Finding Our Way to Sunday

April 4, 2015

Holy Week can be a lot of things. It can be a time when people who are not Christians or religious feel sick of seeing things in their Facebook feed about religion. It can be a time to color eggs and get dressed up. It can be our one visit to church this year. It can be a reminder that loss is excruciating and painful. It can be an invitation to remember the kind of lives we are called to, where even when you try to do the right thing, sometimes people betray you and bad things happen. And it can be a reminder that even after bad things happen, there are often ways forward that you we can’t yet imagine, that don’t even seem possible.

Holy Saturday is especially important to me because it reminds me of all the people in the wake of loss, in the midst of unbearable hopelessness. On that Saturday after Jesus was killed, no one knew what was to come. For the disciples, for the people who believed that Jesus could renew faith and perhaps renew the world, for Mary who loved her son so dearly, they sat on that Saturday in anguish. Shock. In the numb that often follows death. It wasn’t yet Holy Saturday. It was just a sad, horrible Saturday for people who thought things were maybe going to be better.

This Saturday, may we not run too quickly to the hope, the stone rolled away, the miracle, and remember all of those people who are sitting in shock, in trauma, in aloneness, and in fear. Who hope that there will be new life, somehow, in the midst of death, but don’t yet see a way. May we remember how important it is to be with folks who are in that long Saturday. Who long for love, who need our care, and who need us to be patient with them and welcoming to them as we all try to find our way to Sunday.

Holy week can be a lot of things. This is the beauty of the incredibly rich Christian tradition. It can be coloring eggs and visits to church once a year, it can be an invitation to live a different life, and it can be a reminder of the rough world we live in and the possibility that it might be different. It can be all these things and a thousand more. I am thankful for a God that wants us all where we are at. Let’s widen that circle. Build a bigger tent. Come in and let’s figure it out together.

Amen amen amen.

p.s. A good book on Holy Saturday is Shelly Rambo’s Spirit and Trauma: A Theology of Remaining.


Sharing a Little Christmas Spirit Love

November 30, 2012

Regular readers of this blog know that have mentored a great group of young men since they were in elementary school (going on 17 years now!). One of the young men and his partner of 7 years and they have three boys ages 10, 5 and 3.  The oldest is the mother’s son from a previous relationship, but the young man I mentor acts as his father and treats him like a son. Both the young man I mentor and his partner lost their minimum wage jobs this year and became homeless, losing all of their possessions because they had no where to put them. They are both now working – the young man since summer and his partner since October and are trying hard to get back on their feet. They rarely ask of anything of me except moral support, but I told them I wanted to help with Christmas. They have good hearts and are defying many statistics – no drugs, no arrests, no abuse, raising children together – but they still face a lot of struggles. I’m working with them and friends to try to get them into a house where they will pay rent, but the owner is willing to work with them on a rent to own plan the next 20 years which is an amazing thing for them and we are also working on GEDs so that they can try to get better jobs – she would like to be a nurse and he loves to cook and would like to work his way up in a kitchen somewhere. They desperately want to provide a better life for their children. I told them I would take care of Christmas (they protest every year, as they are proud, but I insisted). We’ve covered a lot of it and also tried to get donations from friends here who have boys the same age and have extras to give to them. However, since so much was lost in being homeless (they are currently in a precarious, overcrowded situation with extended family) they have a lot of needs. I made an amazon wish list for them here http://amzn.com/w/1D8EO82EXCGS3. There is no pressure AT ALL, however, if you’d like to help out and buy a little thing for them, they and the boys would be very appreciative. I’ll try to deliver everything to them by December 15 or 17.


The Power of Those Smudges

February 24, 2012

I’m just going to be upfront and say that on Tuesday, I looked up Ash Wednesday on Wikipedia. There. I said it. I mean, I knew that it was the start of Lent. Which is the time before Easter. But between the Baptist church I attended as a child, and the two very low-church Methodist churches I went to as a teenager and Campus Crusade for Christ in college and then the whole leaving the church and then becoming Unitarian Universalist and then staying that but also sort of reentering Christianity, let’s just say that the liturgical calendar wasn’t really a big part of my church life. (Who need the liturgical calendar when you are being RADICAL for JESUS and have, like, four Bible studies to go to every week!?)

