Christianity

In The Screaming 7 Year-Old I wrote:

I cannot help but wonder: Why do I feel so creative, capable and strong and also feel so stuck, inadequate and fragile sometimes?

This question rattles around my whole being these days. I feel the fear of not being good enough seeping into my pores. The anxiety it brings tingles and makes my heart quicken. Hedged in on every side, again I feel both hopeful (creative) and stuck. A coup at my former employer where the one who lies and manipulates was rendered fully empowered has placed me and my co-workers on the unemployment line. I would never have been able to stay, yet I am still profoundly grieving being let go. I look back over the last seven months and wonder at times if making the move there from hospice was really worth it? I also know it gave me so much–I know I was meant to be there. (Even as I do not believe in destiny.) But for such a short period of time? That was it? More than once, I find myself shaking my fists and crying out to God, “But I am on YOUR side!!!”

The last three weeks have been a roller coaster of emotions. Grief. Loss. Pain. Shame. Fear. But these are not the only feelings, and in many ways they are the lesser ones. Mostly I feel hopeful. I feel on the verge. I feel my life spinning in a new direction. I feel ready to take a quantum leap–to move like those ancient reptiles who left behind walking and running for flying! I have absolutely no idea where I will go, what I will do, what will happen. I am fraught with excitement. I just want to read, meet new people, explore, travel, talk with strangers! I do not, however, want to be a chaplain out on the edge with people any longer.

My professional life has been all about walking out onto the edge with people. Trauma, death, disease, crisis, terror, homicide, suicide–these were the daily staple of my work. I dealt in terror. Again and again I walked out to the precipice and met people. I could not “save” them. I could not pull them back from the edge, but I could stand beside them while they teetered on the brink. I could make sure they were not alone. I could make sure God showed up for them because someone came. I could fill in the gaps where it felt God could not be trusted.

I know a great deal about who God is not. God will not rescue you. God will leave the woman to be raped and set on fire. God will not untangle the chord from the baby’s throat–or the parent’s hands. God will not prevent a parent from losing all three of his children in less than five days. God will not stop you from marrying an abusive spouse. God will not make cancer go away. God will not ensure that while you are facing one crisis other ones will not befall you much like dominoes balanced precariously tumbling again and again. God will be silent while the one who works hard never has enough. God will be silent while the one who is mean and destructive wants for nothing.

I know about how God is not a puppet master. I know first hand that loving God does not guarentee you that your baby will live, that you will find the love you seek, or that you will grow up in a home where you are safe. I know God is not in control.

I went to the edge again and again. Why? For one thing, I needed to prove to myself I could go out there and return. For another, I did not want anyone to feel alone there–alone as I had so long ago. I went to learn about how God acts in suffering, and I learned overwhelmingly how God does not act. This knowledge emboldened me. Something had to be done! So, I stood where I thought God ought to be and could not be counted on to show up. I tried to make up for God’s failure–both with me and with others.

Of course, making up for God is not the only story. I found love and peace out on that edge. I found no one ever died without Love making her grand entrance and embracing her child. I found Emmanuel–God with us. I found you can laugh even with the precipice’s jagged rocks cutting your hands, your feet, your side. I found humanity. I found my step-father wanting only the best for me and letting him go into the deep sleep where he can no longer hurt me or anyone else. I found peace. I found understanding. I found hope. But I did not find God.

This may seem odd. To find God’s presence but not God. I can only describe it as feeling the wind on your face, but not actually seeing the storm front that pushed the air upon you.

So now, I am looking for God. I no longer want to pour myself out so completely for others to the point I feel bereft. I want to acknowledge my deep need–my deep longing for others. I feel so terribly isolated these days. The life I dream for myself has a table of friends gathered around it eating, drinking and talking. I eat alone. The life I dream for myself is full of embracing the world I live in and soaking up the creation into the marrow of my bones. I feel landlocked. The life I dream for myself is full of love and family. I am working on accepting that I am more than enough just as I am and look for opportunities to love without abandon.

The funny thing is holding onto these dreams too tightly squeezes the life out of me completely. I feel called to letting go of fear–this is my truest calling. To give up not only the deep anxiety rooted in me from years of scarcity, but to bring it to my core where God is and let God speak to it. To deal with these fears–to draw close to them–I began praying “The Welcoming Prayer” after my Spiritual Director suggested it to me. Here it is:

I let go of my need for safety and security. Welcome.

I let go of my need for power and control. Welcome.

I let go of my need for love and esteem. Welcome

Now, when I feel the horrible panic of “Where do I go from here?” “Who will love me?” “Will there be enough?” “Am I ever good enough?” I pull that fear close in to my heart. I accept it as part of me. I welcome it. Well…I practice welcoming it into my very center. The most amazing thing occurs when it gets in really close. I find the fear dissipating. As I go to sleep the pain, shame, and loss all crowd into bed with me–taunting me. I say, “Welcome.” I rest. My hands are soft and my fists unclenched more these days. These days I find myself whispering to God with anticipation, “Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

As I have been pondering the strange working of my inner child, who at the moment seems to be more of an “outie” than an “innie,” I began to wonder what she looks like. In my mind’s eye, I do not have me at age seven fixed. If anything, I would tell you how I was so much taller than everyone else, awkward, not as pretty, frumpy, and that I had big feet. I set out all my picture boxes and began to look for this girl, only to find a sweet looking beautiful seven year-old with hair the same colour I pay to achieve these days. She looks no different than her friends, although her smile is often more genuine. She seems to laugh from the heart. She does not look frumpy, and by today’s standards rather cute. She does have big feet though–some things never change! Mostly, what I notice about her physically is her eyes. When I was little people would often comment about what big eyes I had–Red Riding Hood style. Here is my formal Seventh Birthday Photograph, where my big eyes really are noticeable:

This is also the same little girl who met a man who would molest her for the first time when he asked her if it was ok to marry her mother. Accepting the molestation went hand-in-hand with the proposal–”I will be your Daddy, and you will let me touch you.” The deep earth shattering need to be loved and accepted by a father after my own real Daddy’s death was met with this bittersweet promise from John. Here are Mother, me and John running through a deluge of birdseed on their wedding day:

Looking at these photographs brings the tears–they flow so easily right now–but these photos also evoke in me a sense of my own strength. I am just a little girl. A sweet lovely child who would write to her Grandmother letters about how her Grandmother was a “doll” and her “very best friend.” This is also the same little girl who stood before her whole congregation with her hands clenched around the microphone and prayed her friend would not die, who laid close to death in the Intensive Care Unit, because she just could not take one more person she loved dying. This little girl ingeniously went away to Summer Camp and made her mother a ceramic dog, given her Mother swore to ANYONE who would listen that her next dog would be ceramic. Jacquie Turner gave her present to her mother, accepted the bestowed gratitude, and then asked, “Now that you have your ceramic dog, can we please get a real one for me?” The Lhaso God would bring her–Mindy–would become her companion and confidant. They would hide together in the closet away from John and snuggle. Is it any wonder having a dog represents life to me still?

gratuitous photo of Emma

This little girl also survived. Can you imagine that? I think now of being harmed in some way, and I do not know how I would make it through except that I know I can because I already did! Somehow–luckily–the gifts of the happy accident of my birth, combined with my lifelong desire to listen to the Still Small Voice of Love inside me, have given me the courage to fight for my life again and again. The most vulnerable and youngest version of me was assaulted in the most vile and vicious ways. And that child–she lived! She fought her way out with the hope–the imagination–that things would change and not always be the same way. She found beautiful ways to express herself, mostly through art. The same love and imagination about God and God’s creativity and love for humanity still beats in my own heart today. She was full of gifts–so am I.

When I look at these photographs of little seven year-old Jacquie Turner I am in awe. This child survived so I might have this precious life I now live. This child survived so I might thrive. This child survived because love is stronger than death–or all of the other ways we seek to destroy ourselves and others. This child survived the best way she knew how, including eating ice cream to try and make John go away and to make the bad feelings go away too. I owe her my very life, so when she is running around on fire and screaming for cupcakes, I understand. I just owe it to her to comfort her with compassion and with honesty, and only every so often a yummy dessert. I owe our future better than just hiding in the closets of my life with Emma, hoping the bad men won’t come and hurt us.

She survived so I could have a real life. I owe her living mine to the fullest.

This little piece is what I presented to my congregation March 30, 2008 for Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. Please check out the American Cancer Society and the Colon Cancer Alliance’s websites for additional information on this “Preventable. Treatable. Beatable.” disease.

Good morning.

The purpose of my coming before you today is threefold:
1. To help engage your imaginations about the ministry I am a part of on your behalf working with those who suspect they have or who do have Colorectal Cancer. I began in January after leaving my work as a hospice chaplain.
2. To talk to you about the importance of routine screenings for colorectal cancer, given March has been Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month.
3. And thirdly, to keep my promise to Pastor Laurie to not talk about the poop too much! Of course numbers one and two are all about the poop!

You know, talking about the poop is what makes being in this church—and in our denomination—unique and special. We try to face our fears when it comes to the tough stuff. I grew up in churches where women were told to deny the call of God on their hears just because of their gender. Yet Congregationalist woman Antoinette Brown was ordained by her congregation in 1853. I stand before you today talking to you as a woman minister because of the witness of this congregation in my life these last 13 years of my membership. I am here because of our willingness to come and reason together about what the faithful life entails for our whole person, and because of our covenant together to support one another when the poop hits the fan!

And at some point, it always does.

My work puts me in contact with people from all over the country dealing with the messiness of life.  Some may call me with simple questions about screening, while others face terribly hard dilemmas about the efficacy of continuing treatment when the colorectal cancer is devouring their liver, their lungs, their body. I counsel people about where God is in their suffering. I hold their story as sacred, even as they struggle to understand how Cancer came to their door. I guide. I educate. I listen. And every single day I stand at the threshold of our failed medical system, and often out of compassion school people without insurance or means on ways to work the system to get screening or treatment. Even as I stand here today, I fear my message will strike a chord in someone who needs to be screened but cannot afford it. “Here, at Coral Gables Congregational Church?” you might ask. For at least six years of my membership here I was one of the millions of Americans living without health insurance. Did you know me then? “So, yes. Even here.”

When we are willing to talk about the poop, we are willing to acknowledge that it is not a problem someone else has “over there” that we might sweep in on our white horses and save them from, but instead we acknowledge that it is right here in our midst. Or as the bestselling children’s book by Taro Gomi points out, “Everyone poops.” And because of that, each one of us here is at risk of developing this terrible disease. That is the bad news, but the good news is that with routine screening—starting at the age of 45 if you are African American or age 50 for everyone else of normal risk—colon cancer can be found before it is—well, cancer. Getting your routine colonoscopy every ten years does not just tell you if you have cancer, but can actually be both preventative and curative if you have polyps or one of the early stages of this disease. Even though colorectal cancer grows slowly, getting it out early helps to ensure that it does not have any time to pierce the wall of the colon and spread, which is most often fatal.

Colorectal cancer is the second leading cause of cancer related deaths among men and women combined—only lung cancer beats it. Yet the only way we see a decrease in deaths is due to screenings. Why don’t people want to get screened? Fear. Dave Barry summarized this fear in a recent essay as, “You don’t want a doctor to stick a tube 17,000 feet up your butt.” And for him, it was only when his younger brother—who did not put off getting screened at 50 like he did—announced that he had colon cancer that Dave finally went to be screened. As Dave pointed out: What if his brother had put it off like he did?  Sadly, he most likely would have had a terminal version of the disease.

The beauty of our faith and our faith community is that we come together to grow to be whole people of God. Whole people. God is still speaking to us, my brothers and sisters, in our day and age with our advances in being able to help prevent this disease. The number one commandment in the Bible—said over 60 times in both the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures—is, “Do not fear.” So I tell you today the same thing, “Do not fear the poop! God will be with you!”

And I will be in Fellowship Hall after the service with brochures and to answer any questions you might have.

Thank you.

Working as a hospital and hospice chaplain over the last eight years, I can trace certain themes I repeatedly hear from my patients and their families. These themes include: questioning of why bad things happen to “good” people; the meaning in suffering; the timeliness or “out-of-time” sense when someone dies; trust issues with the medical community; causality; God’s intervention (or lack there of) in our lives; and the meaning of hope/feelings of despair. You know…the light stuff! The most common spiritual intervention I provide directed at a single place of spiritual suffering centers on the popular myth: “God never gives us more than we can handle.”

I write the word “myth” intentionally because indeed this is just that–a myth. We human beings created this idea out of our own hope that it might be true, but not based on any ancient sacred text we might hold to within either the Jewish or Christian traditions. There is a text in the Christian Scriptures that does have somewhat similar language, so the popular consensus is that it has been misquoted just enough to get the other idea into our popular lexicon. The text comes from I Corinthians 10:13 where the Apostle Paul writes, “No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.” The part that is interesting four our discussion is where he writes, “[God] will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.” I guess we could call this “Biblical Telephone!” One person after another tweaks it just enough that over time we ended up “God never gives us more than we can handle.”

The problem comes from when we go around spouting off this myth as Biblical truth and live our lives by it!  Worse yet, we often tell this to people truly hurting as a way to try and assuage their pain.  Would you feel better to know that when the most horrible pain of your life is upon you–and you feel like you are going insane from not being able to bear it, yet having to anyways–to know that God had allocated this pain for you knowing you could handle it?

Just recently I spoke to a woman on the Helpline I answer who struggled with this notion. She had just been diagnosed as Stage IV, and she was shattered. She endured more grief and loss in the last twelve years than most, and now with hardly any emotional, physical, spiritual, or financial resources must wage war on this horrific disease–after being Stage Zero a couple of years ago and given the “all clear.” In our conversation, the issue of why would God be “giving” her the cancer came up. Why? Because she had been taught (most likely at church!), “God never gives us more than we can handle.” The implication is that God is giving the cancer for some higher purpose. She told me she believes in a loving God, which led me to ask, “Is a loving God then the creator of your heartache?” I reminded my caller–who is a Christian–of Jesus’ own words on the cross, in which he quoted the Psalmist saying, “My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?” I believe those words are the cries of someone who intimately knows what it means to endure much much more than they can handle.

If the ancient Hebrew and/or Christian Scriptures are important to you, let me direct you a gem from Proverbs 18:14: “A man’s spirit sustains him in sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?” I do believe that feeling supported, loved and cared for while we battle the diseases within (and the dis-ease without) help us to heal in body, mind and spirit. This is why it is so important to surround ourselves during our healing journeys with those who can listen and hold the most fragile of moments–those times of despair, anger, hurt and loss–and celebrate with us the moments of life, hope, love and laughter we will experience even with disease. No one can bear our pain or illness for us–in that we are totally alone–but they can carry us while we bear it by carrying our spirit close to their own. Without that, our spirits will be literally crushed, and that is too much to bear.

My encouragement to you today my dear friends is this: God is not the author of our heartache or our broken bodies. We are fragile and live in a fragile world where brokenness is par for the course. God (or Love, if that fits your spirit better) is, however, always wanting to be part of the circle of support cheering us on, believing in our power to create goodness and beauty in a place where there is pain, and encircling us with comfort in the living we are doing right now…even when it is truly more painful than we can bear.

What components make up a “real man?” I hear men talking about not being a “pussy”–i.e. not being a woman–and illuminating the characteristics of being real. These contests often rely more on brawn than the strength of character. You took the dive off the cliff into the ocean’s cool waters. Can you be man enough to leap into a woman’s warm embrace and find solace there? You made the deal of a lifetime. Will you follow-through? You are a good person. Will you live by your word even when it is hard and difficult? Your body can lift the weight of another off the ground. Can you trust another person with your underbelly and know they will not sucker punch you when you are as vulnerable as Atlas?*

I do not think it is easy to be a real man in this unreal world. The weight of the world is firmly placed on men’s shoulders. They bear the burden of protection–physical and financial–from those men and women who utilize their power and brutality to harm the rest of us. Having integrity in the face of a rat race where lying and cheating are expectations, not exceptions, cannot be easy. Working unreal hours must make some men long for the days without electricity, where they were forced to draw up to the fire like Pa Ingalls by seven most nights. How many men do I know who have trouble sleeping? So much to do and so little time. Too much pressure all around to do, to be, to accomplish, to achieve, to surpass. No wonder many of them approach women in much the same manner they would a business deal. What is in it for me?

The so-called Men’s Movement attempts to move men towards a more egalitarian understanding of their gender role in life, while also addressing the often forgotten needs of fathers, the mythology of masculinity, and a reclaiming of it, amongst others. The Promise Keepers charge their followers to adhere to a moral Christian code within the confines of a narrow theology based on misogyny and a broken patriarchy. The gift within the Promise Keepers ideology is its focus on men keeping their word to the women in their lives and calling them to submission to God’s authority over their own self interests. The problem–as is often the case–is whose version of God’s authority wins? The God who smites those he hates? The God who kills the first born children of the enemy? The God who affirms women being seen as chattel? The God who commands colicky babies be smashed against a wall? Or instead will it be the God willing to hang on a tree like so many who are persecuted for their beliefs? Will it be the God of the poor and ill? Will it be the God who calls a woman to lead and not just serve? Will it be the God of Love for all persons, or just the God of persons not unlike themselves?

I see so many men who suffer in this world of flux and responsibility as they seek to rise above the patterns of destruction and disenfranchisement. I cheer them on towards the prize of a life of meaning! I also am cheering one of them on towards finding me, for I know I have the gifts, gumption and giving nature to make a real partnership with someone work. I do not aspire to sucker punch the man of my heart like so many women seem to be doing these days–I know, I keep dating their ex’s. I am so very tired of hearing story after story from men about the inhuman ways women treat them out of spite. Women need to celebrate the beauty and the strength of the men in their lives, and stop with the gender assassination every-time “he” does not do what “she” wants. For myself, I consciously work on never saying “MEN!” in response to some bad thing a particular male person did. I also correct my friends on this point, and name all the singular men of integrity I know–all of whom have an uncommon grace, but are not as rare as some might think.

I, myself, am looking for a man of uncommon grace. After recently finishing Kate Braestrup’s book Here If You Need Me, I felt inspired to articulate ten core qualities he will need to possess. Kate is an Unitarian Universalist minister serving as a Chaplain to the Game Wardens of Maine, and her book speaks of so much of what I find to be meaningful about walking beside people in ordinary and extraordinary ways as a Chaplain. She did not set out on that path, only finding it her calling after her husband died. Towards the end of the book, she writes an amazing passage about a conversation she and her four children have casually one day where they describe what the next man in their lives will be like, having been left hurt and disillusioned by the last. Simple words written by a child’s pencil end up on their fridge, and in time a man fitting those descriptors and so much more comes into all of their lives.

Here are the ten I put on my refrigerator:

1. Funny
2. Integrity
3. Smart
4. No children (or ex-wife)
5. Wants children
6. Willing to go to church
7. Kind hearted
8. Left
9. Serves
10. Active

There are some things, however, I “wish” for but did not make my top ten. Some of them include: rides a bike, reads books, loves dogs, never wears tank tops (click here to find out why), and has a purpose. I think being heterosexual falls into the “goes without saying” category! My friends, The Boys, were quick to point out that they would make the cut on my wishes and needs lists, but alas given they are Gay, they would N.O.T! That is the funny thing about lists, they are just starting off places. I am not looking for anything in anyone I do not have to offer, and I am more than mere words on a page. He must be too.

As I look over the list, I find myself surprised that Plant Geek was really the one person I dated who fit these the very best. And The Bean? He turned out to be 60% Guy. No thank you. I want my 100% Man, with all the surprises of what else makes him unique and special meted out along the way. This is what will make him real to me in the end–the aspects I cannot define but will cherish through the joy of knowing him. And in the meantime, I continue to focus on the joy of being me in the world and on the places I need to grow and change. I have a”little life left in me yet.”

Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman’s work,
This woman’s world.
Ooh, it’s hard on the man,
Now his part is over.
Now starts the craft of the father.

I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking

Of all the things I should’ve said,
That I never said.
All the things we should’ve done,
Though we never did.
All the things I should’ve given,
But I didn’t.

Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.

Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.**

*”Farnese Atlas” Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, Naples, Italy

The image and idea of the tenderness of men–like Atlas–comes from Norah Vincent’s amazing book Self Made Man.

** From Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work.”

I wrote the following prayer for “Seminarian Sunday” at my home congregation,

Coral Gables Congregational Church.

Today we come together to not only draw closer to the Source of Love—God—but also to one another. Inspired by this love, some of us have made the journey from the pew to the pulpit. For me, it was one of the hardest and loneliest journeys I ever made; it was also one of the most significant, beautiful and amazing journeys. I can remember being on this very chancel surrounded by more love than I had ever experienced in my whole life–many of you were there. Isn’t it amazing how life is like that? The bitter makes the sweet all that much more meaningful and rich.

Maybe you too have been on a journey like this—from student to teacher, from child to parent, from employee to employer, from caretaker to the one cared for, from married to single or single to married, from healthy to ill, or experienced the renewal of your body following an illness. All of us move from moth to butterfly. The ebb and flow of life continually has us in its grip, smoothing out our rough edges, sloughing away our dirt and grime, shaping us. So, as we pray today, let us pray for all of those on the lonely road of transition and transformation.

Loving God, you know us by heart. You know when we rise and when we fall. From far away you see our hearts and tenderly cradle us in your arms of comfort and rest. Even when we long for touch, connection, and love—we are not alone. You are with us. Hear our prayer.

We pray for all those who hear you asking, “Whom shall I send?” Help us to bravely venture forward and say, “Here I am Lord, send me.” May we hear you whispering in our ears to love your children more fully today.

We pray for all those who sacrifice the prestige, wealth and comfort they see their peers obtain in order to humble themselves before the hurting world. Be with them and all who sacrifice their comfort for your good.

We pray for those who fear paying their bills, feeding their family, getting the car fixed, or losing their home. You have given us enough resources and the creativity to take care of one another—help us to let go of our greed so everyone has what they need.

We pray for those who feel isolated and alone as they struggle to transform their body, their mind, their heart, their spirit. Change is never easy, but it is always constant in our lives. Change hurts, and pain is so isolating—even from you dear God. May your hand place a healing balm in our lives and may we feel carried by those who love us.

We pray for those facing a spiritual crisis today, trying to sort out the facts from the mythology, the truth from the minutia, the hope from the despair. May your cloud by day and fire by night illuminate our path and help us come to a place of imagination in what is possible and acceptance in the beauty of the questions.

We pray for those who are looking today for the face of God—waiting expectantly for just one person to listen, care, be tender, forgive, understand or hold. May we be your face of unconditional love in the world.

We pray for transformation, sweet Jesus. We pray to be made new. Come and see the deepest part of our hearts, and revive us so we might be strengthened to love again today. Hear our prayer.

Amen.

My Dear Faithful Reader,

We have come to the first anniversary of my blog. First of all, thank you so very much for the affirmation of reading my blog (some of you more than my own Mama!) and sharing with me the places my writing touched you and your story. I must say I am rather surprised by all of this! What started as a way to post photos of my then six week-old puppy Emma–who was still living with her Birth Mother at the time–transformed into something I never expected. I grieved the loss of a meaningful relationship. I worked through much of what it meant for me to work as a hospice chaplain. I highlighted the hilarities of my dating life. And, most importantly, I educated you on men in tank tops!

