favorite grandma."
Thank God. One less thing to worry about.

Reilly

Saturday. Bad day right from the start.
"No! I don't want to get up!"
"No! I don't want to stay in bed!"
"Cheerios? Yuck!
“Mom! Make Paige give that to me! It’s my robot!”
A general no to everything.
And then it happened. A gigantic wet sneeze
left him as surprised as the rest of us.
A brief pause, and tears began rolling down his face.
Kristin, Good Mother, reached out.
“Reilly, what’s wrong?” “When I sneeze,”
he wailed, “my cheeks get cold
and I don’t know how to get them warm again.”
Kristin’s laugh didn’t help.
It’s hard to be six.

Peter

You didn’t talk at all for a long time,
and it warms me that one of your first words
was light, and your first sentence, light on, as you pointed
to the correct spot on the ceiling or toward the window.
Light has always drawn you, even at four months
when the experts pronounced you blind, told us
there was no cure, and we gathered our courage,
began checking out books on Braille.
But now at two you navigate the shores and shoals
of this house with more than your inner compass. You reach
for favorite toys, recognize people before they speak,
and point to pictures in books saying,
“Doggy! Doggy! Woof!” You’ve been promoted to
visually impaired, but we hold the label lightly.
Clearly the lights are on. Sail forth, young Peter.
Show us the way.

Disembodied Quakers?

2010-05-06T06:57:00.000-07:00

Quaker historian Tom Hamm, in the opening session of the QUIP (Quakers United in Publishing) gathering in Indiana last month, suggested that the contemporary outpouring of Quakers on the internet was the 21st century equivalent of the original 17th century “publishers of truth.” Later in the conference Brent Bill reminded us that in the first 50 years of the Quaker movement, over 640 writers put out more than 3000 pamphlets, tracts and books. Today some of our most lively exchanges are on the internet. A good deal of the QUIP conference was devoted to the phenomenon of Quaker blogging. And here I am, trying to join the conversation.

I have my doubts. The university I work for is going online, and I am trying to prepare my course in this new (to me) modality. The teacher in online-course-design is telling us that once we experience this wonder, we will never again want to have a traditional class with people physically present in a room. I think he’s wrong. The almost magical claims about what virtual reality can offer scare me and make me a doubter.

Before the QUIP conference, I received emails from people I didn’t know, and my mind automatically supplied images to match the words. Of course being there in person made all the images disappear. In each case the reality of the person was better than what I had imagined.

I’m reminding myself that face to face encounter doesn’t necessarily guarantee knowing another person. And a lively mental exchange is possible on the internet. Sometimes the virtual exchange is better, for example, in the case of quiet people like me. In a group I don’t always speak up, but online or on the page, I have a voice. I can enter the conversation. I’m reminding myself that all writing is a medium, and part of the challenge of the good writer is to embody what she writes—root it in time and place and the real world. Language itself is a medium.

But still there’s something so good and so concrete about being physically present to another person. Add the smell of fresh bread, the timbre of voice tones (that skype can’t quite replicate), the gestures and expressions that can say more than words, throw in a hug or two, and something real happens.

I’m theologizing now, drawn to the story of the incarnation. God felt the need to become embodied in order to extend salvation to the human race. “He became flesh and dwelled among us and we beheld……” Jesus was a flesh and blood person who got tired, suffered hunger, knew pain, as well as the joys of friendship and family.

But then my back-and-forth mind asks, “What about today?” Jesus is no longer with us in the flesh. We believe he is here among us, speaking to us, leading us, protecting us. I see the Quaker painting, “The Presence in the Midst.” So, does that mean our relationship with Jesus is now virtual?

Again my mind rebels at the label. The term virtual makes relationship seem somehow mechanical, less than wholesome. It makes me wonder about the nature of virtual reality, its strengths and its dangers.

No, our relationship with the living Word is not virtual. As I sit in his presence, he is as real to me as the air I breathe, and our communion is warm and friendly. Sometimes it’s frightening, and I realize how little I really know him. There are times when I can’t emotionally sense his presence at all. But I know that he is there, beyond feeling, thought or word. And not as some virtual reality. As Reality.

It’s significant that the Scriptures speak of the afterlife in terms of a new earth and new heavens. We will have new bodies. I don’t understand this and can barely even imagine it, but a blessed and glorious materiality awaits us. And, with material eyes, we will see the one we are now coming to know.

And so I continue to wait quietly, daily in his presence. And I will continue to explore this new medium, interacting with friends and Friends (and maybe even an enemy or two) over the internet. As I do, I will try to remember that behind the words that float out from cyberspace, there are people with bodies and feelings, with relationships, stories to be told, and destinies to fulfill. In doing so, maybe I can make even blogging a sacramental act.