And, as Nick Cave says, I don’t believe in an interventionist God, so I won’t say that God somehow pulled me to Ash Wednesday services (or [back to] to Christianity for that matter) but if I did believe those things, that is what I would have said about the services I went to yesterday.

Early this week I was thinking about standing outside of divinity school a few years ago, having missed Ash Wednesday services around campus and seeing everyone with the ashes smudged on their heads and asking my friend Nicole what exactly it was all about and sort of musing that I somehow liked it. And dear Nicole reached up on her head and took some of the ashes from her forehead and put a small faint cross on my head with her ashes, telling me that the priest [she is Catholic] says, “From dust you have come, and to dust you shall return.” We talked some about the time before death and resurrection and praying in the desert and burning leaves from Palm Sunday. But what I remember is this power and this feeling and almost like a little collapse inside of me when she gave me some of her ashes. Like, right there, she could perform something sacramental, and I could be a part of things, and a part of this long history of people smudging and praying and confessing and hoping and it didn’t have to be earth shattering or The Great Return to Christianity or The Great Confession of Sin. It was just me and my friend Nicole who is an amazing minister and this moment or more like a washing over me of this circle of life and death and hope and return and leaving and all of it. It was both a big deal and not a big deal.

So at the last minute yesterday I called the local Disciples Church (our Unitarian Universalist church here does not have Ash Wednesday services) to see when their services were. And amid my sweet little son gobbling on his cookie and trying to read me Brown Bear Brown Bear What Do You See?, I was awash again in this flood. I am not sure what it is a flood of, exactly. Of this idea that we are finite, that there always remains hope, that we can begin again, that we are all hurting, that we are invited into a time of reflection and doing things differently, and that this can shape us, and that God is always present. I love our Unitarian Universalist Church here in our new town, but I miss God. For me, I find God in ashes and bread and wine somehow in a unique way that I sort of feel like I need. Who knows why.

What I like somehow is that there are not Answers to be given on Ash Wednesday. At least not how I have experienced it. We are together. We anticipate the crucifixion. We acknowledge our brokenness. We sit together and confess. We sing. We listen. We leave, marked, together, that we are part of the Church. And, in a day, that fades and we are back to our unmarked selves, trying to love, trying to pray, trying not to eat chocolate or whatever other big but really absolutely small thing we’ve decided to do for Lent and we are just praying and waiting and preparing both for something terrible and tragic, yet knowing that only through that can there be new life. For whatever reason, that makes a lot of sense to me right now.


Communion with the Little One

May 10, 2010

So, I was never really one of those moms who was like, “And, the second I saw him and held him in my arms, everything changed. My whole life was different and new and I would do anything for my baby.” This is not to say that I did not love my little cuddle bug A LOT when he was born. I did. I was thrilled to have him and I still am. But, for me, I was pretty much the same person before he was born as after he was born, except with an adorable baby and sleeping much less.

I am also not a mom that is totally awed by all the amazingly wonderful and brilliant things my baby does. Yes, he is really quite cute. And seems to be a bright little bee. But I am pretty low key about him and his magic. I think in a pretty good and healthy way.

I say all of this for two reasons. First, because sometimes I feel like maybe a sucky mom because I don’t run around saying how wonderful life has been since he has been born and how it has changed everything and the sun rises and sets differently and all. I think there is this cult of motherhood that tells women that you have to just love your child and have him or her change your world and it will be immediate and like magic. I think this sets people up to feel pretty terrible when they are in month number six (or in my case, 14) of not sleeping through the night and all of a sudden your house is chaos all the time and you only see your partner in passing while one of you is changing a diaper and the other is… oh, I don’t know… studying for her general exams in October. Anyway, so on Mother’s Day when everyone is crooning about how magic mothers are and how much they love mothers and flowers and roses and all of that, I guess for whatever reason I felt inspired to bring it down a notch for all those moms out there who sometimes wonder if they are doing it right even though the fireworks of love and peace and perfect joy didn’t/don’t go off like they “should.”