Given Top Ten Lists are so passe I say, “Nine is Fine!” Here are my favourite nine posts from this last year:

9. I Heart Atheists! This post is dedicated to my patient “Hank,” of whom I wrote. I am glad he is no longer struggling to breathe or to find love.

8. Posting My Big Secret This post received the most private email because people were worried about me. In many ways it was the hardest to write. I reveled an important secret, and in so doing found a way to tell my closest and dearest just how much despair (my definition of anti-hope) I felt following the break-up. This post continues to have meaning for me due to my continuing love of Post Secret, and because I hope by exposing my pain–even as a minister–others fearing the only way through is out might feel comforted.

7. I’m Coming Out: Jesus Know About My Vibrator The year’s most embarrassing and second funniest post. I still cringe when people ask me for my website address thinking about them reading this particular post. Of course this is exactly why it is on this list–I am a glutton for embarrassing myself on this blog with the bitter truth. For the record–and thankfully–I have had sex since I wrote this post! (Once.)

6. The Whispering God Where is God when bad things happen to good people? In part, this post contains my answer to this question and my own thinking about God’s intervention–and lack there of–in our lives.

5. 40 Reasons I Make A Great Girlfriend (and her evil twin 40 Reason I Will Drive You Crazy & Am Not Perfect) This was so much fun, and I met my friend in Austria through putting up the “Great Girlfriend” list on craigslist.

4. A Rose Garden Relationship I continue to think about what I wrote in this post. If there is such a thing as your own writing being a gift to you, it would be this post. I feel it helped me clarify what relationship values continue to remain important to me and also what I ultimately have to offer all of my relationships, including the one I have with myself.

3. You Play, You Pay This post about my prayer for my Aunt Charlyne to come to terms with her cancer and still remains at the forefront of my thinking about her. She finished her second round of chemo, and she will find out next week the results of her latest PET scan. She told us at Christmas she feels the cancer is spreading.  All my work with patients has taught me our bodies tell us the truth–even long before the tests and doctors do–so I cannot help but wonder if hers is telling her a truth now. I do not know what will happen with her body, but I know she will be surrounded by love regardless of the outcome. This is what matters most.

2. Tank Top Wearing Man Candy? The single funniest thing I have ever written! I cannot see a man in a tank top without thinking: “Baby, if you only knew how I felt about THAT!” If you love it too, please go out to Urban Dictionary and suggest “The Tribble Factor” for a word/definition.

1. The Mango Tree My homage to my father and the continuing bonds of love death cannot separate us from and how these bonds continue to inform our present and propel us into our future.

Here is to a wonderful Year Two!

I am applying to Vanderbilt’s Graduate Department of Religion, and today finalized my application. W00T! (Which, is now officially a word.) Here is my Statement of Purpose, a.k.a. why the heck I would want to subject myself to more education and debt:

In order to understand why I am applying to Vanderbilt’s Graduate Religion Department’s program in Religion, Psychology, and Culture, I must first paint for you the two important intersections of my life these last eighteen months. The first road began when I started dating an atheist. Yes, once upon a time an atheist and a minister met and fell for each other. Despite the curious rumblings of friends and family, he proved to be the one person (thus far) most similar to me when it came to the questioning the role of religion in society, the individuality of the faith story/existential quandary, and the core essence of spirituality, namely curiosity. We asked similar questions, and while we fell to either side of a dividing line due to differing conclusions, we could easily reach the other one over that line.

Our conversations awoke a deep need and desire in me to discuss the fragile and hurting world through the lenses of Pastoral Care, with its tenets of “being” and “healing,” and logic. I had already read Rabbi Lerner’s The Left Hand of God, but he pushed me to read Neo-Atheists such as Harris, Hitchens, and Dawkins, as well as the economist Naomi Klein and philosopher Jamie Whyte, among others. We began a blog reflecting the core issues we felt must be addressed for the future of humanity. He wanted his voice to be one of reason and science in the face of religiosity and mythology. I wanted mine to be the voice of a servant to the hearts and minds of hurting people with a strong commitment to logic. After we parted ways, I struggled to find ways to continue this conversation. I began my own blog and reworked the one we started. I kept reading. I volunteered and started a chapter of “Drinking Liberally” in order to meet other people to talk with about these things, but these actions are not enough. So, on one hand, I am applying because of a post break-up intellectual void. I need the conversation, discipline, exposure and mentoring only a graduate program can offer me at this point intellectually.

The other trajectory of my life unfolded for me by working as a hospice chaplain. I currently serve as a Home Team Chaplain in a middle to upper-middle class area. My typical patient is over sixty years of age, most likely Jewish or Roman Catholic, married, and retired. Repeatedly I heard the same story of faith narrated to me, and I began to call my patients and their families “The New Agnostics.” [1] I described them as such because regardless of what faith tradition they report historical and familial roots to, their descriptions matched one another. I see three distinct characteristics in this group: 1) A move away from the precepts of their historical religion, while still keeping some limited rituals from the tradition; 2) The centrality of a benign and altruistic God, who is best exemplified by the love of their family and/or friends; and 3) An co-opting of language, ritual, belief, and values specific to traditions other than their own seen as being coherent with their own spirituality. On the whole, they eschew attendance to services, with only some Catholics wanting a ritual visit from a priest—one they almost always have no connection with whatsoever. For example, I provided care to a woman who left Reformed Judaism for Kabbalah, only to not be connected at all but who reported that the two most important factors of her faith were “The Golden Rule and Karma.” Often to my surprise, they have read, seen or otherwise been influenced by the writings of the current Neo-Atheist movement. [2] They disagree, and still believe in “a higher power,” but they keep reading them and report to me the “good points” raised. Paradoxically, when they move away even from this kind of agnosticism and completely abandon their faith, or spirituality it is almost without fail due to the love of family or friends no longer being available to them. The larger systems of community or congregation based social interaction no longer provide “back-up” to their individualized spiritual belief.

By comparison, when I worked in Chicago as the Pastoral Care Resident for the Trauma Department, I saw young men of colour replace their family of origin with their family of choice—namely their gang affiliation. The search for meaning so great, that even in the face of the failure of society as a whole to address the needs of persons of colour—whether that be by the modalities of education, employment, access to services such as healthcare or training—another type of connection was found without regard for its inherent destructive nature. I saw a whole generation eschewing the spirituality of their mothers and grandmothers and a kind of unidentified atheism within them. This was in sharp contrast to the agrarian based spirituality I encountered in North Carolina regardless of economic or educational background. In other words, the types of spiritual crises I minister to has been largely dependent on geographies, economics and education. And within these larger structures of society, fractured, discarded, or amalgamated religious belief emerges.

I firmly believe humanity is at a crossroads where the potential for radical change—if not total abandonment—of our religious systems is imminent. The rise of fundamentalism across the globe speaks to a deep spiritual hunger, as well as an economic and educational famine the whole of humanity must contend with, but especially those of us in the One-Third World. I fully own that my own practice has thus far been limited to those living within the luxuries of the One-Third World, even as they are sometimes impoverished within it. What I see as opportunistic from a Pastoral Care standpoint is the types of interventions we offer as providers are more needed now—on both the individualistic and societal levels—than ever before. While at the same time, I also see a need to rethink these interventions outside of the systematic hermeneutics most seminaries ascribe. I want to be a part of this re-tooling and creation, and I want to be able to both research emerging spiritualities and teach how to provide essential spiritual care that creates an opportunity for genuine healing even in places where traditional religiosity has been abandoned. Let me be clear: I believe religion on the whole has failed, and I want to be a part of the phoenix of faith rising from her ashes.

The esoteric and existential questions posed to me now by my patients and their caregivers require me to “sit Shiva” with the failures of the religions of my patients. As a result, I provide care to people whose spiritual needs are much more difficult to map than ever before. I know my Spiritual Assessment skills are excellent. I even surprised one of my supervisors in Chicago—the inimitable George Fitchett—with the depth of information I garnered from my patients during my Residency! I can see all of the intersections, but my studies have not always prepared me for these emerging spiritualities, and what to do when they are in-fact in crisis. What interventions can be offered when the replacement spirituality no longer works? The emphasis on “being” with those we care for is important, but spiritual care providers are asked profound questions related to meaning. Although I do not believe we ought to answer these outright for those we serve, I do think our active listening, teaching, preaching and other interactions must reflect an understanding of what is at stake for those we care for.

My theological education provided some helps, especially Mary McClintock Fulkerson’s approach to Theology from a perspective of practice and story. Also, I took two spirituality classes with Father Phillip Leach, which I still find invaluable in my own practice but more from the standpoint of self-care than application. Admittedly, I did not study Pastoral Care while in seminary. Finding myself to be a “duck to water” (per Nape Baker, my first Supervisor) during my CPE Internship was a surprise, and my own interests centered more on Medical Ethics at the time than the philosophy of Pastoral Care or Psychology. In fact, as I researched PhD programs while in my CPE Residency at Rush, I looked for programs where by I would be exposed to the theories behind the practices.[3] I am an avid reader, so I have sought out books on my own and read psychological theories on-line, but I see the places where I lack the theory behind the practice. In large part, I believe this program will fill in those gaps and accelerate my own thinking and practice.

I also see the ways these emerging expressions of spiritual thought influence me. For example, so greatly has my own understanding of the need to speak of God without imperatives become that I no longer speak of my own beliefs as being normative, but instead temper with “God is for me…” in all of my interactions and writing. I see the issue of faith and its efficacy impacting my colleagues…oftentimes, ministers—even those from the more progressive traditions—in theological crisis. We are wholly affected by the ponderings of those we care for, but we are not wholly supported in trying to flesh out the implications of these questions on our own spirituality and pastoral care practice. I see ways of negotiating these waters, but often lack the time, training, or resources to work on these dilemmas to benefit my colleagues and myself. One recent success stemmed from teaching my fellow chaplains about how to incorporate Healing Touch modalities into their practices, and it was also taking a course in Healing Touch that led me to seek a PhD program now. I came away from the seminar knowing I needed an opportunity to take my practice to a new level and to be able to offer a wider array of interventions for those I care for. Lastly, I do not think we speak often enough of the manipulative nature of the “helping professions,” which is why I think these issues are not just paramount to those we tend to but also to ourselves. How do we arrive at our own theological clarity (not to be confused with certainty)? For without this we are more susceptible to compassion fatigue, manipulation and the eroding of our own healthy boundaries.

When I am asked why I am applying to Vanderbilt’s PhD program I answer this way: I want to study emerging spiritualities, specifically Neo-Agnostics and Neo-Atheism and the Pastoral Care emergency they generate not only in the types and efficacy of interventions offered, but also the spiritual crisis that can result for the provider when the failures of systematic doctrines are exposed through logic and science. Quite honestly, most people shake their heads and roll their eyes a bit. However, there are the few—especially some of my pastoral care colleagues—who pump their fists up and down and say, “Yes! Yes! We need that!” One such colleague, Paul Veliyathil, who is from India, an avid student of Eastern philosophy and spirituality, and of the Disciples of Christ tradition commented to me when I first began my application process, “You are on the cusp of it all. This is what it is all about, but no one teaches these things or talks so much about them. As long as the conversation continues to only mention emerging spiritualities or give passing reference to the Ancient Eastern Philosophical mindset, we will not be able to provide the type of care needed desperately for our patients and for the world as a whole.” I will admit that his words have been a comfort to me these last three months because it is one thing to be fully convinced that you are on the right track for yourself—it is another to inspire others to support you in that pursuit.

Another person who added an unexpected blessing to my thinking and process is Naomi Klein. She recently spoke at my congregation about her book The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism. I found myself fascinated by her use of narrative language in framing the societal hunger for meaning following a disaster. One of Duke’s many gifts to me has been the theological emphasis of the Divinity School on Narrative Theology. I asked her how she would suppose to offer wide-scale healing when in my own work as a chaplain dealing with individuals in crisis demonstrates just how difficult intentionality towards healing often is. She commented that my question was “brilliant” but that she is more focused on identifying the issues and not on offering the solutions.

I, for one, want to be a part of creatively thinking about healing paradigms and how they might be offered to individuals and communities. As my Spiritual Director in North Carolina once commented to me: “You are called by God once and for all and called by name, but what God will call you to, Jacqueline, will change over time.” I know that I want to first have the opportunity to learn and add more theory to my practice, but I also want to be a part of a wider conversation about how we prepare seminarians for ministry in this ever-evolving world where access to information has created unparalleled spiritual diversity. I hope that at some juncture I will be able to serve in a hospital again, where I would like to do research and work on the application of emergent spiritual models in crisis situations. I also know that my future is unwritten and yet to be explored. I recognize some hurdles in-front of me, including mastery of French, which was not needed on the side of the tracks I grew up on! But I also see an amazing opportunity for me if accepted to Vanderbilt, and an opportunity for Vanderbilt to benefit from my experiences, gifts and enthusiasm.

Respectfully submitted by Rev. Jacqueline Hope Derby

1. I am now familiar with Winifred Gallagher’s book by the same name, but I was not when these thoughts began for me.

2. I realize calling it a “movement” might be seen as a leap, but I really do see an emerging “evangelical” atheist movement. The blog de-conversion.com with its accompanying forum is a good example of the by-products of this movement.

3. I seriously investigated two other similar programs, but in talking to colleagues who attended these institutions and those who attended Vanderbilt, I came away feeling that your program and faculty would be the best fit for me.

I wrote the following about one of the nurses on my team,
as my team nominated her for Nurse Caregiver of the Year at our company.

The road not take is often a lonely road. Fellow travelers are few and far in-between. One goes on passion and commitment even when the body, spirit and mind seem completely spent. Often, only the tender angels of mercy, compassion, gentleness, and love serve as companions for the at times solitary work of our hospice nurses. Where would we be without their unquestioned faithfulness to our patients and families?

Our team—Team 151– wants to raise up the faithfulness of one particular nurse, Wendy T. This year’s theme for our Employee Recognition Awards is the perfect fit for what Wendy exemplifies, in that she always takes the higher road of doing right by her patients and their families. Wendy’s story at our hospice is one of consistency. She is not trying to go and do one extraordinary act for one extra-ordinary situation. She seeks no fame, and in fact is sure to be a bit embarrassed by our accolades. Day-in-and-day-out, Wendy gives the same tender and intelligent care to ALL of the patients and families she serves. The only complaints from her patients come when she has the audacity to be on vacation, and they miss her terribly! She makes that much of a difference in their lives.

The impact Wendy has begins with the trust she establishes. Being a hospice nurse with us for over 15 years gives her a depth of experience families and patients lean into. They know she has been in this space before and is not learning on the fly how to care for their beloved. That being said, Wendy’s openness to learn new ways to medically intercede for our patients, her flexibility to try new things, and her willingness to embrace the whole of the Inter-disciplinary Team’s expertise exemplify why she can be trusted implicitly. She uses the depth and breath of her practice as a nurse to give roots to her work, just as she reaches above and beyond her comfort zone to capture any intervention that might soothe a troubled patient. And she is also faithful to always call the family of her patients following their death to reassure a troubled heart, offer her support to them, and listen to them as they process both the death and the care we extended.

In the Christian Scriptures there is a passage written to the church in Thessalonica by the Apostle Paul where he speaks of being “gentle…like a nurse” when he visited them. Here is that passage re-written to speak of the way Wendy works on our behalf:

As God as our witness, she never comes with words of flattery or with a pretext of any kind, nor does she seek praise from anyone. Although she could make demands given her seniority and expertise, she does not. Instead, she is gentle amongst all, like a nurse tenderly caring for her own children. So deeply does she care that she is determined to share with all those she touches not only the healing balm of palliative care, but also her own self, because each and every patient and family has become so very dear to her.

By mixing in the good milk of her own life with the vulnerable hunger of those we tend to, Wendy gives of her very self to all. She creates bridges between herself and her patients by opening up and showing her own tender places of loss so they know a fellow sojourner is with them on the last important days of their life journey. If all roads lead to hospice, then the dedication, passion, skill, expertise and compassion of our employees must be honored, for our company does not exist without our faithful workers. We raise up our colleague and friend, Wendy T., because she is faithful to walk this journey in our name for the patients and families, even when it requires her to be on the solitary road not taken. Please join us in honoring her fidelity to all we say we hold dear and seek to embody, for she is already accomplishing these values daily.

I often think of the themes in my life as acting like boomerangs. Something may happen to me–a great pain or loss–that sends out the very best of me scatted against the wind, but eventually they all return to their rightful home within me. This last year has been full of this kind of scattering, and if you have ever read my blog, you know what I am talking about. A year of more challenges and stress than my body, mind or spirit could handle, and a heart so broken I thought it was beyond repair for most of this year.

Now there is just something about a list that I dearly love. Lists organize my life! I have running lists for the things I need, the things I want to accomplish (like having more sex in the coming year–twice in 12 months is just not enough!!!), lists of places I want to experience, lists of problems I am facing, and, well, the list goes on and on and on… This blog has been full of some great lists:

• A list of my experiences right up to my blindsided break-up: Post-Mortem: My November
• A list of the reasons why I am a good girlfriend: 40 Reasons I Make a Good Girlfriend
• A list of all diseases, losses and freak-outs of the last year: The Stress Mess
• A list of why I don’t trust men in tank tops (and my personal favourite post): Tank Top Wearing Man Candy?
• Not to mention the list of all the men I loved before (go on and hum it, you know you want to): The Dating Game

So in honor of my little list making fetish, I offer up on my one-year anniversary since this unbelievable year began with my emergency root canal the following list of all my gratitude for what this last year gave me–in no particular order:

1. My Ordination. This day was full of more love than I could have ever imagined, and I have drawn deeply from those waters this year.
2. Surviving This Year! If you read “Posting My Big Secret” and “Shift Change” you know that this is an ACCOMPLISHMENT all by itself! Not only do I feel I survived, but I feel stronger, happier and more at peace with who I am than at any other point in my life.
3. EMMA! Gotta love Miss Puppy Girl. She is my joy. We have really fallen in love these last few months, especially after her mean cousin Morgan left! Morgan, my niece, is part of the Puppy Gestapo. Her departure turned on the “My Mommie is not a meanine.” light over Emma’s head. Plus, she is FINALLY growing up…a little bit. She still has to wear a leash in the house–all the better to catch her and take my stolen bra out of her mouth with!!

   

4. Paparazzo. I have said it before, and I will say it again: I do not know how I would have made it through without him. I tease him that he is always “pulling my pigtails,” i.e. driving me nuts just because he can. Yesterday morning while doing crunches on the living room floor, Emma bit my ponytail and pulled hard. The more I would go to stop her the more she would pull. I ended up in a pool of tears and laughter! No wonder the two of them love each other so much–they are cut from the same cloth!
5. Casa Derby. I lived for 2.5 years without my own belongings, so coming home in February filled my heart in ways I cannot even describe. I missed my Red Turkey Rug! I missed my books, music, bed, sofa and enough dishes to host a party for an army. How sweet it is to be home again. Moving home also brought new friends and neighbours. They met me mid Apocalypse and adopted me straight away. I needed the affirmation of new friends, and so I am grateful the latest incarnation of Casa Derby came with some.
6. My Mama and My Sista. These two continue to show me love, love, love, even when I am only full of fear and despair.
7. My Work and Team. I get unbelievable joy knowing I am doing the kind of work that crosses the religious divide and finds people right where they are and ministers to their hurting hearts in that place. My patients and their families are my teachers, and I value their lessons. Ministering to my atheist patient this year, and the work in general, has given me my inspiration as I apply to Vanderbilt’s PhD program. I also have a wonderful team to work with, but especially my manager, my social worker, my secretary, and my nurses Wendy and Lisa. They all make each day a worthy sacrifice. (Trust me! At what I make, the word “sacrifice” is perfect.)
8. My Bereavement Group. If I ever have a friend go through a crushing break-up, I will immediately buy them Alan Wolfelt’s book Understanding Your Grief: Ten Essential Touchstones for Finding Hope and Healing Your Heart . Working through this book with my group, and the group’s grieving processes in general, helped me to identify that what happened to me was just the normal grief one experiences when someone you love dies. I suddenly no longer felt so isolated in my grieving, and listening to them give voice to their mourning, gave me an opportunity to accept my own. Once I got that the person I knew and loved did in fact die–metaphorically and literally, in as much as that person was no longer real or real in my life–I could finally find the courage to accept the past as it was, accept the me that I truly am, and move on towards my own best future.
9. My Bike. My Bike. My Bike. I love my shitty bike, and I am accepting cash donations (through PayPal of course) towards my next ride. It may just be one of the crappiest bikes on the planet for someone to ride 50-70 miles a week on, but she keeps on going strong. I love waving to the guys mowing my golf course at 6:30 in the morning with their headlights shining out in the dark. I love riding with Emma! I just love riding her period. Giant, Specialized and Cannondale may get quite a bit of my internet window shopping, but she gets my attention day-in-and-day-out. I would have gained a TON of weight without the bike given my knee, so I am so appreciative to have this bike even if it is not all that good of one or all that cool. She does what she is supposed to do–for the most part–and I am grateful.
10. My Blogs. Writing has given voice to my despair and to my hope, both of whom are constant partners in my dance of life. The affirmation of my faithful readers and the new friends I have made as a result, gave wings to the fact that I did in fact have a meaningful future without the one I had loved. He and I began a conversation–an important one for me personally and one of importance for the world in which we live–and when it ended abruptly I feared the conversation died too. In working on this blog and Don’t Be A Christian (which will be more fully operational January 2008), I found new partners in that conversation, found I could do it on my own (dammit!!!!), and the impetus to be bold enough to go after a PhD. I was once sent an email from someone wondering if this blog was the beginning of something else because she could sense something brewing in me from my writing. The truth is the blog began as a way to show photos of my new puppy! What it has become astounds me, but I also know it has been central to my healing and to my reaffirmation that indeed my middle name is hope.

There are certain songs that have supported me too, but especially the words to two Bjork songs: The whole of “All is Full of Love.” I keep reminding myself that I am full of love to both give and receive, and although it may not come from the places I expected, it is always right there within me and for me. The other song is “It’s Not Up To You.” The lyrics are amazing. She sings, “I wake up and the day feels broken. I tilt my head. I’m trying to get an angle…if you wake up and the day feels broken, just lean into the crack…notice how it sparkles.” This has been a year of leaning into the crack, and much to my surprise it has sparkled in ways unimaginable last year. Me too. I still sparkle.

With gratitude for the 525,600 minutes of this last unbelievable year,

Rev. Jacqueline Hope Derby

Photo Credit: PAPARAZZO

This week is National Pastoral Care Week, and our theme for this year is “Healing Faith.”  Working with hospice patients daily requires me to think about healing in a different way than “just getting restored to the way one was prior to the illness.”  Death is healing for my patients, and the only way they find it from a physical sense.  I find it amazing how easily we seem to equate healing with “going back.” Why don’t we possess an imagination that a healing would imply more than being “OK,” but instead would mean we are being re-created into a new fullness, being different, and flourishing in that difference?

Being a lover of rationality and logic, and also a girl with a vivid imagination, I must admit that I look for the scientific meaning behind so-called “miracles,”  while open to the amazing web of life that does not always go according to logic.  I am a skeptic…a faith-filled skeptic, but one none the less.  Mostly I am skeptical of any theology that speaks for how God does or does not act in a physical sense in our world.  I have seen the ravages of a theology that emphasizes a God who meddles with the laws of physics born out on suffering families who just cannot understand why that same God won’t meddle for them.   They often say to me while facing head-on the eventual death of their loved one, “We still have hope.”

I trouble these waters because I insist on planting seeds that might grow into a tree.  This tree then can be cut down and a bridge made through their theological quagmire.  Maybe.  I just heard on Monday from a Muslim family these very words, “We still have hope.”  One of the matriarchs of the family is dying from breast cancer, a cancer that has spread all over her body and is literally eating her alive.  Cancer that cannot be treated.  Cancer for which there is no mortal cure.  In the face of this cancer they still have hope, but hope in what?  Her daughter said, “Hope in her being healed.  Hope that she will recover.  Hope.  [She] will not give up on [her mother].”

How sad I am when I hear those I care for speak of anti-hope as being “giving up” on their loved one.  I imagine the patient in a terrible race where all of their supporters leave the sidelines and stop cheering, certain of their defeat.  But is that really what it means to “give up” hope?  No!  It cannot be!  For what they are really saying is that they are so in-love with this person that they cannot even imagine one moment without them present, so they do not even imagine it.  (And would I please stop even mentioning it too!?)  The center of this storm is the reality that at some moment they will indeed need to let go of their fantasy where their loved one is physically healed and restored to the fullness of life they experienced prior to their illness.  But this letting go is not giving up on hope or healing.

When I worked in Trauma, I would often accompany the physicians as they informed families that “there is no more hope.”  Oh the anger of these families being told to stop hoping!   They might has well have been told to stop breathing!  What the doctors wanted to convey was that they had no more medical expertise to offer the injuries and effect the healing.  They would support the body as best they could, and let the body evolve with its injuries as it would.  I would sit with the families and re-frame what hope meant for them at their crossroads of medical reality and faith.  I would tell them of how praying for healing was still a worthy prayer, and that of course they wanted their loved one to be healed and restored to them.  I also told them that healing might not look that way, but instead healing might just be surviving the worst, having their own heart continue to beat, or finding ways to invest in life and love even without this particular person being physically present.  I like to trouble the waters.

When my own father died, I can remember thinking that Jesus stopped loving me because he did not make him well.  It would take me years to come to a place of genuine reconciliation about my own beliefs about who God is and how God acts in order to accept God’s love and Daddy’s death as being co-inhabitants in my reality.   In other words, it took me a long time–and in some ways I continue on this journey–to heal my disappointment in God not being or acting how I thought God would act…or how I think a loving God should act.

Healing disappointment–a common theme for all of us–requires embracing the pain of things not going as we want, or as we need.  Many of us live with not having the most basic of needs, including life itself, met.  It is not fair for the young father to die, the little child, or the constant friend,  but unfair happens frequently.  When I work with my patients and families now, I work with them to heal–and have hope, or an imagination that healing is possible–all of the places the “unfair” has threatened their investment in life, in their spiritual and emotional health, and in their loved ones.  I often hear myself saying, “Although you cannot be healed of your disease, you can–if you intend to–work towards healing your brokenheartedness over all the dis-ease your illness has brought.”

I begin almost every week with my current Bereavement Group in the same manner. “Come and let us intend to heal together.”  Our lives must be totally re-ordered when they become shattered from the loss of someone we love.  We can never expect them to be the same.  If our life was a beautiful and colourful ceramic vase prior to the loss, the loss shattered that vase into a million pieces.  Healing is that work we do where we create a new mosaic with the pieces of the past, mixed into the mortar of our own rock solid existence, and with new aspects and colours we never would have imagined as our old “whole.”  When I think of “Hope in Healing,” it is this place of imagination where the new mosaic is created, where I see God as our greatest encourager in our healing.

God is excellent at creating something amazing out of dust, so I figure I will “seek striving” and “be still” and listen to the voice of the Holy One within my heart whisper direction, comfort, peace, and love into my ear as I watch my own hands create healing in my life.

I am a part of this parade of life.

How about you?

I’m feeling a bit out of breath.
I have been running–you see
trying to find my little band of brothers and sisters
in the crowded throng.
Last night—I could hardly sleep—
the anticipation beat in my chest
like the flurry of a hummingbird’s wings.
Rest eluded me. Frivolous giggles did not.
And so I have come upon you,
my dear sisters and brothers
(for we are all God’s chosen ones)
and with you I wait.

(How long must we wait? Where is our help? Is there someone somewhere who might save us? Who might save us from ourselves? Come quickly, for the whole of the earth groans in waiting. Give birth now to peace and reconciliation before we destroy our gift in greed and fear.)

Oh!

I see the merry band of travelers just up ahead. Let me run to greet them with a holy kiss. May forgiveness, kindness and love pour gently and easily from my heart.

Listen.

We speak both in a hushed and rapid way;
wanting to quickly get in every word of affection and hope,
but also we do not want to miss a single second
of the pageantry unfolding before our very eyes.

We see the divine in each other. We hear the voice of an angel in the one whose lips brush our ear with sweet words of welcome and celebration.

“Join us my sister. Life is blooming all around us. Love is everywhere and in everyone.”

“See there our brother Jesus. See his hands, his feet, his side. All for love. See there our brother Buddha. Hear his wisdom of compassion. All for love. See our sister Peace Pilgrim. Feel her arms of love wrap around you. All for love. See. Taste. Feel. Walk. Drink deep the living waters.”

Despair has no place here. Imagination and hope abound.

Ahh…Listen…

“Let go of the wrongs done to you, and forgive yourself for not being even your own best vision of who you can be. Choose to be, and you will.”

Ahh…Listen…

“May your vision be healed so that you are no longer blind to all those around you. Let hate not be the lens through which you see your life. Let not the fear of ‘us’ or ‘them’ guide your steps. Walk the way of peace, even as you see your duplicitous reflection in the mirror. (Remember we hate that which most closely resembles our own failings.)”

Ahh…Listen…

“May the lies on your lips cease, and the destructive ones in your heart vanish. Look in the eyes of your Mother, your Father and speak with the wisdom of the ages. Have integrity in all you do. Be the change you desire most deeply to see in this fragile world.”

Ahh…Listen…

“Who were you created to be when the happy accident of your birth happened? Tell us your gifts. Show them off! Invest them in our prosperity. We have enough, for look around there is only abundance when we share. Won’t you share your portion with us too so that none of us will starve?”

Ahh…Listen…

What is it that we hear?

Let the Mother say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”
Let the Father say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”
Let my sister say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”
Let my brother say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”
Let all God’s children say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”

Let the love in my heart say, “Love endures forever.”

Amen.

Do you know what “rumination” is? “It means obsessing about problems, about a loss, about any kind of a setback or ambiguity without moving past thought into the realm of action.” (link to article by Ellen McGrath) You know…when you mind spins out of control. My mind is constantly going, but when it spins I can feel the difference in my body. I feel the tilt of the Earth. My thoughts circular, so I just keep looping back to where I started. I get stuck. I feel trapped. Despair overwhelms me.

My recent Healing Touch workshop stopped all the rumination. Somehow–like a hand reaching out and grasping my spinning mind and heart–the healing took hold in me in those gentle moments of comfort and learning. I found silence. I found peace. I found love. I lay on the table, and the latch opened. The spring released. I felt hope again.

The hope seeping into my spirit feels like an in-breaking. A little crack in the wall of helplessness. A shift change. Not a 180 degree turnaround, but a five percent move. These last nine months of my life have been full of noise, and now the volume is finally turned down enough to think, pray and hope again. I feel it in my bones.

When I lay on the table during the different practice sessions, all I felt was love. I would clear my mind, focus on my breath, and love would come to me. I could feel the love towards myself especially. A forgiveness. A prayer of thanksgiving for who I am and the joy I know I bring to life. A gratitude too for all the love in my life. I kept thinking about how much love Paparazzo has given me this year, and how much I love him. He is so beautiful, funny and kind. I thought of my family and how my aunt’s cancer has given us the gift of closeness. We lost some measure of it when my Grandmother died. I thought of my friends and how they encircle me with tenderness and fidelity.

I also thought about work. I realized I am missing out on being creative, and the places where I feel like I can soar creatively speaking seem to also be the places where the system of corporate chaplaincy requires acquiescence. I thought of the love I have for my patients and their families. I told myself, “I forgive you for having such a shitty first year there.” I also realize I cannot serve my call to God and also serve a corporate mindset. I made a promise to myself to stop trying. I still am some days, but then I play a new mantra in my head: “Do what you think is best as a minister, for them and for yourself.” I feel more empowered and much much less angry. I am still working on the fear though.

I did not think of The Bean. Somehow I guess that is important. I recently went over the worst of what he could have or might have done–the cheating, the lying, the pretending–and imagined sitting there hearing a full confession. I said all the hurtful things I could say in my heart and realized they were only directed towards myself. All the feelings of failure were about my not being good enough, and I felt terribly uncomfortable speaking to myself that way. So, I imagined the conversation again, but this time I thought only of loving myself as I am right now. In that imaginary confession my response was understanding. Pity, even. None of it belonged to me any more. Maybe it never did…

I came away from the Healing Touch experience and reached out for some help. I must say I am rather proud of myself on that front! Not easy, but so necessary. I do not feel like I am in it alone, which is always a place of despair for me. In allowing my heart to feel the love of those who support me and believe in me, I decided it would be okay to tell some of them exactly where I am–even the messy parts about wanting and planning to die in January. I cannot even begin to tell you how hard saying those words was, but I did. I said them.

Little changes. My life looks much the same as it did prior to the workshop, but I feel the new trajectory that the five percent shift change brought about. I feel open to all sorts of new possibilities, and I am even going to apply for a PhD program in NashVegas. I may not end up there, but I want to keep the future open to go wherever Love leads. Ah….Love leading me…I guess that is what I got connected back to in those moments of quiet. I know it seems like there was a lot of thinking, but these thoughts all came to me like the smells wafting out from a kitchen. They perfumed the air of my mind.

Here is a favourite quote from the poet Rumi that sums up where my mind and spirit are working to rest right now:

Reason is powerless in the expression of Love. Love alone is capable of revealing the truth of Love and being a Lover. If you want to live, die in Love; die in Love if you want to remain alive.

It is funny…this post has been simmering in my mind this last week and reworked quite a few times. Normally, when I sit down to write I write passionately and furiously. Everything sort of pours out. Not this time. Not now. The change–the letting go–the settling–took the stinger out of it all.

The first time I met a new patient of mine, I found myself surprised to see her sitting outside on the patio given that she is on Continuous Care. We only put you on Continuous Care when you are having medication issues or for immanency, and I heard she was on due to her death being expected shortly. A young woman in her fifties shrivelled from cancer and aged by at least thirty years. The visit with her was short given how easily exhausted she becomes. She fell asleep numerous times while we spoke–even in the middle of sentences–so I sat quietly praying for her and for her daughters.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love my nieces. I will do anything for them. In many ways they contain God’s greatest gift to me. No matter how much they might drive me nuts, I always can come around for them. I just love them–and forgive them and me for our humanness–that much. So when I meet other young women of a similar age, I find my heart picks up the same rhythm it has around Morgan and Piano Girl. For this reason, I offered to come back and speak at a more convenient time to my patient’s twenty-something daughter. I thought about my nieces and what they might need from a chaplain if Sista was dying. And I gave thanks that for at least one more minute I am young and cute (if I do say so myself), which goes a long way in reaching out to someone also young and cute and facing one of the most horrible losses of her life.

I arrived as agreed and met “Stacy” in the parking lot of their complex. Right on time, she came whirrling into the lot in her bright orange sports car. The car fit her personality, at least what I saw of it ever so briefly on my first visit. We went inside and she flitted around like a butterfly on acid ordering Chinese food, talking to her mother, and to our nurse. For a brief moment I thought she was going to cancel our conversation, but finally she looked up at me and asked, “So, where do we do this thing?” We ended up sitting next to each other on the couch and with a rush she began.

“I am really having a hard time. I can’t lose my mom–you know, I kind of still have hope she will pull through this–but I also know in my head that she is going to die. I do not trust anyone. I need help, but I can’t let anyone help me. I push people away. I am really independent like that. I think my sister is going to take a leave of absence and come down. My boyfriend is always trying to help me…but I have to find ways to pay him back. I feel bad if he stays to help me, like he has better things to be doing than helping me with my mom or because I am scared. And my friend from work–well, I pushed her away a couple of weeks ago. I always do that. I have a hard time making friends, especially with girls. I do not trust them. Not that I trust guys, mind you, because they all cheat. I mean my dad–before he died–cheated on my mom. My step-dad too. Every man cheats. I know my boyfriend cannot be trusted. My step-dad beat my mom, but he helped so much financially. She stayed with him because of us. I do not know who to trust or have help, so yes I am young but it is all up to me. That is why I like to help people and want to help people for a living. I am good at that. So, what exactly is it that you can do to help me?”

As I sat there listening to her I felt prepared. I heard this story once before, just with a slightly different cast of characters. At the time, the story was just a personal history. I filed it under “everybody goes through shit” and this is the shit The Bean went through. I look back now and see the signs he would eventually implode, but at the time the story was just that. A story. History. Past tense. Over. Done with. The imploding, however, got my attention as I lay devestated from the nuclear fall-out.

I looked at her ever so softly and asked, “Who was the alchoholic…your mom or your step-father?” The answer: Both of them.

I read a book about Adult Children of Alcoholics after The Bean imploded and left. I paid attention. I saw much of my own family dynamics, and the ways I continue to practice day after day healthier ways of living and relating in the world. I saw just how fucking hard it is, as best I can for someone who did not grow up that way, and how much work it takes to really deal again and again with it as it comes up. I learned some things I shared with this terrified girl, most importantly that being in relationships–especially intimate or fragile ones–wakens the beast of fear and that she did not have to reinvent the wheel to find her way to safety. The path has been walked by many, and they are availible to help her find her way.

When she repeated to me again that she just cannot trust anyone, I gave her the only promise I know: “You can learn to trust yourself, so that when people fail you–and they will because we are all human and make mistakes, even Chaplains– you will trust yourself to get through it and figure it out.”

I sat there so grateful I grew up in some terribly important ways…so grateful all the imploding shit was not just left to rot out me and my heart, but could be used for good somehow. All of a sudden, in one conversation all the pain of this terrible heartbreak was bearable. All of a sudden, I was glad I met The Bean, and I was ready to say that I do not regret meeting him. All of a sudden, everything was okay. All of a sudden, everything came full circle.

Now this is the place where some of my dear readers might be saying to themselves, “Yes. Everything happens for a reason.” I do not believe in that lie. If everything happens for a reason, then The Puppet Master we call fate, or destiny, or God, is intentionally causing terrible things to happen to us in order to teach us a lesson. I posses no freedom of action, just freedom of emotional reaction until I get to whatever reaction this Puppet Master has deemed pleasing to itself. No thank you.

I do, however, believe things happen for the reason we give them. I believe in our limitless creativity, which I think continually surprises God in its joy, love, forgiveness and at times, cruelty. I am the one who can with all the love in the universe take back a thing meant only for my harm and find a way to make it into something life giving for myself or others. I am the one who can invite God into that space to whisper in my ear “potential” when my heart is crying out “impossibility.” I am the one who can forgive, let go, reshape, build anew, and design good things for my life with whatever comes my way. As I said to Stacy, I can trust myself even when others prove untrustworthy.

So, I changed what I wrote about him in The Dating Game.

Here is the old version:

The Bean. Bank Robber, Cynic, Musician, Writer and Atheist. I must admit that he possess lovely qualities: whip-smart, funny, kind, playful, an amazing teacher, generous, fun to be around, reads books, talks about real things, compassionate. Or at least that was The Bean I experienced until his ex-girlfriend called, he went to have dessert until after 2 in the morning, and… Loving him changed me forever and in beautiful ways. I never want losing him to take away those things or change me into someone more cynical, more fearful, and less trusting, but so far, it has. I only want to be my true self–like I was when I met him and with him– regardless of the pain he caused when he left. Although he is the only person I feel I ever really “fell in love with,” none of it remains as sweet as it might of if we had broken-up over not being good together and with integrity. He said, “I only dated you because I was lonely.” I believe this to be true. Unfair. Wrong. But true, even if only in part. Given this, I wish I never met him, which is terribly hard and painful to say, but given the lies my joy was based on, it is also really honest. No one likes to be the fool, even if everybody plays one sometime, so every memory, every thought, every feeling became tainted in one cruel week. As I said, I wish I never met him.

Here is the new:

The Bean. Bank Robber, Cynic, Musician, Writer and Atheist. I must admit that he possess lovely qualities: whip-smart, funny, kind, playful, an amazing teacher, generous, fun to be around, reads books, talks about real things, compassionate. This is The Bean I experienced until he “imploded” (his word). Loving him changed me forever and in beautiful ways. I never want losing him to take away those things or change me into someone more cynical, more fearful, and less trusting, so I have worked very hard and intentionally to not let them. I only want to be my true self–like I was when I met him and with him–because I really like her. She is a good girl. I think I understand now that he did the very best that he could do, and even while it may not have been the very best for himself or for me, it was all he was capable of. The day it ended I told him I remember who he really is. He replied, “I am glad one of us still does because I don’t.” I carry that beautiful, imaginative, kind young man who really gets it in my heart and only want the best for him. I want that for me too. I give us both countless amounts of freedom to find it for ourselves, by ourselves.

Amen. So be it.

A recent post of mine contained the story of the first time I had sex at thirty-one, and some of my complicated past that contributed to the long period of abstinence in my life. I worked on this particular story for over a year given it will appear at the bottom of a photograph of me fifteen feet high in Paris later this year. I worked hard, but I never could seem to capture all of what I wanted. The story is complex for me with many different currents running through.

I was raised in a fairly spiritually conservative environment, although with my stepfather being a physician and Mother being a nurse, science was never downplayed in my home as irrelevant. In fact, quite the opposite was true. I like to joke that although I was not allowed to read anything I considered important during dinner–say, Nancy Drew–my parents would allow the Bible, the Journal of American Medicine, and Science magazine to be read…their only exceptions. They wove together science and Christianity to help teach me about my sexuality. Anatomical drawings on the back of Burger King placemats detailed every falopian tube and prostate gland. “Wait to have sex until you are married in order to be safe,” their spiritual message.

The irony, of course, was the same caring physician sitting across from me and quizzing me about ovulation cycles also went home and molested me day-after-day. A wonderful doctor and a terrible father rolled into one human being. I received all sorts of education from him, some of which I still work to process and heal from. I can remember being in the hospital at twenty-one and seeing my name on the psych unit’s Team Workroom dry erase board. Beside my name were the words “violent abuse.” You’re telling me.

The year of my going into this hospital for three weeks became the major turning point in my whole life. The staff taught me coping skills I still use and practice. I know I would be dead by my own hand without all I learned there. A seminal moment for me came when the therapist working with me took my hands, placed them in my crotch and said, “One day you will want a man to touch you there, and that will be okay.” I did not believe I would ever want to be touched, but I did know I wanted to want to be touched. She lit a match.

The fire of my own sexuality burns within me fifteen years after her words. Christians, ministers, faithful persons, etc. do not talk about these fires unless forced to speak of our own limited understanding of sexuality or when we are trying to put them out in another. How much disconnect and fear have the so-called faithful roused up against homosexuality? I often think the real problem is not with anyone else’s sexuality, but instead the problem lies in our not being able to deal with our own. Christians historically look to scripture to teach them about sexuality, even with its limited understanding of human relationships, genetics, reproduction and the equality of all persons, male, female, trans-gendered, gay, straight, bi-sexual.

I must say I possess a bit of trepidation speaking about my own sexual identity and exploration because of both the shame of being molested and the imposed upon shame of my historic religious tradition. Christians are really bad about making the body and its desires something “ungodly” and despairing anyone who dares to embrace what God gave them. We have whole churches where membership requires a myriad of lies in order to participate. I grew up Southern Baptist, and the inside “joke” is not if there are any gays in the church, but if there are any choir directors who are not. I do not find this funny; I find it tragic and fundamentally against everything I believe following Jesus ought to be about. For me, following Jesus requires that we speak the truth of who we are and practice radical difficult love and inclusion of those in our midst. I cannot help but wonder what amazing things would happen in our congregations if we embraced the GLBT community in such a way as to help their gifts flourish in our midst, instead of insisting they hide their God-given lights under the proveribial bushel/closet?

So, I am coming out. I, Jacqueline Hope Derby–wait!–REVEREND Jacqueline Hope Derby own a vibrator, and I love it. Jesus loves me and my truth. I know the Jesus of “do not fear” would never want shame in any form to fill me because of the truth of who I am. Here is my truth: I am a woman. I am a minister. I am a sexual person. I know my own body. I would not survive sexual dry spells without my vibrator. I am not married, nor have I ever been. I love men and love having sex with them. I chose to do this one at a time and in a relationship. This is me.

Writing this story for my artist friend has pushed me to uncover some old shame left in my heart. In the end, I tossed out the prior version and re-wrote my piece for him. This time I left behind the fear of being “found out” and said just want I really wanted to say. I hope when you read these words you will feel provoked, comforted, inspired, angry, and mostly curious about your own God-given sexual self. Here is the final story that will appear with my picture:

When was the first time I had sex? Was it at seven? Twenty-one? Thirty-one? Thirty-five?

Was it the first time my stepfather molested me? He would tickle me on the outside of my clothed private parts until I would pee all over his hand. As my tiny breasts began to poke out, he would tweak them under my shirt or point to them. He played with me never pushing me to act too much like an adult; it was all a dress-up game in high heels and shorts. His hands ran up my thighs while we watched cartoons.

Did I lose my virginity the first time I had an orgasm? Finding a book on female masturbation the summer I was twenty-one taught me about my body. The book inspired me to explore my own body and sexuality, but I still felt shame. My self-exploration a secret; my sexuality known only to me.

Was it when I first had sex at thirty-one? I still covered my real body with layer upon layer of fat, but I allowed certain parts of me to be seen, touched and explored by a good friend. I kept most of my heart locked away from him though. Sometimes it felt like I was watching us have sex and not really present in the moment. I slept with him because I could and because I knew nothing real and lasting would ever happen between us. He was safe.

Or did I lose my virginity last year when I fell in-love for the first time? Many of the layers of fat gone, I let him touch, taste and see every single inch of my body and my heart. Sometimes sleeping with him would cause me to laugh hysterically, the waves of bliss overwhelming me. At other times, I would cry without understanding the deep wellspring of complicated emotions pouring out. I imagined door-after-door in my locked soul opening up as the pure light of love poured into the rooms and illuminated them. Shame melted away. I found my heart and body capable of things I thought the abuse stole away from me forever.

After six months he left me saying he only dated me because he was lonely. I almost died. Am I a virgin again?

Miss Douglas once asked me, “If you were not a minister, what would you be?” I replied, “A porn director.” As true as this might be from a strictly imaginative standpoint, mostly likely I would have been a doctor…other roads not traveled and all. I also know I would be an Atheist if I was not a Jesus Follower (opposed to being a Christian). Atheism makes sense to me on so many levels, and my spiritual life still includes doubt, questions, ponderings and out-and-out rejection of theism.