The second reason I wrote about all of this is so that the next thing I am about to say about my little toddler boy doesn’t sound like the ultimately cheeziness. That is, it isn’t my style to go around crooning about the boy, so when I say something like how he taught me a really profound lesson, it doesn’t get lumped into the pile of 101 profound and beautiful things my baby did THIS MORNING.

Geez. I did too much lead up to this. I do this in my papers too. I go on and on in the intro setting everything up and then I have two and half sentences of substance to say.

Anyway, our boy loves to drink out of glasses. Sippy cups are okay, but he really prefers to drink either water or apple juice out of the big glasses that are obviously too big for a one year old. But we’re pretty flexible, so we do it even though it often means that when he is done he pulls the glass away pretty fast and the juice or water gets on him or us.

And he has taken to insisting on sharing his drinks, and then tonight, his strawberries. He is insistent – he takes a drink, and then puts the cup to mine or my partner’s mouth in a very insistent way and we take a drink and then he takes another drink. He mushes the strawberries up between his fingers and sort of shoves one in into my mouth, with such a pleased look on his face, and then squishes one up and puts it in his mouth. And somehow this led me to “get” communion in a way I never have before. Regular readers of this blog know I have a highly ambivalent relationship with Christianity and can never decide really if I am Christian or not. And for some reason I have always loved communion – there was something that was so special about it – like this thread that went back throughout my life and childhood and then back throughout time. It felt like a very connecting sort of ritual. Like I was part of something really special. Yet, for the last few years, I never take part because I just feel like I can’t do it until I know more where I stand. This has been sad for me.

Yet, somehow through sharing my apple juice and strawberries with my boy – I got something. This idea of table fellowship. Communion not as some ritual that we do in church – that marks us as in or out – but as joyful sharing of nourishment, in communion with each other. It is an intimate thing to feed and give a drink to someone else. This is why the bread and wine is not sat out on a table for each person to go up and get themselves, but we give it to each other.

I think with a lot of things, the meaning of a moment can’t quite come through so well in words. The sweet smell of my little boy and his juice. His pre-linguistic self knowing that there is something important about me taking a drink and then him and then me and then him. The clear joy and satisfaction he gets from making sure that we are sharing – that we are a team, that in many ways we are one.

It helped me better understand why I am so drawn to communion and miss it so much. Yes, yes, I know there is that whole bread/body, wine/blood thing. But that is for another post. For now, I will commune with my little one, and appreciate what he has to teach me about life and love and faith.


Times of Crisis, Need of Comfort

May 3, 2006


I got off the phone with my mom about a half-hour ago and she told me that hospice says that my grandma will probably only live another few hours or maybe a day. What surprises me a little is how I run back to those religious places in my life that are most comforting even if I’m not even sure I believe them. I want to kneel down and pray. I want to talk to God, not the UU God that I know, that presence that is within us and among us, but my old God that was this big guy with loving arms living up in the clouds. In times of crisis and sadness and just struggle, there is something about going back to that non-intellectual place we were when we were younger. That love of familiarity and that non-complex deity that was just perfect and loving and comforting. I guess the great thing is that the divine can be both of those things. God/dess doesn’t always have to be complex or heady or in need of ten different adjectives (the great mystery, the spirit of life, interbeing…) but the divine is all of those things and more. For me, at least, both simple and complex. Both personal and diffuse. The great thing, theologically, for me about UUism is that we acknowledge that different paths work for different people and that we are all just sort of fumbling toward making sense out of something that is truly beyond words. Beyond our words. It is nice not to have the responsibility or the pressure to systematically develop a theology where it all fits together, that really gets to it all, but to say “This divine, this non-divine, this something, is so great, so loving, so complex, that we simply cannot get all of it at once into language.”

So, Grandma, mother of 12, grandmother to 26, wife to Arnold, devout Catholic, peace, and love, and gratitude to you as you go to that which is beyond our words.