And I still possess an image of a loving God whispering in my ear.

Both. And.

“Hank,” a patient of mine, is an Atheist, and we get along famously. He journeyed through periods of Protestantism, then to Jehovah’s Witness while his wife was dying of cancer, and now self-identifies as an Atheist. I know we get along in large part because I never try to move him from his convictions, even as I see his spiritual pain. I also hold him in my heart with great compassion over just how isolated Hank is from the rest of humanity. Hank is not a “Happy Atheist.” Hank is heart and spirit broken.

When I did my Clinical Pastoral Education Residency at Rush University Medical Center, George Fitchett–the Grand Pubah of Spiritual Assessment–supervised me. In a landmark study he conducted with Duke University Medical Center on health care outcomes and spiritual practice, they found those patients who were content with their spiritual path–from “Happy Atheists” to Southern Baptists to Buddhists–had decreased hospital stays and increased outcomes. Health is not affected by affiliation –or lack there of–it only mattered that you were “happy” with your spiritual choices. My Spiritual Assessment of Hank ranks him as “dissatisfied” with his spiritual choices. Highly dissatisfied.

I also do not believe Hank “needs God”–as his nurse does–in order to find the lacking satisfaction. However, I do believe Hank needs to come to terms with his prior vision of whom he believed God to be and his anger that God did not turn out as expected. The fundamental flaw I find in all religions stems from an insistence on having a special revelation about not only the nature of God, but also how God does and does not act in the world. Again and again, we humans–the creators of said religions–set up one another up for failure by claiming unknowable information as not only known, but Divine Truth. What argument can be made against such claims, especially as they are transmuted by various means over centuries into “the inerrant word of God?”

I find so many people these days are what I like to call “The New Agnostics.” People who gaze into the vast universe, see the complexity and beauty, and wonder about an Original Designer, Instigator or Force. This may be why, in part, the masses do not decry Intelligent Design; they suspect it themselves in its most simplistic understanding. (Not to be confused with the political and religious agenda of the Christian Right, in particular, on this front.) These folks are also totally disgusted with the failure of their religions to accept plurality, change, science, women, gays, etc. They leave their religious traditions behind in part but not in full as they seek spiritual connection without the religiosity of their past. “Spiritual, Not Religious” then becomes its own religion of one. I understand this because even as an Ordained Minister I always fill out on-line dating forms as “Spiritual, Not Religious.” I never want to be confused with the dominant perception of what it means to be a Christian.

Of course, there are some like Hank, who abandon their Higher Power all together. I hold no inner issue with this choice, but I question their satisfaction with it when it comes as a result of being disillusioned with other human beings and their perceptions, insistence and hate-mongering in the name of their “God.” I keep reading stories of those dissatisfied with God because of the ridiculous nature and behavior of religions and religious people. Are these the same thing?

I am a fan of logic, and it seems rather illogical to me for anyone to insist on knowing anything concrete about who God is and how God acts in the world or who God is not or how God does not act in the world. The information is simply unknowable. (Read this wonderful “This I Believe” by Bill Nunan.) Will this always be the case? I do not know. I do believe we live in an age where we cannot say with certainty–like in the same way we might assert “2 + 2 = 4″–anything about God at all. Whatever I say, even as a minister, is strictly based on my own inner vision of who God might be and whom God is to me. Get that? Whom God is to me. Period. In fact, I am so passionate about this stance, I will only reflect back to my patients and their loved ones words they use to describe who God is to them. This is why Hank and I get along so well. I never reject his language about who God is not to him.

I want to advocate for Hank to be at peace with his Atheism. Atheism is a reasoned, intelligent and ethical spiritual path for many. I want Hank to be a “Happy Atheist,” but I also know his “unhappy” Atheism is only one small tendril of the pain wrapping itself around his life and choking it out of him, literally. As his Chaplain, I feel my job requires me to try and help Hank make peace with all of the ways life did not turn out how he wanted or needed. All the “doing” of the different religious paths he choose did not earn God’s favour and keep him from harm. His wife is still dead. His children still absent. His addictions still present. Loneliness and isolation being his constant companions. Whatever vision he possessed of God and God’s children failed him, and I desire to walk beside him with compassion (His favourite word for me.). It is the least I can do as his Chaplain, as a minister, as a human being.

I feel part of my job as a Chaplain is to advocate for those I care for to be able to ask the deepest of metaphysical and ontological questions with a member of the clergy. Too often, clergy sit back on the revelations of the past and do not entertain the curiosity and creativity of the present. I do not advocate with my patients a change in their tradition, but instead affirm the ways their spiritual resources give life to their dying and provide curiosity when I witness ways it is not life giving. Mostly, I find I need to “sit Shiva” with those deeply hurt by the certitude of their religious bodies that left them dissatisfied, rejected and cast out from the one place they thought all would be accepted–God’s House.

In the summer of 1977–the summer Daddy died–a mango tree was planted in our back-yard. Dear friends of my family gave the tree to us shortly before they moved back home to India. The father finished his PhD at the University of Miami, so it was not too long after Daddy died that the tree was planted. Their six-year old daughter and I played and attended kindergarten together. I can remember jumping on the mattresses at her house. They sat on the floor, so her mother felt our safety was not endangered! Her home always smelled of warm spices. I can remember being jealous of the pretty red dot her mother painted so carefully on her forehead. I can remember the cool embrace of her mother and father, always so glad to see me come to play. Her parents’ car had rotten floorboards, so you had to hold up your feet. I loved watching the road go by, especially in the rain.

The tree commemorated my friendship with their daughter, Mother’s addiction to mangoes, and Daddy’s life. I can remember the father digging the hole and planting the tree. A small tree, with stakes and ropes to keep it upright. The hole was too big, but my Mother felt it would help the tree to mulch around it, so it was never fully filled in to the top of the hole. Year after year, the best of the table scraps, grass clippings, and refuse went under that tree. Even the dead bunnies from a prolific surprise by my rabbit Baron (who then became “Baroness”) went under this tree. The offerings to the gods never were as thoughtful or as sacred as what we offered our dear mango tree.

When we sold the house ten years later, we still had never tasted one mango off our blessed tree. She never bloomed. Not once.

We sold the house on 100th Street to a Greek Orthodox priest. He invited to his open house to see all the renovations he made to our old home. We walked through the house noting each change, including the central air conditioning we never had. My room was now an office. The interior garden taken out, paved and a big hot tub put in its place. The Buddhas and totems were gone. A huge satellite dish could be seen looming in the back yard. So much change, yet so much the same. We walked through the master bedroom and bath, then the laundry room, which put us at the very back of the patio and overlooking the back-yard. Mother and I saw it at the same time. The mango tree laden with fruit.

Mother turned to me and said, “It is time to go.”

Once upon a time, I dated Plant Geek. Plant Geek is getting a PhD in Horticulture from the University of Florida and works down in South Dade studying Mamey for his dissertation. His adviser went to Costa Rica for six months in 2005. Plant Geek house sat and dog sat in his absence, and this was the time of our dating.

We walked around the yard, moving between all the various fruit trees and plants. What else would you expect from a horticulture professor specializing in tropical fruit?! When we came to one particular mango tree, Plant Geek started to pick some of them off for me and Mother. He always considered himself to be her “Dealer,” given she really is a Mango Junkie. And what a good Dealer! More varieties. More mangoes. Needless to say, Ms. Audrey loved how it worked out that I dated Plant Geek during mango season!

As we stood under the tree, so laden with fruit, I thought of our tree on 100th Street. I told Plant Geek the whole story of our mango tree–even the dead bunnies–and how it never blossomed or gave us fruit. I told him about finding her drooping with fruit just a year later. I wanted to know one thing: Why?

He told me the answer was simple. We had been too good to the tree. Trees need stress in-order to bloom and give off fruit. Reproduction, which is what the fruit is all about to the tree, comes about when the tree gets scared it might die and so it sends forth the fruit to ensure its survival in the next generation. In commercial growing, he told me, they actually use drought and flood to force stress their trees into better production. Our tree never experienced a single stressful moment until we sold the house to a man not quite as dedicated to her nurturing. She did the only thing possible. She freaked out! She brought forth fruit for her survival.

Daddy died thirty years ago today, and his death ushered in a terrible drought in my life. From his death June 28th, 1977 until the one year anniversary, I saw more than some see in a lifetime. Daddy, Grammy, and my best friend from church all died. My sisters came to Mother and told her they never wanted to see us or have anything to do with us again. With them went their husbands, Aunt Clem and Grammy, before she died later in the Fall. Our dinner table went from nine to two in less than one month. I was molested for the first time the following spring when John asked me if he could marry my Mother. You might find this strange, but I do not think being molested was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Losing my family like that has proven to be the most powerful loss of my life.

I see six year-old girls and think about how innocent and little I was. Who of us can process so much loss at one time, let alone a six year-old? I still work at it. I get scared of losing those I love, and as a result, I get scared of loving too much. The place I see this the most is in my intimate relationships, and unfortunately, the only place to work on these fears is in an intimate relationship. I just cannot touch it otherwise. I do not know if I will ever find anyone who can love me through the adjustments…I thought I had, but I was wrong. I pray I do.

In the meantime, I embrace with gratitude all the love wrapping itself around my life. My Mother continues to be such a source of love, affirmation, help and friendship. She is one of my Soul Mates in life. My Sista is too. Who would I be without her? My own biological half-sisters left thirty years ago, but Sista has been in my life for the whole of it. Our blood may not be the same, but our hearts are one. She is my champion, best friend, mentor, and pain in my ass! Love truly is thicker than blood.

I have such amazing and lovely friends. My other soul mate is Tammy Wayne. I can always count on her to remember me, what I love, who I love, and celebrate my life. Paparazzo’s patience may have been pushed to the limits with all the grieving these last six months brought, but he never wavered in his love for me. Harlot never fails to call me. Paulina Ballerina always accepts me. Miss Douglas, Fundraiser, My Best Friend, the list goes on and on. I really do possess more love than I know what to do with from both friends and family. When I was ordained last fall, the most beautiful moment for me came during “The Laying On of Hands.” Being surrounded by all of these loved ones blessing me and my calling to walk beside all of God’s children surpassed any other moment of my life. I felt more love in that one moment than I had ever experienced in my life.

See. My mango tree is laden with fruit.

The year: 1977. I remember First Baptist Church of Seminole was having a church picnic when we arrived to find my Grandmother that Sunday evening. The plan was simple: Leave me with my grandmother for the week, while my parents enjoyed a week to themselves following a terrible year of Daddy being so sick with Myocarditis. He would finally return back to work the following Tuesday, July 5th. He never did.

I wonder now if he realized at all he would never see Miami or our home again. When was the last time he saw my sisters? What did he say? I remember being outside in the bright heat asking for just one more hug before they left Monday morning for Ocala. Daddy said, “Jackie. I will give you a hug when I get back.” Funny how promises not kept stay with us forever…

They drove our truck to Ocala, where they went antiquing and checked into a small inn. A couple owned the place and lived there as well. In the evening, my Aunt Charlyne met them for dinner and a dip in the pool. I see them in my memory now just as I saw them Tuesday morning around nine when Mother sat in Grandmother’s Florida Room and told me every detail. The sky twinkled with stars. The pool glowing against the dark night. Mother in her turquoise bikini, which always made her look more like an Amazon than a sex goddess. Daddy’s tan skin with the greying chest hair. I could see them floating around and laughing. Especially laughing. Aunt Charlyne has the most distinctive low hackle of them all.

After she left, Mother and Daddy went back to their room. Did they make love? I realize children usually try not to think of things, but I know from my own losses how unsettling it feels to look back and realize the last moment you lay with someone skin-to-skin. No one tells you it is going to be the last time. Would I have cherished it more if I had known? Would I have tried to cheat fate and find a sweeter moment to be the last? Who knows what happened for my parents, but that year of illness must have given birth to lonely consequences as the illness took them away from each other physically.

I know he went to the bathroom at some point and returned saying he did not feel well. Mother, being both a nurse and a wife having been through the mill, suggested they go to the hospital. “Jack, after all we have been through, I would feel more comfortable getting you checked out than not.” They dressed, went downstairs to the owners watching television, and they gave them directions to the hospital with best wishes for a speedy return. Daddy was in full cardiac arrest before they got out of the parking lot.

He wanted to drive, but Mother wisely thought this was a ridiculous idea. She also thought she should make a run for the ER, instead of waiting for an ambulance. Racing towards an unknown hospital in an unknown town, she forgot the directions as she leaned over and gave him rescue breaths. Using the truck’s CB, she cried out for help in getting to the hospital. The whole time she massaged his heart with her right hand as best she could.

I can see her with Daddy. Full of panic, yet calm and doing what had to be done. She is at a red light where there is a slight hill in-front of her. She turns the CB station again, unknowingly hitting the police band. A trooper responds. When she tells him where she is, the night sky becomes illuminated with flashing lights. He is just beyond the hill waiting for her, and tells her to run the light as soon as she can. She follows him all the way into the Emergency Room driveway.

This all happened late in the night. The evening shift of nurses, getting off at eleven, were just coming out of the hospital as they pulled up. Three nurses in total. One ran back for a gurney, while the other two took over giving Daddy CPR. One of those nurses stayed with Mother the whole night, even driving her to Aunt Charlyne’s at three o’clock in the morning. I know I think of her when I sit with a family during the wee hours of the morning paying back the universe her kindness in part.

At some point, a doctor came and told Mother what she already knew. Daddy had a massive heart attack. I know she called our pastor, Rev. Reed, in Miami and talked and prayed with he and his wife as she waited. Then, some time after two the doctor came again to say Daddy had another heart attack, they did all they could do, and how sorry he was, but “your husband is dead.”

At Aunt Charlyne’s, they talked and cried and decided to wait until Grandmother got up at six to call her. Why ruin her sleep? She would need her rest in the coming days. Over the years I have pondered my Grandmother going through her morning routine with a lively six year-old running around and knowing my world was about to change forever. How did she hide her tears? How did she feed me breakfast? How did she go for the mail? It came early those days. When it arrived, a package from Mother and Daddy held a little red toy. I ran through the house playing and singing, “My Daddy is going to hug me again when he gets back!” How did she not cry out in anguish?

This was all that happened before Mother arrived without Daddy, sat me down on the love-seat by the steps down to the Florida Room, and told me the story I based my inner movie on exactly what it looked like when Daddy died. This is what happened the day before my world tipped over and changed forever.

I read the following on a blog* recently, and I must say it has me thinking:

Things That Cease To Exist Without Belief In Them:
Homeopathy
Gods (anyone want to make the case for existence of Thor, Zeus, Hera, or Kali?)
Truth
Vampires (Bram Stoker-style, not the clinical pathology of drinking blood)
Hope, Love, Hate, Jealousy…emotions in general, really
Astrology
Spell-casting, Prayer, Divining, and other summons of supernatural powers
Obviously, these examples would anger, annoy, offend, or otherwise put off the majority of people out there. The good reader would question why I would put Vampires and Spell-Casting with Love, Truth, and God.

Well, would not all of the above examples cease to be without someone believing in them? I can go down the list and show that each of these points simply are not “real” in the same way mathematics, gravity, and aloe vera are.

Things That Exist Regardless of Belief:

The wet qualities of water
The elliptical motion of the earth as it orbits around the sun
The Macro- and Micro-evolution of organisms on planet earth.
The efficacy of aloe vera in soothing sunburns
Human Intelligence (and lack thereof, in some individuals)
The dramatic change in the earth’s climate caused by man’s pollution and neglect of their place in nature
Mathematics and all disciplines that stem from it

Now, the idea here is simple (if you haven’t caught on already): the above examples exist whether or not one believes them to exist. I can stop believing in evolution and global climate change, but they still most definitely exist. I can proclaim that I do not believe that pi does not equal 3.14, but it still will. Water is wet, the sky is blue, oceans are deep, etc. These things do not require belief; not believing will not cause water to be like sandpaper, the earth to rotate around the sun in a rectangular pattern, etc.

I think the fundamental problem with this kind of logic is how it requires us to break life apart and segment it into manageable elements. The parts cannot fully describe the whole. To use the water analogy: Water coming out of my sink may be just as wet as the waves crashing down on the beach during a hurricane, but their metaphysical properties are dramatically different. In other words, the wetness of water says nothing about its power for good or destruction. And even as those aspects are “real”–we can see the videos New Orleans post-Katrina or of a barren land and recognize its power–the way the wetness of water gets played out in our lives is best spoken to through our stories of pain, abandonment, terror, fear, love, compassion and heroism.

Love, pain, vision, inspiration, despair (to name a few aspects) may all require “belief” but they also are the required elements of any kind of art form or relationship. If we can only assign value to a “whole” based on assigning scientific proof to its individual parts, what meaning can the whole possibly have? We utilize story, poetry, painting, photography, design, sculpture, music, etc. to capture what is fundamentally important to us as individuals, as groups or as a whole. Where we screw up when we assign “factual value” to these parts in such a way as to empower our ability to harm one another. We do this because we disagree on said value, and when we feel someone else does not posses “right belief,” i.e. agree with us. The illogical loop then begins.

Christianity makes this mistake all the time. The Church Fathers fought with one another from the Book of Acts onward to distill their belief into manageable “facts” on which to hang their faith. Once they agreed, by vote no less, “The Church Proper” became more formed, hierarchical and political. Being able to describe Jesus’ ontology with a creed–The Nicene Creed especially–allowed The Church Proper to mandate “right belief.” If you are a Christian, then you must believe these things to be true in order to meet your membership requirements. In fact, I got a comment at the end of “The Ground Floor” saying…”I thought Christianity was about…” In other words, what I wrote was so counter to the accepted “right belief” the only way to challenge what I said was to point out the contradiction. In essence, the elements of belief have become so dogmatic and static they now stand in for “facts” instead of “personal truth.”

I do not think it is a fluke this guy sets up his argument with math and science in one corner and the religious aspects in another. He is only speaking to the systemic dichotomy The Church Proper has not only worked hard at creating, but also at institutionalizing across the boundaries of church and state, regardless of creed or country. ** Also, as fans of logic know, The Church Proper makes for a perfect target since the elements of right belief include a virgin birth, resurrection from the dead, and young earth creationism. So silly and simplistic to the logical mind, they would be disregarded all together if The Church Proper had not wielded its power for so much evil, then and now. In a world where revelation comes at the hands of scientific discovery and not tablets coming down the mountain, those of us who are not willing to buy into The Church Proper’s insistent decrying of Evolution, let’s say, are outside of “right belief” regardless of whether or not one self identifies as Atheist or Jesus Follower.

The problem in the argument–one he alludes to on his post–is that science may in-fact prove the biological existence of our existential selves…feelings and emotions being his example. Of course this leaves “real” and “provable” as being not only synonyms but exact replicas of one another. I disagree.

I have two schools of thought here: The first is a brief nostalgic ping about the children’s book “The Velveteen Rabbit.” In the end, what made the rabbit real was love. When he was well-worn, shabby, falling apart, stitched back together then he was real. Maybe love is not “real” in a Periodic Table of Elements kind of way, but then again maybe it is what makes us real as human beings. In the same way, I do not model my own life after Jesus because of the virgin birth, but because over time being Jesus’ Disciple and following his example of radical love and acceptance has given my life more meaning and made my own capacity to love and forgive greater. I have become “more real” in the way of the Velveteen Rabbit, if not in the way of my cells existing in time and space to any greater or lesser degree.

The second thought centers on the relationship between mathematics and music. Music is fundamentally math. You can use math to distill the elements of a musical piece, and the more complicated the piece the more complicated the math. But you cannot ever use music to describe a theorem. The whole is real in a way beyond the capacity of the elements to describe. For you Trekkie’s, I offer the way Data could learn to play the violin with utter perfection (He is an android, for you non-Trekkie’s.), but he never could capture any one’s imagination and heart with his playing because precision in the elements did not make for breath taking music.

I do not want to live in a world full of “right belief” because it confuses–dangerously–personal experience and truth with facts. But I also do not want to distill the experiences of my life, and the truths they represent to me, into categorical facts. Those facts cannot give meaning to my life, in the same way they have no real power over my spirituality and faith. James William McClendon, the theologian, names these facts “numerical data.” I like his wording here because he supposes that any kind of doctrinal agreement is only about this numerical data and tells us nothing of what it means to experience the love of God or be Jesus’ disciple.***

In the same way, knowing I was born February 28, 1971 at 7:30pm to Audrey and Jack Derby, or that I graduated from Duke Divinity School, or that I was molested as a child, cannot tell you the full story of who I am or what it means to know me and be loved by me. I am my own song, and you must hear it, experience it, let it wash over you, in order to say that you do in fact know the real me. And each listener always has a different take, but these differences cannot take away from who I am or my real existence in the world. The elements of belief may be informed by facts, truths, wishes, desires, but our individual perspective ultimately dictates the picture we experience, in the same way portraits of me by Modigliani, Picasso, Rembrandt or Botticelli would also differ. I am sure I would feel they all captured me, and that they did not.

*blog link

**Note: Christianity is not the only religion good at this, but given it is my own historical tradition, I feel I can only speak to it properly. One of my own personal litmus tests about any spiritual path and its veracity is: Does it allow for plurality and encourage it? If not, I deem it to be “sinful,” i.e. breaking fellowship between persons, self and God.

***I could not find the exact quote, but I am pretty sure it is from his Systematic Theology book.

The following post is dedicated to all the CNA/HHA’s who work selflessly to tend to patients’ most intimate needs, especially the six women on my Hospice Team. I wrote this for their special week of honor.

Feel free to check out my old post “The One Armed Bitch Named Jesus.” I wrote it in honor of them as well.

They are often the first to notice our patients’ decline. Inspecting the gentle folds, mounds, wrinkles, crevices, and colour while caressing back to cleanliness and comfort bodies no longer able to care for themselves. Once, our patients were babies and their Mother held them at her breast and nursed them to life. Now, these gentle women hold them to their breasts of love as they help lay them down gently before the Big Sleep.

They know who has enough love, and who goes gravely without. They know the wives about to lose their minds, and the sons who coo in their fathers’ ear sweet words of assurance. They know who eats. They know who does not. They know when the bladder function begins to fail. They know the secret chocoholics. They know those desperately lonely. They know the ones just plain desperate. They know the most intimate of secrets, and still come and care regardless.

What kind of person wakes up in the morning, smiles at the new day, makes their breakfast and then happily goes to wipe poop off fannies for a living? How can someone do this with such tenderness when even family cannot? Love. Unconditional love for neighbour is the only answer. When they heard The Voice of Love calling and asking, “Whom shall I send to tend to my children who are sick, elderly and dying? Whom will tend the least of these?” they responded, “Here I am; send me.”

Let us bless them, our Certified Nursing Assistants and Home Health Aides, for they bless all of us. They bless us by being on the frontlines of tender care and showing gentleness and grace to all they serve, regardless of who they are, how they act, or the severity of their condition. We bless them today, and always, in the name of the Love they so generously give out of the abundance of their own hearts and lives.

Amen.

I often hear people say, “It is all in God’s hands.” What do you think they mean? I think it often means we no longer know what to do about a terrible problem, so we hope–have an imagination of some sort–God might still intervene and make things right. When God does not make things right the way we think we need, then we often progress to the axiom, “God must know something you don’t know.” I heard this one in the hospital when people died all the time. Often it took the form of: “God must need them in heaven now.” The idea that people die because God needs them in heaven always seems to make me a bit ill. Why would God need them? To sing in the choir? To lay the gold on the streets? To help bring in the harvest? For that matter, why not to teach God how to use the Internet or the joy of the Kama Sutra? The word “ludicrous” comes to mind.

I remember the night my thoughts changed and matured about God’s intervention in the world. At the time, I worked doing twenty-four hour on-call shifts at UNC Hospitals and still attended Duke. The Pastoral Care on-call room was located up on the eighth floor of the Neuroscience Hospital with Carolina Air Care. Air Care tolerated–barely–99% of the chaplains given a particular elder chaplain in a silk robe had mistakenly (???) flashed some of the staff one night. I, however, developed a close relationship with the Peds Team and the bond translated into my not getting the same static as most of the chaplains. The bond became so close, they would just pound on my door to announce the fun time about to begin, instead of waiting for someone to page my ass downstairs to the ER. This night the pounding began before the kid even hit the heli-pad.

The story of how he came to us has been told plenty of times in plenty of places. Drunk kid with sports car given by parents totals the car and his (or her) life in a series of bad decisions. Thinking about him, I still see him being brought out of the helicopter–a hot lift no less (no time to cool the bird due to how bad he was)–and throwing up everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can smell it. I can hear the team moaning and groaning about cleaning all that shit up. The chills come again too…right up my arms and legs. Damn.

His parents come to the hospital. His Daddy had that farm swagger in his cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans. He paced in between going out to our smoking lounge (only in North Carolina). Back and forth. Back and forth. I already knew the news. Having been in the ICU just prior, I knew his son would die soon. No medical interventions would stop the total devastation of his injuries. Brain and body in a race to the death. I sat in a chair watching him pace and listening to him as he spoke to me about God.

“I pray chaplain. I’m praying right now. I keep asking God to help. God is all I have. God is my only hope. God must give me a miracle, otherwise…well, otherwise I do not know what I will do.” He went on, now forgetting my presence, “Oh God! Oh God! No! Help me! Help my son. I cannot bury my son. I won’t. I just won’t. Dear God please! Listen to me. Stop this from happening.”

And then he stopped pacing and stood looking stoic. Ever so slowly he turned and faced me. “If God could stop this from happening now, why not just stop it from happening all together? Where was God when my boy really needed him? You know, out there on that road in the car?” [Now before you go down the path marked, "Your boy drank himself into this problem, sir. No sympathy here buddy;" let us remember his story is not so different from any of ours. We all screw up, and those we love do too.]

So, where was God prior to the boy being on that road and when he was getting loaded? Why did God not intervene?

I completely reject the idea that everything is in God’s hands. If this were to be true, God is a Puppet Master, and we are God’s toys, not God’s children. And children make choices. Right ones. Wrong ones. Indifferent ones. So where is God in my choices, if God is not in correcting or protecting me from my outcomes?

In my vision of God, I see God leaning into the boy’s ear saying, “Son, you know better than this. You have been taught right. Drinking like this and then driving cannot lead to good. Stop now. Don’t get behind the wheel. Let someone else drive. Listen to me. Your safety is important to me. Your life matters.”

We live in a world full of bad luck. Bad luck that just happens, bad luck we work hard to cheat, bad luck we create. I also believe in Immanuel–God with us. Love finds us even in those places where we are sure and wrong, just like when love finds us where we are unsure and right. I believe in the Whispering God cooing in our ear and heart. Can you hear God?

You are my child. I love you. I made you to be human, which can be quite fragile and limited, but also beautiful and capable. I made you to be in my creative image, and I am constantly surprised by what you come up with. Come up with something really beautiful and good today. Come up with a special gift of kindness. Come up with forgiveness where you feel betrayed. Come up with brilliant violet where everyone else expects grey. Come up with laughter instead of hurt feelings. Come up with mercy instead of judgment. Come up with understanding instead of more pressure for yourself or anyone else. Come up with life, not fear. Love. Love. Love, today my child. I know you can do it. I made you that way.

Amen.

I hate feeling powerless. Becoming an adult ought to mean I can take care of myself in the world, but more and more I feel as though no matter what I do, I will always be behind the eight-ball. South Florida is notorious for paying low wages to the Worker Bees and high wages to the Kings of Commerce (some queens, but few). South Florida is also one of the metropolitan areas most affected by the Real Estate Boom and slow-down. As a result, rent prices have also gotten hefty to help cover ridiculous mortgages. Shit! I paid only $47 less to live in one room in some girl’s townhouse (her brass knuckled grill sporting live-in boyfriend came free of charge) than what I paid for a WHOLE TWO BEDROOM APARTMENT in North Carolina!

I bring home about $2650 per month, not counting mileage or on-call money. Let’s look at the break-down, a.k.a. “Why I Am Having A Breakdown:”

$1380 (Rent & Utilities, but only the most basic of cable around here…not even the Weather Channel.)
$470 (Gas & Insurance..and this number is on the rise.)
$200 (Prescriptions, etc…if I filled all of them. Who knew allergies and sensitive skin were so expensive?)
$400 (Student Loans & Credit Card. I still am in deferment for the Big Kahuna–the $120k I owe to Sallie Mae–which would be another $550 per month, consolidated so I finish paying just after Retirement. Also, my credit card debt is under $3200, but that is a doubling since I started this job. The majority of this money goes to school not credit cards, but I still feel totally irresponsible because this number is so high, and because I am not paying the suckers off.)
$100 (Emma: this covers fleas, food, treats, toys, vet visits, hair-cuts and heart worms. Puppy hysterectomies are paid in-full by Nana.)
Grand Total Out-Go = $2550

Wait! What about food, doctor appointments, clothes, hair-dos, tampons, floss, cleaning supplies, dry cleaning, going out with my friends, etc? What about savings, paying off debt, reimbursing Nana for all the emergency help, having money to fix my car, my knee, or my bike? What about birthday gifts, or cards for that matter? I have $100 guaranteed, plus the mileage and on-call money. Last month that came to a whooping $145.83!!! That meant that for four whole weeks I rolled in the pennies for a grand total of $245.83! Can’t beat $81 bucks a week, can you? This is why when I was at Target on Sunday I just about burst into tears that my $85 budget had already been blown by $65 on house-hold stuff before I put the first food item into my cart. I looked over the cart and decided that, yes, toothpaste is indeed a necessity and it would stay. Ditto for the laundry detergent. The other cleaner went back on the shelf. I now had a good $25 (including tax) to blow on food.

And to think my mother wonders why I eat cheese toast all the time?

See, I save my money to eat out with my friends every now and again. I do not want them to know how close I cut it sometimes. I want to feel like I am their equal. I do not want anyone to think of me as being irresponsible, but I know I feel that way. Not because I actually possess this horrible propensity to buy scads of unnecessary items, like toilet paper, but because I cannot make it right now without help from my family. A thirty-six year-old grown-ass woman with a Master’s Degree from Duke (of all places), and I do not make enough money to live on and take care of myself!

I have full-on panic attacks when I need to go to the doctor. Where will the money come from? What if he prescribes something else I cannot fill? You should have seen me crying like a baby over needing new tires in February. Had to call Mama on that. My $40 oil change cost just under a grand by the time all the “do only if my car would not be safe otherwise” things were done. Now I need three weeks salary, plus medical costs (about $6000 total) to get my knee operated on because of a tear in my cartilage from a bad crash off my bike last fall. Oh the fuck well! That will not be happening any time soon. How about just after retirement, when my student loans will be paid off? If Medicare is still around will they cover it or will it be seen as a pre-existing condition? Please email me if you know!

I need to get a second job. Most of the chaplains at my company work other places too. The on-call schedule makes it a real bitch to do, but people manage. You know? Work 60 hours one place and then try and pick up a good 20 or so hours somewhere else. Maybe I am just lazy or unmotivated or a total free-loading daughter, but I DO NOT WANT TO WORK ANOTHER JOB!!!!! (Can you hear me screaming now? Yes? Good!) Here is why: The job I already work really works me body, mind and spirit enough as it is. Sister here has nothing left to give. I need my down time in order to fill my cup, otherwise I cannot do the job I feel called to do. I do not have anything–time or energy–to give to a job I have to do in order to afford to continue to do the job I already have. (Say that three times fast!)

One of my supervisors asked me recently if I still feel called. I must confess the question stung.

I feel like I am giving my very best to my patients and their families. I just feel like my best includes my stressed out, broke off my ass, angrier and angrier by the day, worst too. Angry? Yes. The little vicious cycle of not wanting to get a job to help pay for my life so I can afford to stay at my real job has a cousin: I am A.N.G.R.Y. my family is helping to pay my way to keep me in my job as a chaplain–making all sorts of sacrifices, given we ain’t rich folks–so I can work for a FOR PROFIT COMPANY!!! That’s right. For fucking profit.

I have $20 cash…and less than $20 in the bank at the moment…checking and savings combined. (Thank God for credit, right?) I worked ten hours today going to a death, having smoke blown in my face more than once, did two spiritual assessments, fought for a cancer patient to actually HAVE some pain medicine because the pool nurse took him off given it was making him constipated (all narcotics do) but failed to actually order anything–not even fucking Tylenol–to help the poor dear, run paperwork back to the office, and cram a PB&J down my throat in the fifteen minutes I had to eat lunch all so the Fat Cats at Corporate get richer and can have lunch at Joe’s Stone Crabs (or so I hear).

With one week to go before I get paid, house guests who will be here four of the seven days, and the car on empty, you may wonder to yourself why in the world I would ever work for so little money in a job where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer? Do not feel too bad for me…feel bad for the Aides on my Team. If I can hardly make it, how do they at all? And they have to clean poop for a living!! The truth is that Chaplains do not make living wages on the whole. I would do better–even in my own company–if I lived in Georgia, for instance, where the cost of living is so much less and the company pays about $5k more.

Chaplains are not valued in any way by the majority of people, and money demonstrates this point just as much as anything else. We are seen as superfluous. Who cares that we live in an age full of what I like to call “The New Agnostics.” The New Agnostics hate their churches, synagogues and temples of origin because of the duplicity, abuse, irrational doctrine, disregard for science, and hypocritical nature of the congregants, but have not yet given up on their “Higher Power.” An ecumenical chaplain, like myself, then becomes the Face of God to them as they die and offers a peace they never found within their home congregation. Add to this, we asset protect in the tens of millions of dollars neighbourhood our organizations by being the front-line to listen to complaints, offer validation of feelings, and placate thousands of angry families each year.

But I guess it is still too much to ask that I make enough money to actually eat and buy my allergy medication? I am glad I know how to push that out of my mind when I am holding the hand of a patient telling me how angry she is at God for letting her get so sick, or at a family member insisting we want to kill her mother because we administered pain medicine, which calmed her down enough to begin to let go and die. And in the end, I find my calling in these small moments with my patients and their loved ones. My company cannot pay me to love them, which I do, so I keep on giving all my love away for free, and remind myself that they only pay me to fill out paperwork. Maybe that is why there is so much of it!?

As those of you who follow my blog already know, I have not posted in a bit. No block, just lack of time to edit and post. Here is my sermon from Mother’s Day 2007 that I preached at Church By The Sea, Miami Beach, Florida. The texts for the sermon are Isaiah 54:1-8 and I Thessalonians 2:5-8. I will say that this sermon came from my own current season of barrenness that I continue to work through.

I can still remember the first time our passage in Isaiah grabbed my attention. The year was 1998, and I was finishing up my last semester before getting my Bachelor’s at St. Thomas University. I already knew I would be going to Duke Divinity in the fall, and the only word to describe how I felt about my “calling” and imminent graduate schooling would be “terrified.” I bought a new “Sweet Honey in the Rock” CD and sat at my desk in Dr. Holland’s office—I worked for him—and unwrapped it. I put the disc in my computer and began playing it while reading the liner notes. I became transfixed when I came upon their song “Sing O Barren One.” The song had been written for a friend of Bernice Johnson Reagon for her Ordination service…a service I could not even begin to imagine for myself. I forwarded the disc to the song and heard these words…

Empty and lonely I was
Worthless and useless I felt
Bounded and closed, I wandered
Empty and useless I was

Then I heard the voice
Sing O Barren One
Sing out and cry aloud
Sing O Barren One
Sing out and cry aloud

Have you ever had a moment where you just got it? A moment where you understood? A moment where the Whispering God boomed in your heart and mind and you knew…just knew the most amazing thing?

What did you know? Did you know that you mattered? Did you know love’s sweet kiss for the first time? Did you know you were not alone? Did you know you were doing exactly what you were supposed to do? Did you know that you were going to make it?

In that moment of hearing the song, I heard a promise from God to me. A promise that I would forget the shame of my youth. A promise that my own barrenness(the terrible losses of my father and sisters when I was six; the ugly and awkward years of my youth; the feeling of being a misfit; the failures—for some reason they fail you if you only show up to Oceanography once)—those places where life just seemed to never want to grow—would find new life because “God is my husband.” I knew I would be ordained. I knew I would sing…sing…sing. I remember calling my mother and told her, “God knows me and has called me by name.”

So here we are these many years later, and the moment of discovery of this passage continues to be a moment of promise for me. I began a love affair with it. In my Hebrew Scripture class in seminary, I wrote my final exegesis—just a big fancy word for “studying the heck out of it”—all about these precious eight verses. When leading an adult Advent class, I used them. Again and again, these verses weave themselves into the fabric of my life. They are a part of my own personal “Sacred Text.” They mean so much to me because barrenness is a theme in my life, and honestly, I keep revisiting these places of emptiness…even now.

I offer them up to us today because I think we are in desperate need for their testimony to what our response to barrenness ought to be…

All of my studying these eight verses taught me that the identity of the “Barren One” is Jerusalem. The Israelites freed again from bondage journey back to their holy land, but instead of flowing with milk and honey, she was just a shambled and desolate place. Her children had scattered to the winds of occupation, slavery and brutality. Jerusalem could not be more bare. So our prophet writes to Jerusalem’s scattered refugees calling them home with the promise God will be present to them, no longer abandoning them, and will satisfy their barren longings.

Our sacred texts are full of stories of barren women: Sarah, Hannah, Naomi, Elisabeth and Mary. The imagery central to our understanding of what it means to have hope in the midst of desperate times: Life is possible even where it is not. God will not be discouraged by the death of promises or dreams. Life will find a way. You cannot get more barren than a virgin, so the story of Mary and Jesus became the ultimate retelling of this narrative.

Now we must be careful to not get caught up on technicalities. As I said, I taught from this passage in an adult education class during Advent. The whole first class I listened to quite the debate about the real age of so-called “barrenness” at the time of Jesus! Fortunately for us, the metaphor does not rely on whether or not Elisabeth was 23 or 53, but what does matter is the imagery itself. I offer this to you because I do not want you to sit there and think, “I am a man; what do I know of being barren?” or “I have three kids; I cannot even imagine what that looks like, but I do dream it involves more sleep than I get.” In other words, this barrenness has nothing to do with sperm or eggs or zygotes.

No, this barrenness is about the pain that desolates our lives. It is about abandonment, fear, anger, jealousy, disappointment, loneliness, loss and grief. This is about just plain being a human being hurling through space and feeling it. When were you the most barren?

Did a dream die? Did you find yourself with a regret or two along the way? Did you stop believing in God? Did you feel worthless, empty and alone? Did your friends abandon you? Did your family reject you? Did you lose a job? Did you get your heart broken? Did you have a creative impasse? Did you lose your status, wealth or significance? Did you feel you were just existing?

I know barrenness because I have been fired, broken-up with, a poor seminary student, living with my parents as an adult, and been lost, even after finding my way. Barrenness is not rare, but it is unique in each of our lives. As a hospice chaplain, again and again I hear of the barrenness of being old and slowly dying. I held the hand of a woman 100 years old not too long ago, who expected to die shortly after her 100th birthday. Three months later and she wanted to know of God, “What am I doing here? Why do you let me linger? I should be dead already? What good am I? What purpose is there?” She echoed a sentiment I hear too often, and I said to her what I always say (out of compassion), “I do not know why you have not died yet. I do not know, but I do hear your pain.”

Now some of you might be saying to yourselves, “It just was not her time yet.” Or maybe even, “God must still have had a purpose for her, which is why she was still alive.” The truly brave might even think, “She lived that long so you could talk about her in this sermon!” Don’t get me wrong, I do value the interaction with her, and when she died a few short days later I went to the house afterwards and whispered in her ear, “I am so happy for you.” But being with so many as they die has not given me the secret to why we die when we do or what the full purpose in those “lingering” moments truly is. I only know mystery in that place, but I can clearly see the barrenness hurts us all regardless of gender, age, status or education. Everybody hurts.

Now this is an extreme example, but I highlight it for us because I think part of the natural and normal reaction to barrenness is to ask “WHY?” We feel shame when we are barren, and we feel the need to stand before God and ask why we have been abandoned yet again.

So here we are, full of barrenness and Isaiah calls upon us to do what? Sing and enlarge the place of our tents. Huh? Now in reality Isaiah is making a call to those rebuilding Jerusalem to not be narrow-minded or prejudice. The only way to rebuild is to accept the “mixed multitude” into her gates. The strict boundaries of who was an “innie” versus an “outie” had to be abandoned in order for the city—for life—to flourish. We must abandon the lie of “blood being thicker than water.” As Isaiah tells Israel’s scattered children: We must be open to all in order to flourish, even those we might have rejected before.

For us, the response to barrenness is to be the same: We must open up and prepare for abundance to come to us in people, places and ways we may not be familiar with.

I do not know about you, but when I feel at my utmost worst, preparing for loving in a new way is not exactly what I am planning on (I shut down.)…no, I am planning on a good old fashioned pity party. I will be serving macaroni and cheese and Bryer’s Mint Chip Ice Cream at my pity party. Depending on how bad it is, I will also break out the movies Black Widow, Steel Magnolias, and Die Hard…or if it is really really bad: Titanic. I will buy a moisturizer that promises me that I will look closer to 26 than 36 and new underwear (don’t ask). I will smoke a cigarette—one single cigarette—just to prove that I can do whatever I want! (Pouting included at no extra charge) And I will cry to anyone willing to listen that my life as I know it is over, that God has completely forgotten my name and for that matter is probably dead or never existed. And to think, these are some of the more positive responses to my own barrenness. Worst case scenario? I start wondering why I even exist.

Now, I do not wish to dazzle you with some kind of positive thinking, reverse psychology, actualization voodoo here, although they do have their place. Nor is this about spiritual gymnastics to get God’s favour or intervention. You know? I will enlarge my tents—meaning “I will keep trying God, so you can do your part too.” No. The cost of this kind of discipleship is much much more difficult, and bargaining is not allowed.

Let me read to you again our text from I Thessalonians:

But we were gentle among you, like a nurse tenderly caring for her own children. So deeply do we care for you that we are determined to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own selves, because you have become very dear to us.

The link I see between these two texts is this: Enlarging our tents in the face of unspeakable barrenness is about being willing to share our very selves…like a mother nursing her baby…even when we are starving for love and wholeness. The cure to worthlessness and uselessness is letting another nurse at your very breast, and this is ultimately our Gospel…our “good news.” For what good is it that Jesus suffers with us, if we cannot mix it with the milk of our own lives and offer it to the one who is starving. Much like the old allegory on the difference between heaven and hell: In both, we sit at the banquet table laid out with every possible culinary delight. In both, we sit with our arms in splints unable to feed ourselves. In hell, we sit and starve. In heaven, we feed the one across from us. It is for this reason I selected the line from the Black Eyed Peas’ song “Where Is The Love?;” we live in an age of barrenness.

When we enlarge our tents we open ourselves up to being used by God to tend to others in the very ways we are so desperate to be tended to. Enlarging our tents is about being the very thing we find so lacking in the world. If you look back to the opening passages for your meditation, you will see that I chose the two complimentary passages from Rabbi Hillel and Jesus. One states “do not do” to others what you would not want done to you, and the other “do to others” as you would want for yourself. I must say, I love Jesus’ spin on the commandment because it requires us to be proactive. There is a physicality to “enlarging our tents” not just a mental exercise. This spiritual practice requires preparation and action.

Do you wish you did not have to always eat alone? Set another place at the table and keep inviting until someone accepts. Start a Supper Club. Feed the homeless.

Do you wish traffic was better in Miami? Stop cussing out the guy who cuts you off, listen to your favourite music or ride your bike more.

Do you wish there was more peace in the world? Make-up with your family member you just cannot stand, refuse to gossip, or join Amnesty International.

Do you need love? Mix the milk of your own life with the Good News of God’s unending love for us.

In other words, be the very change you feel is lacking in the world. Enlarge your tent first. For me, these words from Isaiah have served as a panacea to my pain in a way that all the mint chip ice cream in the world just can’t, maybe that is why I am so in-love with them.

Enlarge the site of your tent,
and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out;
do not hold back; lengthen your cords
and strengthen your stakes.
Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed;
do not be discouraged, for you will not suffer disgrace;

You know I have another patient, also a woman, who is nearing her own 100th birthday. This last Christmas Eve she and her husband celebrated their 70th Wedding Anniversary. They survived the War, when so many of their family died in the concentration camps. They too were refugees trying to rebuild their lives in countries so unlike their own. I never hear her ask why she is still alive or say that she is just lingering. In part, I know this is due to the love affair she has with her husband. Their only fear is what will happen when the first one dies—worry for the one left behind. There are pictures on her wall of the dinner with their son and his wife and one other couple from the night of the special anniversary. I asked her recently how they came to be friends with this other couple, thinking they had known each other for a very long time. She told me that a couple of years ago the two couples met in the building where they live, and that in spite of a good 20 year age difference, they quickly became their very best friends. Imagine that…she made a new best friend in her nineties.

She refuses to see herself as “all dried up” and continues to offer the sweet milk of her life to those around her. She is not afraid to enlarge her tent, regardless of her age or disease. What a beautiful example to us all. Amen.

Last week I gave my Hospice Team the Holmes Rahe Stress Scale as a quiz of sorts. Basically, if you score over 300 points you are in danger of being totally stressed out and having health problems. The scale gives a point value to major life events experienced over the last year. Now, you may need to assign a close value to something not exactly put in their terms. For instance, I gave myself a “60″ for my break-up with The Bean. I made this number up given you get 63 for the death of a close family member, and he is still alive to others, but pretty much dead to me (seemed only fitting). Feel free to go out and score yourself, but for fun (trust me–you are going to feel SO good about your life), let’s look at why I scored a whooping 862:

Breaking-up with The Bean: 60

Personal Injury or Illness: 159 (53 x Lyme Disease, Mono, & the Chicken Pox)

Change in the Health of a Family Member: 44 (Aunt Charlyne’s Cancer)

Sexual Difficulties: 39 (I am 36, was a virgin until 31, and keep dating men whose emotional issues impact their libido. In other words, I have not had nearly enough sex.)