Jesus and I Broke Up

April 23, 2006

I saw the short fiction piece “Jesus and I Broke Up” on Killing the Buddha which describes itself like this: Killing the Buddha is a religion magazine for people made anxious by churches, people embarrassed to be caught in the “spirituality” section of a bookstore, people both hostile and drawn to talk of God.

Anyway, the following little ditty was posted on Killing the Buddha. I’m not sure if it is funny to people who haven’t 1) been Christians or 2) who are sort-of Christian-ish thinking sometimes or 3) have been a part of those church groups where everyone is IN LOVE with Jesus, but since I fall into all three categories, I thought it was hilarious and painful at the same time. Of course, unlike the author, I think I’m pretty comfortable with where I have landed in Unitarian Universalism (maybe he hasn’t heard of us and should visit) but still, I relate so much to that sort of funny/weird relationship with Jesus and Christianity that isn’t one of complete exile, yet looks nothing like it once did. As the author writes, “It’s not the same. Once you’ve called a man Lord of your life it’s hard to demote him to simply an influence.” Enjoy.

Jesus and I Broke Up

What happens when you realize you’re just not that into him?
by Owen Egerton

It’s hard.

Jesus and I broke up. We’d been in a close relationship for about a decade, but it had to end.

“Why’d you split?” friends ask. “You two seemed so happy.”

“He wasn’t who I thought he was,” is my answer.

I should have seen it coming. It started with these little disagreements. Something he’d say would set me off. “And what did you mean by that?” I suppose it’s natural to argue, but he had to be right about everything. It was all black and white for him. In hindsight I can see that these squabbles were the symptoms of a larger problem. I didn’t trust him anymore. Didn’t trust what he said, didn’t trust what he wanted, didn’t trust who he was. Weeks passed with hardly a word between us. Eventually the day came when we both knew. This wasn’t just a rough patch or a dry spell. It was over.

As with any break up, mutual friends choose sides. Usually one half of the couple gets to stay in the group of friends and other has to leave. In this case, I don’t have much of a chance. Friends nod and pat my back, but I can tell they believe the break up is my fault alone. Jesus is innocent.

It’s hard.

I’m often angry. I’d given him the best years of my life. Turned down college parties for Bible studies, passed on spring break flings just to make him happy. Memorized his words. Voted for his candidates.

Other times I miss him so much my chest hurts. It had been love, after all. Not puppy love, but passionate life-changing love. Late night prayers, sharing every thought, every feeling. Trusting him with my life. For over ten years nothing, nothing at all, was more important to me. Now that it’s ended, the void feels nearly as encompassing as the presence once had.

After years of praying “in Jesus’ name” I now find myself not knowing how to pray. What do I call God? How do I connect? I had come to define myself by this relationship. Now that I’m alone, who am I?

It’s hard.

Sometimes I look Jesus up, just for old times’ sake. I can’t lapse back into the old ways, even if I wanted too, but we can hang out. I can learn from his teachings. “But none of that Savior stuff, okay?” I warn him. It’s not the same. Once you’ve called a man Lord of your life it’s hard to demote him to simply an influence.

I’m frighteningly single. At least once a week I hit the religion section of the local bookstore, pick up the first title that catches my eye and take it home. Rumi one night. Buddha the next. I know it sounds cheap, but each time I hope it’s love. It never is. I promise I’ll cherish the book and read it again and again. But I don’t. Instead I leave it on my desk and go back to the bookstore, or, on really bad days, I lock my office door and surf new age web sites.

Don’t get me wrong. I want the benefits of a committed relationship: the security, the depth, the chance to build my life with someone. But I’ve been hurt before. These days when I suspect someone is going to ask that I accept him into my heart, I get the hell out.

It’s hard to be alone. I’ve let go too much to hold what I had, and I hold on too much to grab anything new. It’ll get easier, I’m sure. Time will heal all wounds. Who knows, in ten years maybe I will have forgotten all about him. But some nights are so long, so dark, that I find myself peeling open my old New Testament and flipping to some of my favorite passages.

“Hey Jesus,” I whisper. “How have you been?”

Owen Egerton is a novelist living in Austin, Texas. His fiction has appeared in journals including Puerto del Sol, Tiferet, and Absinthe.