Gain a New Family Member: 39 (God love Emma, but a new puppy is w.o.r.k.)

Change in Financial State: 76 (Went from poor to making it back to poor again with my recent move and new puppy.)

Change in Frequency of Arguments: 35 (I feel M.A.D. about the “business” of chaplaincy at work and get all feisty about it all the time.)

Change in Responsibilities at Work: 29 (I should get more given my new job changes our requirements all the time.) 58 (One time for the bull-shit requirement to spend 60% of my week in direct alive patient care, with another 20% minimum working on bereavement. I am not listening to anyone after awhile with over 30 hours required per week, plus four hours of Team Meeting, and driving around over an hour a day, and making appointments, and having to work from home but go to the office to chase paperwork in triplicate, and…well, that is why I gave myself the other 29 points. Constant failure.)

Outstanding Personal Achievement: 56 (Once for being approved for Ordination, and once for the Ordination itself.)

Change in Living Conditions: 50 (Lived with Parental Elements, lived with Biker Girl, living on my own–THANK YOU JESUS!)

Revision of Personal Habits: 24 (I have lost, gained, lost, gained, and now am losing the same fucking 10 pounds.)

Trouble with Boss: 23 (I just know I will be fired any day now for being out of compliance at work–see above–and dread seeing the Supervisors as a result. I just cannot physically keep up, let alone emotionally, so I decided to give myself these points too.)

Change in Working Hours of Conditions: 20 (Wow! What changes!)

Change in Residence: 40 (Moved twice in six months this last year.)

Change in Recreation: 19 (Got back on a bike after 20 years and loved it!)

Change in Church Activities: 19 (The move north has taken me further away from church.)

Minor Loan: 17 (Refinanced with the Bank of Mom.)

Change in Sleeping Habits: 16 (Back to waking up to go see dead people in the middle of the night.)

Change in Eating Habits: 45 (see above personal habits)

Minor Law Violation: 11 (I bumped into a car parked illegally behind mine, but the damage to my insurance has been worse than the $804 in damages to his car.)

Christmas: 12 (Although, I did not celebrate it this year. I just worked and cried my eyes out missing The Bean.)

So, in summary, it is amazing that I am not dead. Plus, they did not factor in being shot at or having to call 911 on your roommate’s ex while he beat some guy at the house. Maybe we should just round my score up to an even 1000? And to think my score would have been under 100 prior to August 2006. In other words, all these life changes happened in the last nine months! Yet here I am, still funny and everything! (At least I think so.)

Yesterday I attended the death of a patient whom I really cared deeply for. Now there is no code at work to put down for when you just feel sad some days because people you care about and care for always die. Shit! This is Hospice after-all. I see how I need time to mourn all these deaths so I can go on to the next ones. So, yesterday I mourned a bit for the patient who died in the morning and for two others I really loved who died last week. I know part of what makes me good at what I do centers on letting people in my heart. I would not have it any other way, but I also must let them back out a bit when they die.

Funny…I did not intend to write any of this aspect, but now seeing it in black and white I realize how much I needed to say I do not work unscathed.

What I started to say was that the family of the woman who died commented to me about what a peace and glow I seem to project. Now yesterday I KNOW “glowing” did not get checked off in my beauty regime. I woke up late, felt like shit, had paperwork from the day before, and found myself with wet hair, no make-up, and still in my pjs when I received the call to attend the death. I walked out of the house within 10 minutes. The dog taken out, clothed, in my right mind, with blow-dried bangs (only) and make-up, but I looked less than my best! And I still glowed? How can that be?

I really do believe the reason I walk upright–even though these last months required some major lie down and cry time–centers on my attitude towards the shit of my life. Yes, I currently may be a stressed out mess in some respects, but I choose to be a funny, sarcastic, horny, wicked, kind one at that. I know recently I have been bitching about not wanting to always have to be resilient, but maybe there is just no other way to be in this life. Otherwise, I might end up with the shit of my life–much of which I have no fucking control over–weighing me down completely. Stubbornness possess gifts too. I try to focus on those elements I feel powerful over, and my reactions always are within my control. Do I get all Snappy Bitch sometimes? Hell yeah! Can I almost always be talked off my limb? Yes. Mostly, I know Love never leaves me and will always be stronger than death. (See Song of Solomon 8:6-7)

I look back at all of this and think to myself: “Damn girl! I am so fucking proud of you!”

This is the last of my three Ordination Papers. This paper addresses my theology, which I will admit has radically changed–at least as far as how I would articulate certain aspects–since I dated The Bean. Working to speak of my faith with an atheist enriched my own sense of who God is and who God is not to me in a way unparalleled. Also, these papers needed to be reflect my own faith with integrity while also meeting the United Church of Christ’s expectations of a minister in full standing.

If you and I shared a pot of tea together, I would flesh out my vision of God first. I would tell you how I feel what we say about God is speculative and important–all at once. I would tell you about the room in my spirit for Jesus to be God in the same way you and I might be. I would tell you what I do not know and of all of my questions. I would also say much of what is here too. Although I resist the word “Christian” given the word means what we as human beings did with Jesus’ message for our own good and for our own evil, I still embrace following Jesus and the faith community I cherish. Mostly, I continue to want to live a life of radical discipleship, which for me means standing in solidarity with all those hanging on crosses right now: the disadvantaged worker; gays, lesbians, bi-sexual, and transgendered persons; those suffering for any number of reasons; persons–especially women–of colour; and the list goes on and on.

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.
Philippians 2:5-8

My theology begins and ends with Jesus. Even when the Omniscient Powerful Creator God and I are not on speaking terms, or I wonder how the Holy Spirit weaves together my life, Jesus and I remain in constant dialogue. As a young child Jesus became my dearest and closest friend, so I cannot really recall a time in my life when Jesus was not with me. My vision of Jesus is clear and pervades my day-to-day living. I see him everywhere. How many times have I felt Jesus lay down beside me as I curled up sobbing? How many times have I felt his hand encircle my own? How many times have I looked across the bed of a dying patient into his tear-filled eyes? How many times have I laughed to myself and heard his laughter fill my spirit? Jesus, his life, his ministry, his death, his resurrection, and his promise to be with us to the end of the age are woven into the fabric of my life. My faith in God is reliant on my vision of Jesus. The Philippians Hymn above captures my vision and understanding in much the same way that it did for those first followers of Jesus. Jesus is God. Jesus understood the path of humility leads to enlightenment. Jesus came to be a servant, yes, even a slave, to us—his most precious creation. The hymn tells us that being a human is not a sin, for even God has walked the human path of life. The roads of obedience, humility and love can and will lead to death on a cross. And what should we, as followers of Christ Jesus, do? We are called to “let the same mind be in [us]” that was in Jesus. We are called to the ethic of discipleship.

While at Duke Divinity School, I took a general theology class, as every seminarian does. I had two choices: 1) Dr. Geoffrey Wainwright, who would prepare me for taking the Methodist theology examinations; or 2) Dr. Mary McClintock-Fulkerson; who would not prepare me for the Methodist theology examinations. Another way to frame their fundamental difference is that Dr. Wainwright taught a systematic theology, whereas Dr. Fulkerson taught how to think about theology. I took Dr. Fulkerson, which was the obvious choice for a girl with deep Progressive Baptist roots, but my choice also proved to be of incalculable value. She taught us a grammar with which we could read anything theological and understand the assumptions, world view, moves and intentions of the author. The grammar then served as a way to not only catalogue a theological writing, e.g. “This writing is Postmodern because the author creates a dialogue between their present socio-cultural reality and eschatology;” but also as a way to uncover how theology can then be practiced. In other words, a written assertion about the nature of God has the end goal of changing practice—changing the way we do our relationship with God.

I spotlight her methodology because I want to create a diorama into how helpful her teaching continues to be for me in my life and ministry. I also want to illustrate how challenging her class was for me. My deep Baptist roots gave me a grammar that focused primarily on the Biblical record of the first church, the Bible itself and the problems of the daily Christian life. I was completely overwhelmed by the challenge to consider two millennia of Christian writings. This it not to say that I came to the table unaware or uneducated, but the wealth of writings did not necessarily have considerable weight with me. My upbringing in the church focused on my personal choices that would bring me closer in my relationship with God or would take me further away. I had no concept of being a part of a wider conversation evolving through time. Those theological writings I had been exposed to were easily put into categories. They either supported or challenged my own personal understanding of who God is and how God works or they did not and were disregarded. I wish to convey a certain element of flippancy because I see it in myself prior to being taught how to think theologically, and because I think much of Evangelical Christianity abdicates from the wider ecumenical theological conversation. Evangelicalism lends itself to a particular kind of independence because of the core value of a personal decision to choose to follow Christ over and above a communal understanding of faith. When one marries this value with Rugged American Individualism and the pervasive dis-ease we as Protestants have with anything written between the end of the Canon and 1517, when Luther nailed his theses to the Wittenberg church door, I see how much I was the product of my Evangelical nurturing and the suspicion of anything non-Biblical.

The Evangelical climate of my formative years, 1975-1990, was a period of rapid change. The beginning of that time saw the Hippies who claimed Jesus as their personal Savior take up social justice issues in a new way that their parents did not feel compelled to do. This generation was greatly influenced by the theologian Francis Schaeffer who ran a Christian commune in Switzerland called L’Abri. Schaeffer became close friends with C. Everett Koop, prior to his appointment by President Reagan as the Surgeon General, and this relationship would ultimately become paramount to Schaeffer’s legacy as the Patriarch of the Pro-Life Movement. But this is not where Schaeffer began. Schaeffer embraced the Hippie culture and their choice to “opt out” of society and embrace a more loving and peaceful path. In a seminal and legendary chapel service at Wheaton College, the intellectual hub of American Evangelical life, he told the students to see movies that challenged their assumptions, which was a big deal on a campus that almost came to blows over the showing of Bambi. He wanted them to engage the culture, to look at art, to read beatnik poetry, but his most disturbing call was to stop wrapping themselves in the American flag and become “World Christians.” Schaeffer was utterly progressive for his time and in relation to his contemporaries, but he was also consumed with panic over the legalization of abortion. Growing up during this time, I heard and saw the transformation of the central theological conversation move from a desire to help and nurture all people as an extension of sharing one’s faith to the necessity of Christians working to reverse Roe vs. Wade. Social justice had only one name, “abortion.” So, as I grew up and moved further and further away from the legalism of my Evangelical upbringing, further I also moved away from a communal conversation about God and how God works in the world.

Seminary not only gave me the challenge to absorb the content of thousands of years of writings, but also provided an invitation to think of the theological conversation extending back through time as being relevant to me and calling me to be a part of it. My response to the sheer plethora of writings and the divergent viewpoints, so many of which raised important issues to me, was to become deeply troubled. Did I believe in God or in a bunch of other failed and flawed human beings’ understanding of what might, could and should be in the nature of God? I did not believe in the inerrancy of scripture any longer, but if I cannot completely trust the scriptural record to tell me who God is, then what other source of knowledge do I have? Am I simply left up to my own devices? And why should I trust my faith community? They are all just as human and situated and flawed as I am. A mental Chinese Finger Puzzle—for sure—the more I would pull on one end, the tighter I would feel squeezed on the other. In sheer pain and humiliation, I approached Dr. Fulkerson after class one day. I said to her, “The more we study in here, the more I feel like I am becoming an atheist. Human beings made everything up! This is all a bunch of crap! Nobody knows anything! And, the majority of the theology that we blindly accept as being ‘correct’ is just the human opinions of the richest, most powerful men who won the argument. Every day I feel like I get closer to becoming an atheist. I do not know what to do.”

Her response? “Stick with that.”

Ivory Tower theological answers to my questions did not fill my empty cup because they seemed contrived and convoluted. The rigors of seminary life did not fill my empty cup because reason and hard work are not enough to propel one over the hurdles of faith. Prayer, for the first time in my life, did not appear to be filling my empty cup because I was no longer convinced that there was a God actively listening and caring and knowing me by name. And I hated going to church because I felt like such an imposter. I could not be dissuaded from my suspicion that God might very well be a figment of our collective imaginations. The dread in my heart grew as I questioned my history, my experiences of God that had been on a more guttural level, the “miracles” of my life, my calling and then the most terrifying proposition came to me. Who would I be if I was not a Christian?

In Matthew 7:7 Jesus says, “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” I found myself, not for the last time, asking, seeking and knocking. The following semester I took a Pastoral Spirituality class with Father Phillip Leach, a local Catholic priest and closet evangelist, in the hope that the class might help me to sort out my atheistic dread. Seek and you will find. One night he preached a sermon instead of lecturing. I do not believe he planned it this way; for me it was a God Moment—a time when the only reasonable and understandable explanation is God worked in the hearts and minds of those present that night, including me.

The room was silent in that way where it feels like everyone is breathing together at the same pace and rhythm. He held everyone’s rapt attention, and yet my memory is that only Father Phillip and I were in that room. He was speaking to me and to me alone. Maybe everyone felt that way. He looked right at me and saw me, Jacqueline Hope Derby, the doubter, the questioner, the faithless, and he said:

Do you know why we believe that Jesus is God? The resurrection? Yes, Jesus rose from the dead. Yes, Jesus saves us from our sins, our stupidity, our fear, from ourselves—my little Baptists and my little Methodists who are always so worried about being saved from something. But what good is salvation to you today? Why do you care? Are you really going to tell me that you are obsessed on a daily basis with going to hell? Please! You are too busy fornicating for that! You can’t be bothered with hell today. You will face that if and when it comes. Anyways, you are saved; you have the right answers to the questions. ‘So, no, Father Phillip, we have no clue why we believe in Jesus.’ So, let me tell you. We believe that Jesus is God because of the cross. The cross! Are you listening? We KNOW that Jesus is God because right now someone is hanging on a cross. A dissident is facing a firing squad for speaking the truth—he is hanging on a cross. A child is starving to death—she is hanging on a cross. A woman is on the run from her abusive husband—she is hanging on a cross. A man is facing the end of his life and the fact that he spread HIV to his partner—he is hanging on a cross. We KNOW that Jesus is God because he is hanging on the cross with us. We do not suffer alone. The Holy One hung on that cross and suffered and bled and cried and was forsaken and abandoned by those whom he was sure loved him and would never leave. What cross are you hanging on today? What cross have you hung on? What cross will you hang on? Cause if you are going to be a minister let me just tell you that you will be hung out to dry—well, if you are doing it right you will be! Jesus, who lived, who loved, who triumphed on Easter morning over all that breaks us in two, is right here with you, suffering with you. Jesus is Emmanuel and that is the only thing that makes any of this make sense.

Emmanuel: “God with us.” God is with me. God has been with me all along. Everything clicked for me as I looked at that suffering Jesus on the cross and thought of all of the crosses of my life. Yes! Jesus was with me when I suffered the death of my father. Yes! Jesus was with me when my sisters abandoned our family. Yes! Jesus was with me when I was being molested. Yes! Jesus was with me when I could not go on and prayed for death. Yes! Jesus was with me when I was deemed the girl that you should not be friends with and a social outcast. Yes! Jesus will remain with me regardless of the cross I hang on, and so I can have faith in God not because God is a puppet master controlling my life, but because God intimately knows me and the difficult and beautiful road I walk down. When I break the bread and drink the wine, I join with my brothers and sisters as we sit at the table with Jesus right now. God with us right now.

As a hospital chaplain, I feel this is the first and most important Gospel, “good news,” that I have to offer. God is here. We are not alone. None of our pain has gone un-witnessed by the Holy Spirit. I know a great deal about crisis intervention, the Grief Spiral, intake history mapping, spiritual assessment and techniques to help people pick up their own coping skills, but this skill set is not my theology. My theology is Emmanuel under-girded with unwavering loyalty to my spiritual conviction that each and every one of us has been created in the image of God and that there is nothing that we can do or that can be done to us that can obliterate our lineage.

I cannot offer a systematic theology full of checks and balances. I have no tidy scientific way to explain the virgin birth, the resurrection or the power of the Holy Spirit, nor would I want to explain them in scientific terms for they are elements of my faith story, i.e. narrative. What I can only offer Emmanuel. I can only offer a lonely man in a garden sweating blood because he is so scared, and yet the same man who John brought out of the waters of the Jordon River with the Dove descending and the voice of God calling, “”You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.” I can only offer the One who promised that we do not have to be afraid, and the Biblical promise that nothing can separate us from the love of God. And these offerings are more than enough reason for me to believe that Jesus is in fact God. But knowing Jesus’ identity, even as Emmanuel, is not enough to teach me what it means to follow Jesus and be his disciple.

I do not want to simply admire Jesus for being a good and moral man. Admiration and discipleship are two completely different paradigms. Being a Christian is not the same thing as being a good person. My baptism sets a seal upon my heart and calls me to life anew. Being a Christian demands that I model my life after Jesus’ life and be open to God’s continuing revealing presence in my life…being open to God’s continual call to accountability. But what does God require of me? Micah 6:8 defines it this way, “He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”

But God does not just require this of me. God requires this of us. I am not a Lone Ranger Christian. I am a part of a community of faith where we struggle together to be more like Jesus and draw closer to the person God created us to be. When we gather at the communion table we declare our legacy: To Jesus and his disciples; to the Cloud of Witnesses who have gone on before us; and to the faithful who will link our generation to the future. The wider theological conversation through the ages now has such depth and meaning to me. I may push away from the narrow halls of systematic constructs, but the faith in which they are created connects me to the writers. Yes, they are just human beings like I am, but they are also seeking, knocking, asking just like I am. I can read Luther now and hold “brotherly speech with one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.” The conversation for me is not about locating “correct doctrine” but about being a part of the community of faith and about our shared eschatology—what we consider to be the enduring qualities of God. I also believe in God’s enduring promises, not just for the time of the historic Biblical record but for right now. I believe in God’s continuing revelation, so the broad theological conversation contains a located understanding of these promises, just as our work now reveals our own life stories and their engagement with these promises.

I maintain a prophetic baptist vision of what it means to be a disciple in that I believe my faithful life must be characterized by the faithfulness of Jesus who was and is and is to come. Like my historical Christian counterparts within our tradition, I do not stress doctrinal agreement as the way in which to form the blessed community of the faithful. But I do not want to imply that the life of the Christian is without accountability or without doctrine. I see this accountability and doctrine very clearly in our covenantal relationship with one another, our baptismal seal and our continuing open table practices. The scripture that defines the covenant for me is Matthew 22:36-40. The Pharisee and lawyer asks Jesus, “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” Jesus replies, “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And the second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

I feel that I am coming of age as a minister during a time of warring bumper stickers proclaiming the “correct faith” one must have in order to be a faithful Christian. On the one hand there is the one I recently saw saying, “Do not put a question mark where God puts a period.” Counter that with our own God is Still Speaking campaign where we quote Gracie Allen saying, “Never put a period where God puts a comma.” We cannot even manage to love one another within the Christian community, so how can we begin to grasp the radical call to love and pray for those we might deem “other” or our “enemy?”

In the Luke version of Jesus’ being tested and asked to define the greatest commandment, he responds by telling the parable of the “Good Samaritan.” The Pharisee hoped to trick Jesus by asking him, “Who is my neighbour?” Jesus declares that the one deemed unclean, the Samaritan, was the neighbour. I believe in this kind of radical inclusion, and discipleship requires radical inclusion. As disciples we affirm, just as Paul did two thousand years ago, that ”there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” The Christian community is made up of equals before God. But, even in our equality, God calls out our individual names and requires different things of us. Some of what God requires is based on our gifts and the call to use those gifts. The body of Christ must actively utilize these gifts in order to be effective in our ministry of radical inclusion and care for our neighbour. Paul puts it this way in Romans 12:4-8:

Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a [person’s] gift is prophesying, let [them] use it in proportion to [their] faith. If it is serving, let [them] serve; if it is teaching, let [them] teach; if it is encouraging, let [them] encourage; if it is contributing to the needs of others, let [them] give generously; if it is leadership, let [them] govern diligently; if it is showing mercy, let [them] do it cheerfully.

Just as God requires us to use our gifts in service to one another, we are also required to resist evil as it manifests in our hearts and in our world. Discipleship does not end at the church door. I make my voice known in protest against the inhumane ways we treat one another, not because I label myself “liberal” or “progressive,” but because Jesus requires that my discipleship must “do to others as [I] would have them do to me.” I must resist the lure of “us versus them” because Jesus has told me to “pray for those who persecute [me].” Discipleship is not about being a good person, for God intimately knows my identity as God’s child and friend. In other words, I do not need to impress God with my goodness. But, in order to draw closer to the woman God created me to be, I have to practice radical loving and including those I perceive as my enemies, which I see as the hardest part of the greatest commandment. My neighbour truly is everyone on this planet, and loving them is not easy. This is why there is such a high personal cost to being a disciple. I have to come out from behind my false gods who lure me with their empty promises of security and whisper to me that I do not need a God who holds me accountable to my commitment as Jesus’ disciple.

Without this accountability I do not see how we can join Mary and proclaim God’s mercy, God’s righteousness, God’s redemption and God’s plan of reversal for those who are lowly. Yes, for me God is all about love, and that love asks me to love as I have been loved. Jesus is the greatest example of that love because he shows the beauty of the human life and that God suffers with us. We have been created in God’s image with intentionality and purpose. Our gifts are an extension of God’s creative force in our lives. We get to choose if and how we will use the gifts we are blessed with. We get to choose if and how we will love with the love we have been blessed with. Being a disciple is a choice; a choice I affirm for my life. The opportunity to turn, repent, reconcile and draw closer is always available. God is always there waiting with open loving arms to receive us. God has an enduring imagination regarding our lives and our potential to co-create beauty and peace in the world that God created for our delight. God has an enduring imagination regarding my life and calls me to co-create love and compassion in the world.

This post is the second of my three Ordination Papers. This paper addresses my sense of what it means to be a United Church of Christ Minister in light of our history and polity (how my denomination “does” church).

Stop doing wrong, learn to do right!
Seek justice, encourage the oppressed.
Defend the cause of the fatherless,
plead the case of the widow.
“Come now, let us reason together,” says the LORD.
“Though your sins are like scarlet,
they shall be as white as snow;
though they are red as crimson,
they shall be like wool.
-Isaiah 1:16b-18

Talmudic Literature tells the story of Rabbi ben Shila who was holy enough to once encounter Elijah the Prophet. When he meets Elijah, he asks, “What is it that the Holy One is doing?” Elijah responds, “He is studying the Torah and the Rabbis…” Studying the Torah is such a great and wonderful undertaking that even God studies it. The history of the United Church of Christ shares a similar value with her brothers and sisters of the Jewish faith. As we trace the outline of our family tree, the importance of education, knowledge, curiosity and freedom spring forth on all of our branches. Even as we wrestle to define what it means to be “united and uniting” as our assumptions, beliefs and prejudices are repeatedly re-examined, we turn to our familial understanding that study creates opportunity for us to reason together. Our reasoning will hopefully lead us to places of community, if not agreement. Our covenantal bonds implore us to talk to one another and find places of connection so that we might better serve our common Saviour in his call to do right, seek justice, defend those maligned and share the good news of God’s continuing work of redemption through us in our world.

Louis H. Gunnemann, in The Shaping of the United Church of Christ, traces our very beginnings back to a Bible Study in St. Louis in 1937. The group of clergy involved included Congregational Christian and Evangelical and Reformed ministers who began to recognize that they shared “common bonds and responsibilities.” Truman B. Douglass noted that it was “this regular thinking together about the fundamentals of [their] faith… [that led them to consider] that the two denominational fellowships which [they] represented could come together in unity.” The United Church of Christ’s family tree, which has four distinct branches grafted together, then owes its formation to the spirit that the LORD speaks of when imploring Judah, in Isaiah, to come and join the LORD in utilizing logic, rational thought and sound judgment as they worked together for the betterment of the Hebrew people. Similarly, our family tree formed so that we might “accept the cost and joy of discipleship” together. The fact that two denominational bodies with such radically different identities, inner-church relationships and understandings of the role of the minister—the Evangelical and Reformed Church with its emphasis on their presbytery and the Congregational Christian Churches and their congregational and autonomous polity—ever came together is nothing short of a work of the Holy Spirit.

I must admit that my own Baptist heritage lines up more with the Congregational and Christian branches of our tradition. Despite attending a rich and vibrant Presbyterian congregation for my first 15 years, my own understanding of how to “do” church, i.e. polity, stems from local church autonomy over any form of presbytery or episcopacy. Fortunately for all of us, polity and theology are not interchangeable terms, even as they dance with one another within our fellowship. I do, however, think that in order for us to be “united and uniting” we have to be a fellowship of equals and our insistence on ordering our life together around covenantal bonds and not around hierarchal mandates allows us to be both a cohesive and diverse body. In this way, my transition in identity from Baptist to baptist within the United Church of Christ fellowship seems organic.

I also see how being diverse comes easily, and being cohesive does not. We live in an age marked by adjustments and modifications to our language but not always to our inward orientation. When I think of the benchmark terminology for our fellowship—unity, autonomy, covenant, congregational, freedom, diversity, mission, evangelism, and dialogue—I see the depth of what we have to offer but also the tension. These words can be incongruous with one another. How can we be a united and diverse body? Does our covenant, that calls us so that “all might be one,” really allow for freedom as well? I know the individual cost to live out the reality of the tension between these terms, but I can barely comprehend the cost we as a united body must undertake. The General Synod 25 presented all of us with a portrait of the painful and complicated struggle we face as we seek to proclaim justice in Jesus’ name while also internally struggling with what it means to be a “we” within a body of individual churches made up of singular human beings with minds and hearts all their own. Within our body we do not prescribe doctrinal agreement as necessary to have the privileges and rights of full inclusion and membership. Ahh…are there not times when doctrinal agreement might be simpler for all of us?

The easy answer is: yes. Simple lures us all. I heard that Dr. Laura Schlessinger, the radio personality, once commented that one of the reasons she loves her faith path is because it tells her to do, or not do, a certain number of things and then she is guaranteed a happy life. I see how this would offer safety and certainty. You know that you are getting your faith “right.” We share the name “Christian” with brothers and sisters who feel certain that a singular understanding will unite them and send them on the path of righteousness before God. Our understanding of covenant dramatically diverges from this understanding. Covenant for us is never simple; for we, much like our Hebrew brothers and sisters before us, find ourselves grumbling in the wilderness of plurality. We struggle to be fully committed to one another—to live sacrificially for those we covenant with—even when we are in sharp disagreement with them. Our ecclesial journey flows from our designation as heirs to the Kingdom. Our “shared identify” demands that we be willing to lay aside our individualism and its inherent self-interest for our calling to be bound to one another.

Being new to the United Church of Christ, I lack extensive experience in different congregations, but I can tell you an interesting story about our differences that played out in my own life. While serving as the Chaplain for the Trauma Unit in Chicago, I encountered a very unique and powerful woman named “Grace.” Grace is a nurse on the unit and has Cherokee, African, Spanish, Navajo, German and Chinese blood flowing though her veins. She is proud of all of them. She comes from a working class family, and she works hard. Her son was shot and killed—lost to the streets as it were. She attends Chicago Trinity UCC where Rev. Jeremiah Wright is pastor. Her congregation is Spirit-filled with a strong call to its members to support and foster their Black Identity. As a result, her faith identity stems from both a more traditional understanding of who God is and how God works and from her racial identity.

I am Caucasian, with mostly British and Finnish lineage. I can only say “I love you.” in Finnish, so I do not feel any great sense of heritage beyond the matriarchy of my Mother. I come from a family of professionals, and we have been lucky to not have the rage of the streets harm our loved ones. I attend a predominantly Caucasian, affluent and intellectual congregation. My faith is radical, inclusive and has a different idea about how God works in the world. In many ways, Grace and I could not have been more different. We could not attend more different congregations. We are in the same denomination. Grace and I forged a special relationship while I was in Chicago, once I passed her inspection, in large part due to our communal bonds as members of the UCC. She would brag to anyone who asked what religion that I was, “Jack is like me—UCC.” You should have seen the looks on their faces! “For Christ’s love compels us, because we are convinced that one died for all…that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again.” Our “shared identify” demanded that we be willing to lay aside our individualism and its inherent self-interest for our calling to be bound to one another as sisters.

Recently this dynamic has played out in my own congregation. The church suffered great pains as a result of trying to come together and decide what it would mean to be “church” together. What is our vision? What is our mission? What is our witness? Fundamentally: Who are we, and what are we about? This pain and our continuing journey of discernment has taken many forms. While in seminary, I received letters from one faction or another outlining their position and urging me to sign on with their point of view. Our Senior Pastor left the church, and our interim resigned over the ugliness that has unfortunately marked our inability to disagree without dishonor.

One Sunday I noticed that the two men who lead our Music Ministry were not mentioned in the bulletin. After the service, someone came up to me and talked to me about the fact that these men had been fired following the previous Sunday’s service. I know my friend came to me hoping that I would be as dismayed as he appeared to be over this sudden decision by the Church Council. He asked me my opinion. I replied, “I think that is good. Not because I feel there was a problem, for I do not know, but because I see this as a positive sign that the Council we elected is making decisions. They have been charged with the duty of keeping secrets, seeing the underbelly of our church, and equipping our staff to provide for the nurture and service of our church. I am happy to see them take a stand and say, ‘We as your representative body have reasoned together that we are going to go a particular way, the way of our greatest day here being today and tomorrow!’ And with our collective vision in mind they lead us. That leadership demands accountability, and leadership demands making a decision. I am glad to see them separating the proverbial ‘wheat’ from ‘chaff’ in order to maintain the vision we gave them to help us fulfill. I do not mean ‘chaff’ as any kind of indictment on those two men—for they have obviously had a tremendous ministry here—just that their time of effective ministry here has come to an end. May God call them to another place worthy of the gifts God has granted them with…just not in this church right now.”

Similarly, the Church Council sent out a letter telling the congregation that disruptive behavior would no longer be allowed within our fellowship. Some persons were asked to leave our fellowship if they could not agree to end their disruptive behaviour. A new interim senior minister was called. Church services continue to happen each and every Sunday. The choir sings beautifully, even as some of the faces have changed. Most noticeably, I sense a new sweet spirit in our house of worship. The steam has been let out. Those who remain in our covenant do so willingly, even as we continue to struggle together to articulate what it means to be in fellowship and ministry together.

As these recent events unfolded I could not help but think of how our union formed. Yes, discussion, idea planting, joint fellowship and prayer all worked together in the forming of the United Church of Christ. But so did lengthy litigation! We continually form and re-form with congregations and individuals joining and leaving voluntarily. Our denominational forbearers not even seventy-five years ago had “the concern to find a way to bridge the differences that were considered by some to be insurmountable obstacles to union.” I take great peace that the conflict and reasoning within my own congregation is part and parcel of what it means to reason together within the fellowship of the United Church of Christ. I hold the same for our congregations that see themselves as either “Open and Affirming” or “Faithful and Welcoming,” even as I wholeheartedly believe faithfulness demands radical inclusion of all of God’s children within our churches, including our pulpits and marital covenants.

Our covenantal bonds implore us to talk to one another and be accountable to one another under the headship of Christ. We are not free to do as we please, but instead free for the work that the Holy Spirit calls us to. We come together that we might better serve our common Saviour in his call to do right, seek justice, defend those maligned and share the good news of God’s continuing work of redemption through us in our world. Come and let us reason together what God is calling us to do today.

Starting today, 13 April 2007, I will post my Ordination Papers for the coming three weeks. This paper addressed my own faith.

Claudia McK… was a rarity at Westminster Christian School in 1979. She was half Colombian and being raised as a Catholic. We both had the status of “social outcast” and became fast friends in fourth grade. When she went through Confirmation at her church, she asked me to come to the special Saturday service that the local Archbishop would be conducting. Having been raised to believe that the Christian life is a choice—not that anyone in my family gave me much of a choice about going to church or not—my ears and mind were on fire when the Archbishop talked to the Confirmation Class and said, “When you were born a baby Christian…” Born a baby Christian? No! I could not begin to grasp the possibility, or for that matter the Catholic theology and tradition, of such a thing. One makes a personal decision for salvation and without that decision one is not a Christian; or so I had been raised…irony of ironies. I keep thinking of this moment at her church and what the Archbishop proclaimed for I see that I was indeed born a baby Christian. The fabric of my life story has been woven within the context of the Christian faith. My earliest memories include being in the nursery at church, singing “Deep and Wide” and listening to Web Chenault and his dummy talk to me about Jesus and the lives of missionaries. I nursed on the Gospel. The raw material of my faith was a part of me much like the zygote has all the raw material to grow into a fully aware human being.

My Mother has always been the spiritual compass in my home. I can still see her kneeling and praying in the mornings before taking me to school. Her faith has been my greatest teacher, and she remains someone I turn to in order to discuss my faith, my doubt and my calling. I look back at how she raised me and I am surprised that I was not raised within the UCC, specifically the Christian Church, or within the Disciples of Christ because her own articulation of her faith so closely resembles these two veins. Historically she only goes to a church in her neighborhood, and she once moved our household to live closer to church. We went to a Presbyterian church from when I was zero to fifteen. I never was raised to think we were Presbyterian though. I never joined the Presbyterian Church. I made a major stink over some part of the Children’s Shorter Catechism and told our pastor that I could not in good-conscience join a church that affirmed this particular point. I have no idea now what that point was, but needless to say it was a deal breaker for me in sixth grade. Mother affirmed this choice because she continually encouraged me to think for myself and to make my faith my own.

I know much less of my father’s faith because he died when I was six. I know he valued people and took the time to take young men under his wing and teach them how to be good husbands and fathers. Mother says I get my sharp wit and my plotting demeanor from him. I hope I am as good a friend, raconteur, and fisherman as he was.

I cannot speak of a faith journey or my call without speaking of who I am and the life events which shape me. My life continues to be full of the vibrant colors of pain, hope, joy, despair, truth and faith. I frame my life through the lens of my relationship with God. Even from the earliest days I have always been convinced of God’s presence. I can remember being about three years of age and not being able to sleep because I needed to pray. I awakened my parents at two in the morning to help me. My disquiet, even at three years of age, stemmed from a deep desire to make sure that Jesus knew of my love for him. My sense that God waits for me to engage with God pervades my life. I pray all the time. And yet I still wonder about the efficacy of prayer. Can I change God’s mind, as Luther contends in his commentary on Moses’ response to Yahweh wanting to leave the Israelite people following the incident with the Golden Calf? I also have asked God, “What right do I have to pray?” My point simply is that even when I wander and ponder, I take these to God.

I never feel concern that certain topics are off limits when I speak to God All conversation with God is holy for me, so I take to God my joy, my praise, my anger, my disgust—even when these are directed right at God. The first time I decided God was a big failure was when Rev. Reed sat in our living room praying with us the day Daddy died. He said, “Lord, we want to thank you for being with this family.” NO! I just did not believe it. If God was with us then something had gone terribly wrong. Either God was not who I thought God to be, or God was not present. Period. I remember opening my eyes to see if Mother and Grandmother were buying into Rev. Reed’s prayer. I could not believe that they were sitting there shaking their heads in agreement.

And yet, by some miracle, prayer existed for me. I kept the dialogue going. Many years later a woman stopped me at a luncheon. She asked me if I knew who she was; I did not. She was the wife of our interim pastor the year my father died. She turned to her friends and told them the story of when her son was 11 and in the hospital dying. The church decided to have an evening prayer service of intercession for the boy and his family. She sat there knowing her son was going to die and feeling these prayers were only to give them support. Then a six-year-old girl got up and took the microphone. (This girl would be me, but I do not remember.) She started praying and telling God there was too much pain in her world, she had lost too much. So would God just let this one boy, her friend, live so that more pain could not come into the world today? The woman said that she looked up at the girl and knew her son would live. She knew God could not refuse this particular plea, and so they praised God for answering their prayer when he recovered fully.

I find this story interesting because I still sort through the efficacy of our prayers. Can we compel God to intervene in our lives? I know of points in my own history that demanded God’s intervention—an intervention that never fully came as I needed it to come. And I also know first hand the miraculous power of God’s intervention. This story also strikes me as amazing because it comes from a time where my walk with God was characterized by rage and uncertainty. I find it striking that I somehow still believed in Emmanuel, especially in issues of life and death. I confront this paradox so often in my ministry. We have the belief that God has power over that which seeks to destroy our very beings. We also know that we live in an age of despair, brought on from living in an imperfect world and filled with the consequences of imperfect people. How can we affirm the miraculous God, who we see acting in both grand and delicate ways in the fabric of our lives, and also deal with a God whom, too often for our comfort, seems silent and distant, and maybe even far removed from our very present suffering?

I consider the deepest source of personal suffering in my life as having come from the desertion of my half-sisters from our family life. My father had two daughters from his first marriage, and I spent the first part of my life with them all of the time. Unfortunately, the pain my sisters were in after Daddy died was so great they told my Mother that they never wanted to see us again. We went from a dinner table of nine to just my mother and I in less than one month. My sisters have never come back.. Now, almost 30 years later, I think I better understand how it is that we can make terrible decisions in our lives and feel stuck with them. I too have been stuck sometimes. Some days I pray there will be healing between us. Some days I forget they exist. And yet, I find I always carry them in my spirit and ponder the themes of abandonment, worthiness and reconciliation with this story in mind.

For all of the changes 1977 brought, nothing could have prepared me for 1978. Mother remarried, and sadly she married a pedophile who married her to get to me. A fundamental change in my being occurred as a result of being molested. I do not live on the edge because of it though. I missed having a Daddy in my life, so John was welcomed into my life and heart unquestioningly. The searing pain that he brought left me with an even larger hole in my life. At that point I needed the Father God, terribly. I needed him to kick butt, but where was he to be found? I felt so desperate for him. I believed that God had the power to intercede for me then and called upon God daily. Today I would say God the Father was present during the abuse. I can look back at certain moments and claim that the only way that the evil was mitigated was God’s intervention. But more than that, I can see Jesus holding me, comforting me. I see the Father God screaming at John not to do this terrible thing. Screaming at him that he was not created for this, it was not God’s will or purpose for his life. John chose to proceed. God chose to stay, refusing to leave me alone with John’s expression of the monster within. I know this. I know God was there and God being my witness helps me validate the truth of what happened.

Conceptualizing God in this manner propelled me to think deeply about my faith from a very young age. My Sunday School teachers loved me, and not just for being me, but also because I always came prepared with my memorized Bible verse. I took seriously the commandment to “hide God’s word in your heart.” Attending a Christian school gave me even more opportunities to work on the God questions from both mental and emotive places within me. By fifth grade, my faith constructs were quite savvy because I was reading Leon Uris, Mildred Taylor, Calvin Miller, Madeline L’Engle and C.S. Lewis. By sixth grade, I was radicalized because of listening to the music of U2 and had joined Amnesty International. The Sunday School teachers who loved having someone so interested in their class now had to contend with a young lady unafraid to question them and their teachings.

Around the age of fourteen I had a different prayer. Our Presbyterian church no longer felt like home. I was an outsider due to my refusal to join. I convinced my Mother that we needed a new church, one where I could join. We found University Baptist Church. Although I had been baptized as a baby at the Presbyterian Church, I insisted that I be baptized by immersion at UBC as a sign of Jesus’ ownership of my heart. Ah, Menno Simmons and the Ana-Baptists would be so proud! I think this began something in me that continues to this day. I started to see myself as a Baptist, which was a change given my familial reluctance to formal denominational ties. Baptist does, however, capture the historic roots and practices I still ascribe to. I believe in the autonomy of the local church and continue to rely on the priesthood of the believer. The last point, regarding the priesthood of the believer, gave me the certainty in my faith that I could question the church’s teachings on women in ministry, which for me was the final barrier to my heeding the call to ministry.

When I was growing up I had very few role models of women in ministry. The few women in Ministry I knew were missionaries. Many of them would cry at our kitchen table about how difficult it is to be a woman in the man’s world of the Church. I saw my own Mother never considered for church elder or deacon due to her gender, while at the same time she would defiantly speak up for causes she felt strongly about. I must admit that one of the largest reasons I never considered going into the ministry as a child, despite my love of all things God related, was I never thought I could since I was a girl. No one ever told me that girls could grow up to be ministers, preacher, evangelists or serve in leadership over men in a church. And yet, everywhere I looked in my Presbyterian church, with the one exception of the pulpit, it was the women who were the spiritual leaders of the church and of their families.

In college I became exposed to Christians for Biblical Equality. This evangelical group used the scriptures to prove that both Jesus and Paul argued for the full inclusion of women in ministry. They see the patriarchal hierarchy as a result of the Fall and not a part of God’s original design. Their writings inspired me to think differently about God’s plan for women in general and my life in particular. When I returned home after going to school out of state, I found our Baptist congregation no longer fit my needs. I could not attend and support a church that saw my affirmation of women in ministry as a sign that I was not a good Christian. So, in the spring of 1994 I began to look for a new church. I found Coral Gables Congregational.

This part of my pilgrimage coincided with my search for what I wanted to do with my life. Finding a congregation where I could flourish outside of the restrictions of labels like “conservative” or “liberal” blessed me immensely. Each Sunday we read from the lectionary, which meant we read more scripture each week there than we had in a month at my former congregation. I was in love, mad love. I became actively involved in the life of the church and felt at home. I also began working in an Adult Day Care Center where I began to have a glimpse of a future serving God’s children. During this time I started to prayerfully consider going back to college to finish my degree with the intention of serving God in some sort of helping or healing ministry.

I want to relate my first conscious articulation of my call to ministry to you. I was working as a Special Events Coordinator in 1996 for the Miami City Club. In less than three months I put us on the map for party clients and had the Big Boss impressed. My immediate boss, who I was only going to be under for three more days, drove me nuts. He left much to be desired. I knew booking weddings would mean a three-year minimum commitment from me to the club. So, I sat on the Metro one Tuesday morning praying and crying out to God for help. I knew I was not in the right place for me. I kept saying to God, “I know you have called me for something other than this, but I just do not know what.” I could not leave my job; I was helping to pay our bills. And I had no idea where to go or what to do if I did not stick this job out. I asked God for help. My immediate boss fired me that afternoon.

Getting fired was the best thing to ever happen to me. I went to work the next Monday for Dennis Nason, a club member, who believed in me, and he had frequent “come to Jesus” meetings with me about my future. He pushed me to go back and finish my BA, and he would not take “no” for an answer. When I told him I was thinking about getting a Master’s in Theology, he told me to go for it. Our dear friend, Susan Rodriguez, lived at our house after her graduation from seminary as she integrated into her new life as a pastor. So, in one ear I had Dennis saying, “Go for it!” and in the other Susan asking, “Why don’t you go to Divinity School?” She too would not take “no” for an answer. God placed two mighty forces in my life that helped me listen to the Spirit of God asking, “Whom shall I send?” From the time I went to work for Dennis to the time I went back to college was just over a year, with one more year to finish my BA. I still was not sure why God was sending me to Divinity School, but I was thoroughly convinced I was to go. When I got to Duke I realized that I was not alone in this experience. You can hear First Years every fall saying to one another, “Yeah. I know what you mean…I may teach, get a PhD, go into a local church, or become a chaplain too.” Uncertainty mixed with certainty.

But should I go as a UCC student? I was a member of my church, but I had no idea what that meant for my future. Heck! I know I did not have any concept of the wider UCC body beyond my own congregation! I felt uncomfortable with the idea of being a part of any denomination at that point, plus I had seen my own church’s struggle to be in the world and not of it. My first day at Duke led me to the head of the Baptist House, which serves the needs of Baptist students, the second largest group at the Divinity School. He encouraged me to look at going back to Baptist life since North Carolina is one of the more affirming places for women in ministry. I spent my first two years contemplating this, and I worked as a Youth Minister in a Baptist Church. I now know I am not called to the fight in Baptist life regarding women in ministry. I do not have to prove anything to anyone about the veracity of my gender’s call. And so, without regret, I left that particular turmoil behind me.

Now I see this sojourn into Baptist life as a vital key to the development of my call. During this time I met one of the leading forces in Baptist Women in Ministry: Anne Neil. I had the privilege of attending her ordination, just before her 80th birthday, and she mentored me. Over the last 60 plus years in ministry she has served as a teacher, nurse, health facilitator, missionary and women’s rights leader. She helped to form the Alliance of Baptists, one of the most progressive arms of Baptist life that now affirms an ecumenical fellowship with the UCC. She recognized progressive Baptist churches needed a seminary to send their students following the conservative takeover in the Southern Baptist Convention. Baptist House, a support system for students at Duke, was her way to address that need.

Seeing her life taught me that God’s call is to service, not to a particular place and fashion for all time. Once you are called God will change the locations to which you are called to, but not God’s investment in you. Over the seasons of her life her ministry has changed and evolved, while her call has remained constant. I see this as the model for my call: ever present and ever changing. My ministry has been and will continue to evolve as both my faith deepens and what I am called to, changes.

So, back to the question of what role the United Church of Christ could have in my life and ministry: My last two years of seminary allowed for a season to examine if I could find a spiritual home within the UCC. Seminary was an impoverished time, so I rarely came home to Miami. At Christmas, in 2001, I was afforded a rare opportunity to be in Miami for a month. During that time I met Donna Schaper, who was then the new pastor at Gables Church. She and I sat down for an in-depth conversation about the UCC and me. She asked me to consider requesting a time of mutual discernment between myself and the congregation about my call and future in the UCC. I left feeling God had answered my plea for direction and a home. Instead of a new home, I found a homecoming, which delighted me more than words can express. But I still had my lingering questions about any future in the UCC itself because of my identity as a progressive baptist—little “b.”

During the fall of 2001, I had the privilege of taking American Christianity with someone who sees the Congregationalists and Northern Baptists as being the best representation of mainstream American Christianity. Dr. Wacker gave me a glimpse of what it might mean to affirm my new Congregational identity in conjunction with my Baptist roots. Tracing the “religious family tree” and seeing how Baptist life in America in large part grew out of the eviction of Rodger Williams from the Massachusetts Bay Colony helped me to trace my lineage as both a Baptist and as a Congregationalist. My UCC polity class heaped “Miracle Grow” on these seeds by teaching me how the constructs so central in my own faith and intellectual upbringing: local church autonomy; covenantal relationships; intellectual curiosity; pluralism (valued within my own family), social justice as an extension of faithfulness; and the priesthood of the believer, were also values I shared with the United Church of Christ. Each week as I read about what was becoming my denomination, I became more excited. I love the things we struggle with, our tensions and our resolutions. I began to form a picture of myself serving in the United Church of Christ. As my own sense of place grew, my questions regarding what God would call me to bloomed as well. Here I am Lord, send me…but where shall I go?

My life began in a hospital. Yes, most of us are born there, but for me it was more than that. My mother is a nurse and came to Miami to work at Baptist Hospital. Baptist Hospital is where she met my Daddy, where she had me, where Daddy was taken care of during my kindergarten year when he was so sick, and eventually, where my Grandmother Hazel Osborne died. The pulse of the hospital matches my own, but I will admit that I remained closed to the idea of both chaplaincy and working in the medical setting for a very long time. The hospital is where I see my Stepfather, John, for he was not only a pedophile but also an amazing and gifted physician. When people would talk to me about doing my Clinical Pastoral Education Internship while in seminary, I would kindly nod my head and shake my heart “no.” But after this idea continued to be proposed to me by total strangers meeting me and telling me how they thought I would be so well suited for CPE, I, like Gideon, had to admit that the fleece of wool was wet with dew and the ground dry—I was going to go to the hospital for my Clinical Pastoral Education.

Have you heard the story about the duck and the water? My parents raised me to be a hospital chaplain; they prepared me for my call. The way they would engage the people they cared for taught me how to talk to people about both their lives and their health. I possess no fear of medical conditions, blood, ooze or complicated medical terminology. We read the Journal of American Medicine and the Bible at the dinner table! Nothing else was allowed to be read, but those two were read and discussed. I can remember going to a medical meeting in late elementary school on geriatric care. My Stepfather took care of a man who had AIDS when it was still called ARC. My mother would go by a church friend’s house and take their blood pressure and talk to them about their health needs. She would pray with them and comfort them. All these moments became linked together for me in the hospital setting. Every nook and cranny within the hospital walls felt like home. And my own journey to find God within a life full of suffering found a resting place in the hospital because I could co-create with God a new redemptive meaning for that suffering. All of a sudden my whole life made sense. All of sudden my calling made sense.

I have had to face the mystery head-on in my own life, and so I find the hospital to be a beautiful place to be present to people as Jesus was to those who were suffering in his own time. The Incarnation makes sense to me at three in the morning, as I pray with a family gathered around a dying loved one. I think ministering in crisis allows me an ecumenical opportunity the parish minister is rarely afforded; I get to be the face of God to people I would otherwise never be able to do that with, due to all of the walls of rubble we so readily put between ourselves. The practice, or discipline, of chaplaincy opens up the “secret prayer closet” of people’s lives, so I tread on sacred ground as I listen to the real truth of what has happened in a life and in a family. I see the real face behind the mask.

Following my internship I stayed on at the University of North Carolina Hospitals as an on-call chaplain, working a 24-hour shift most weekends. While at UNCH during my last year of seminary, Carolina Donor Services approached me three different times about coming on board with them and working in a bereavement capacity with families facing the brain death of a loved one. The last time, just after graduating from seminary, I applied and went to work for them. Even before I started, I found out that a chaplain colleague from UNCH—Vivian Hunnings—was also coming to work at CDS in the same capacity. The following year brought an amazing amount of personal and professional growth as Vivian and I created a new model for doing bereavement work with the families. Part of CDS’s support of our efforts included sending us to get our Advanced Bereavement Facilitator Certification. I went to Chicago, in November of 2002, for my training. My trip proved to be a seminal turning point for me as a woman of faith and as a minister.

I first want to discuss the radical personal transformation that occurred during the training. While working at the hospital in North Carolina, I had become more and more dissatisfied with the normative Baptist understanding of hell. Being at the bedside of so many as they died, even a death row inmate shackled to the bed, I could not shake a growing suspicion that hell is a human construct, given how we like to solve our problems through death and dismemberment, and not a God reality. But even as I moved away from this normative understanding of hell, I reserved a special corner of the old hell for my stepfather. During the bereavement training, we were given a writing assignment to explore the continuing dialogue and relationship we have with someone from our lives who had died. John died when I was twenty-five, and so for reasons I cannot fully explain, my dialogue was with him.

When I stand with a patient as they die, I have a vision of my Daddy and Grandmother being there with me. I also see Jesus clearly, regardless of the faith affiliation of the person dying. Jesus and my family are there for me, and God—in the all encompassing way we might define God—is there for the person who is dying. As I sat there at the hotel table creating this dialogue I began to see that in the shadows of those moments John was standing there as well, and so we began to talk to one another for the first time since I was fourteen. I told him how close to him I felt in the hospital and how appreciative I am for all that he taught me about medicine, physicians and about healing the mind, body and soul. I told him that in the hospital I was proud to be his daughter. He told me how sorry he was for being so destructive in my life. I understood, by some miraculous spiritual intervention, that John, more than anyone else, knew the terrible price that had been paid in my life because of the pain he inflicted. His intimate knowledge of my reality, meant that he wanted more than anything for my life to be full and free of pain and fear. My dialogue with him released him from the private hell I put him in and released me to embrace him as a wonderful doctor, without shame, in the hospital. I do not want to suggest that I never find myself touching the wellspring of rage over the pain he caused, for those waters are too deep in my life to just dry up instantaneously. I do want to offer that a miracle of healing came to me through this dialogue and that this reconciliation informs how I function as an empathic and forgiving chaplain.

The second big change that came as a result of my weekend in Chicago was that a conversation began between me and Rush University Medical Center about my coming there for my Clinical Pastoral Education Residency. They had an ongoing dialogue with the Department of Trauma next door at Cook County Hospital about providing a chaplain resident to their team. They had never had an appropriate candidate, since Rush does not offer any trauma experience. Given my three years of experience in numerous Level I Trauma Centers in North Carolina, the need and the right person for the job were finally coming together. Part of what made this opportunity right for me stemmed from my growing unrest from no longer being a chaplain. Bereavement work outside of the context of my calling to be a minister left me empty. My time working as a chaplain demonstrated to me the depth of my commitment as a servant of God, but also the depth of my ministerial identity. I do not tend to the hurting, confused, angry, grieving human beings out of the goodness of my own heart, although that is a factor. Mostly I engage with them and their stories out of my own faith story and ministerial calling. My commitment is to being a disciple of Jesus, so my work extends naturally from my radical understanding of discipleship. During my year with Carolina Donor Services I longed to be back in the hospital as a chaplain; I went to Chicago the next September to begin my Residency.

I could write an entire book on my experiences at County. I worked with people who were in desperate need of care and compassion. My patients were mostly African American and poor. Of these, the majority were young men who presented to us with gunshot wounds. I learned what it means to be a prophet in my own age. Standing at bedsides telling young angry men that God does not want them to kill in retribution took the power of the Holy Spirit standing with me to say, but I did. Being prophetic to the degradation my staff uttered took the power of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. My staff maintained a level of anxiety unparalleled by any other unit I have ever worked with. They manifested this fear through anger, racism, addiction and emotional distancing. My faith has been a way to make sense of the suffering in my own life and the lives of others. I came to understand that unit within the context of great suffering. My method of being a chaplain is not to graciously stand on the sidelines waiting for an invitation. I jump right in; getting bed pans or warm blankets is common place for me, as is holding someone’s hand during a painful medical procedure. Even with this as my practice, I would not have thought that I made much of an impression on my unit by the year’s end; they were just that hardened. When I went to leave some of the nurses threw a party for me. One of the nurses, who had tried my patience on more than one occasion with her hostile attitude and behavior, came up to me to talk. She leaned in and whispered in my ear, “You do not know what this unit was like before you came…you have no idea…but I want you to know how much it means to all of us…to me…that you came and you loved us.” She later presented me with a Tiffany bracelet from the “Trauma Chicks” as a thank-you gift, but her words were the real gift of affirmation. I went and loved them, which for me is both the simplest way to talk about ministry and the most profound.

When I think of all of the possibilities of what I may be called to next, I become overwhelmed. I know that my heart’s desire is to continue on with a call to a chaplaincy position, but I also remain open to God’s continual call in my life and how that call will transform over time. My continuing faith in the God who is with us leads me to a place of acceptance in regards to the great mystery of where I might next serve. Accepting mystery for me is somewhat akin to wearing burlap, but I also recognize that with maturity I have come to embrace the mystery a little more. I find meaning and delight in the apparent chaos because it affords me the opportunity to be on a God Hunt. In many ways I am still the same girl listening to the pastor’s prayer in the time of tragedy, only now I hear my own voice. I pray remembering the prayer said when my father died, so I know how singular and shaping these prayers can be. I pray knowing that these moments are both endings and beginnings I pray knowing we are being heard and loved. Mostly, I pray with confidence because I know God is with us. As Isaiah 54:7 says, “For a brief moment I abandoned you, but with deep compassion I will bring you back.”

This post is a part of my ongoing series “Don’t Be A Christian” about the failure of religion, Christianity in particular. The main thesis of this series is: Don’t be a Christian. Follow Jesus. In my opinion, Christianity has failed. Persons of faith and/or conscience must rise up against Christianity and its many forms of greed, tyranny, manipulation, hatred and irrationality. Our very survival as human beings depends on the end of Christianity as we know it today, and as it has been developing since the time of Paul. Eradicating Christianity does not mean that we should eradicate Jesus or Jesus’ central message of love of the other. No. Those of us who find solace, teaching and inspiration in the “Christian Story” must embrace Jesus anew, instead of embracing any kind of Christian identity. Again: Don’t be a Christian. Follow Jesus.

My ex-boyfriend The Bean, in case you have not read my page on The Dating Game, is an atheist. Now you might find it strange that a girl minister would date an atheist, but at least as far as this girl minister goes, the spiritual match I experienced far exceeded any other relationship in my life, past or present. Huh??? I know this may seem strange, but curiosity has characterized my relationship with God and with the faith I nursed on, Christianity. Empty pat answers do not quell my questions, which has been true since I was a kid. The Bean never was satisfied either. He too would challenge teachers of the faith–having gone to a Catholic elementary school and having been assaulted by Evangelical proselytizers time and again–and he too got into trouble. We found in each other a true spiritual complement, even as the surface appeared so very different.

Our relationship challenged both of us. (Don’t worry, I know it challenged him too. Otherwise he never would have told me at Thanksgiving how grateful he was for me because I “challenged [him] in every way.”) The Bean posed to me the problem with the foundational teaching in Christianity, specifically that “Jesus is God,” and how manipulative that can be to children. We spoke at length about what the Ground Floor of one’s spiritual/personal development could be with children. The Bean’s final say centered on never teaching children anything about faith, spirituality or God. I felt this approach was flawed. For one thing, it pretends that spirituality is not an inherent human propensity. Even if one’s spiritual space has only questions and a complete rejection of any kind of Supreme Being–personal or not–one still have a spiritual self. It is illogical to pretend something does not exist just because much of humanity has filled their spiritual space with idolatry of their own religion and hatred of others. The second problem with I found with his thinking stems from his own religious history. I believe that The Bean’s atheism is informed by the horrid intellectual and spiritual abuse meted upon him as a child by the Catholic nuns and priests at the school where he attended, including what only could be called a forcible baptism more akin to rape than anything else.

I do believe that atheism has both valid intellectual and spiritual grounds, but I do not believe it can be fully authentic within a person’s soul unless it is arrived at after healing the places religion failed. I often hear the argument for atheism based solely on the failure of “The Church” or on “religion.” Belief in some sort of creative force in the universe, or having the intellectual imagination that there might be a Supreme Being, cannot be equated with what we as human beings do with that imagination. This is a flaw in logic. We make the same flaw when we look at a drunk teenager who kills someone while driving and think to ourselves that the kid’s parents obviously did something wrong in raising them. Good parents do not always equal good kids, and in the same way, those who speak for “God” from a particular tradition’s apparent certainty often will not equal the best humanity has to offer, let alone any kind of holistic and loving view of God.

This flaw in logic–equating human followers and their beliefs to whom the actual God might be–also highlights another fundamental problem with the logic on both sides of the divide: No one can say with scientific certainty anything about the nature of God or even if there is a God because it is unknowable information. Anything religion or persons who might self-identify as “spiritual, not religious” say about God is purely human speculation. That is not to say there is no truth or even that what we say might not in fact be the case, but in order to parse out spiritual “goods” and how they inform our lives in beneficial ways, we first must all abandon the idea of certainty because of its unknowable nature.

Before I can go back to the conversation with The Bean about what the Ground Floor of a child’s person and spiritual development might look like, I need to talk about truth a bit more. In my experience, we use the word truth to mean two totally different things. In the first usage, we use it to denote fact. Example: 2 + 2 = 4. ** In truth’s second usage, we speak of things known to us as individuals. Example: Miss Audrey loves me. The second usage can be profoundly experienced by both Miss Audrey and myself. Others may witness her love for me and recognize it as such based on their own experiences with love. However, it is not a universal fact. Anyone who does not know Miss Audrey and myself takes the information that she loves me strictly on face value without any kind of core acknowledgement of its truth in both of our lives. In other words, it is strictly information unless it is anchored in a story about her love for me that somehow–again–invites them to witness her love for me and recognize it as such based on their own experiences with love. Put succinctly: Fact and truth are not the same thing, even as we use them interchangeably.

When we speak of God everything we say about God is ultimately unknowable information, up-to-and-including if there is even a God at all. The only fact we have about God is that it is unknowable to speak to one side or another. The logical conclusion of this argument is that both atheists and “believers” all fall along the same continuum of unknowable information, so none can speak factually about God or about the nature of God. All of us, ultimately, speak of our experiences with religion, faith, encounters, et al and these form our “truth” of who God is or is not. Put another way, my faith is real to me because of the truth and meaning it gives my life, but I recognize the lack of irrefutable fact. However, irrefutability does not have to mean a complete an utter abandonment of the faith stories that inform my life and call me to love in more profound and forgiving manner, but it does mean that these stories are isolated within my own life alone. (In its purest expression, faith communities would be places where similar stories create deeper human connections.)

I found flaws in The Bean’s logic about both how to approach children and why he self-identified as “atheist” (although, he did at some point acknowledge that “atheism” was not the correct way to describe his own spirituality). His abandonment of wanting to guide the spiritual space within a child spoke to me more of his own unresolved spiritual pain at the abusive hands of clergy, than it did of wanting to teach a child to be an atheist, and it negated their real spiritual needs. Now let’s be clear: This is a man who nurtures his own spirituality through intellectual pursuits and through an openness to alternative healing, meditation and a profound awe in the physical universe. His questioning forced me to think about what kind of Ground Floor of a child’s being–and my own for that matter–could be created that would be life giving for the long haul. My intellectual and spiritual goals were to characterize this Ground Floor in such a way so that there would be: 1) no empty places where fundamentalism as a spiritual demi-god could come in and take hold; 2) the child’s own spiritual sense of self could be nurtured and developed; 3) the spiritual traditions of each parent, and their combined family history, could be embraced and challenged; 4) where questions could be safely raised; and 5) where faith and spirituality were given equal voice along with the facts of science.

The Ground Floor I would nurture in a child has three main components: 1) curiosity; 2) love; and 3) integrity. Curiosity in life, in people, in discoveries, in culture, in traditions, in self, in the universe. Curiosity always allows for questions, which I believe must be the bedrock of any child’s life. Love because respect–even reverence–for the world around and in one’s being must inform decision making. Personal integrity gives legitimacy to what one says one believes because it is the action part of the equation. In other words, to love is not enough, one’s ethic of action must be aligned with one’s ethic of heart. In summary: One must actively and with curiosity engage the world. One must love the world, both human and physical. One must take action to protect and nurture the world.

This description fit for raising my own child articulates my what I now consider my own Ground Floor, none of which centers on being a Christian. My own faith journey no doubt informs these core beliefs, but I tend to feel suspicious of every doctrinal statement. I find doctrine to be even less inspired than any kind of “Holy Text,”for it is the finer point laws we impose on ourselves to separate ourselves from one another. I see Jesus as a Teacher who called Table Law not only into question, but put it under great suspicion for having nothing to do with the Spirit of God/Love and everything to do with discrimination.

What is your Ground Floor?

**I utilize an equation here deliberately. Somehow we live in an age where people say illogical things like: “I do not believe in science.” As if science is something to believe in? When we speak of scientific discoveries, we speak of facts and theories, which often can be confusing given that the language of science is math and not verbiage. I would isolate facts within science to that which is expressed mathematically, which hopefully will prove helpful to this discussion today, and as we come back to the role of science as it informs persons of faith in later posts.

My team took care of a six year-old with terminal cancer until a week ago. The child died. We knew this would come, but until the death we could pretend death would bypass this family in that corner of our hearts where the unbelievable meets pleading to Someone somewhere to make it go away.

This child was (yes, the word now is “was”) so beautiful and precocious. One set of grandparents already gone, the child wrote a letter last year to them saying how much they were looking forward to meeting them in heaven long before anyone knew what was growing deep inside. I find such comfort in that letter–I pray the family does as well–and have a vision of the child being welcomed into Love’s embrace with the longed for grandparents waiting to take this child by the hand.

I cried when I heard last Wednesday of the child’s death. The death felt sudden somehow. I saw the look of shock, grief, dismay, concern, pain and resolute understanding on the faces of my team. This is not to say we did not believe the child did not have terminal cancer. We did. This is not to say we believed the child would be given a miracle. We did not. We are just human beings who despise seeing children die, and still just do not want it to be the case. We are also human beings who know that children do die, for we have been in this place before.

As many times as I have been there, I do not like going back. Inconsolable. Yes, that is the best word to describe the terrible pain. I feel it in my gut as a caregiver. What can I say? What can I do? I can only be. I can only love. I can only care. I can only remember.

When I was a Chaplain in North Carolina, I saw so many children die I lost count of their faces. Some still come back to me–even now as I write this–and I pray for their parents and loved ones who continue on without seeing them grow up. I count the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years they were with us and name it “blessing” even as their deaths continue to be “loss.”

Let me call out those I do remember:

• The baby in the bucket.
• The baby who waited two weeks for her Father to be found in Afghanistan and brought home before she died.
• The teens–two from one family, one from their best friends’ family–who died in that wreck.
• The boy who got drunk to celebrate getting out of rehab and getting a new car. Your father taught me an important lesson about hope in the face of destruction: We pray for a miracle because it is all we have, even as we are so angry with God (or at least our view of a God in control of every aspect of our lives) for not stopping the terrible thing from happening.
• The twins of the one I cared about. May your adopted child continue to bring you blessings and the trees flourish in their honor.
• The baby with the perfect old lady hands.
• The little boy who I prayed over in the operating room.
• The teen with Cystic Fibrosis.
• The girl whose mother was an inmate.
• The girl whose mother donated her organs after she was stuck down at the bus-stop.
• The boy whose parents just could not donate; they were too grief stricken.
• The girl whose body was in limbo as her brain held onto only the tiniest expressions of life.
• The baby the mother beat.
• The children set on fire by their mother’s boyfriend.
• The children tossed from the van on the family trip from Virginia.
• The children tossed from the van on the way home from church.
• The baby my flight crew brought in and just melted when he died.
• The baby killed by her father.
• The boy who knew he was dying for so long, but his parents never wanted to talk about it.
• The baby with no arms or legs. I will never forget escorting your wailing family out of the NICU.
• The baby I bathed before putting in the box to be buried at home given how poor your Mama was.
• The ones I have forgotten, may God remember for me.
• The child who died a little past midnight on my Team, Wednesday, March 21, 2007.

Sweet Honey In the Rock sings “We Are” on their Sacred Journeys CD. Here are the words in honor of all the children I tended and their loved ones, and for all who have lost a child and all the dreams that go with them into Love’s tender embrace:

For each child that’s born,
a morning star rises
and sings to the universe
who we are

We are our grandmothers’ prayers
We are our grandfathers’ dreamings
We are the breath of the ancestors
We are the spirit of God

We are
Mothers of courage
Father of time
Daughters of dust
the sons of great visions
Sisters of mercy
Brothers of love
Lovers of life
Builders of nations
Seekers of truth
Keepers of faith
Makers of peace
Wisdom of ages

We are one.

On Sunday, I got up at six in the morning with Emma and began to cook. My aunts (Aunt Charlyne, the one with terminal lung cancer and Aunti Sandi, the one she now lives with) were set to arrive a mere 12 hours later, so I needed to get started! Time was a-wastin! I planned a fully home cooked meal in their honor, given that my one aunt should start chemo on Thursday. I bought most of my groceries at Whole Foods, including organic lean beef for my beef stew. Fresh rosemary, French butter (does it really taste better?), Russian Banana potatoes, the finest chocolate, organic raspberries, etc. I made the beef stew from scratch, used Julia Child’s master recipe French rolls, and finished with a lovely flour-less chocolate cake with raspberry sauce. By the time I crawled back in bed for a short nap at 11:30 am, the bread was doing its second rise, the stew was cooling for being refrigerated, and my finger was properly smashed in a battle between the bottle opener and the bottle where my finger lost!

Despite almost passing out, I pressed on with my cooking. I tasted the stew multiple times. I added more Worcestershire, a splash of vinegar, some Dijon mustard. I kneaded the bread, trying to keep both blood and cotton ball fragments out of the dough. I chopped the chocolate, measured out the sugar, began the sauce, found my candy thermometer, and turned the AC down to seventy degrees. I vacuumed. I dusted. I cleared the paperwork off the dining room table and put it in neat piles away from where they would notice. I picked out fun china; I posses around 10 different ones, so this is not an easy task! Napkins, glasses, silver, serving pieces, all placed just so in-order to welcome them with sight as well as smell.

I could not help but think of Babette’s Feast as I laboured. In the movie, Babette has run away from Paris, where she worked as a renowned chef, as a political refugee. She finds work cleaning and cooking for two elderly Dutch spinster sisters. She cooks rather bland pitiful fare due to their preference. The sisters avoided pleasure all their lives out of devotion to God. (Of course, if God wanted this type of dutifulness, why did God create an entire world for us to delight in? But I digress.) There is no colour, no joy, no flavour, no mirth, no spirit (or Spirit?) to their lives. For many years, Babette toils in this grey existence, but love flourishes within all three of their lives even in this world of grey tones. After winning a small lottery, Babette plans and creates a beautiful meal for the sisters and their fellow congregants. This Feast does not just serve to delight and astound their senses, but also to pour out Babette’s love on the sisters for their kindness to her. Babette’s Feast is indeed a form of Holy Communion, which never should focus on strict table laws, but always on an open table of love and community. Babette works for days to create her Eucharist, and she selflessly pours her whole heart, body and soul into each and every dish. The delight the sisters take over each morsel left me both jealous–although I am not too sure about the Turtle Soup served–and open hearted at the love flowing between everyone at this meal. The grey banished in the light of love’s myriad of colour.

Jacqueline’s Feast could not compare when it came to epicurean delight, but I did manage to knead love into every roll, sprinkle compassion into the stew, and stir mirth into the cake batter. We sat down, with a short prayer by me. I passionately prayed that God would be with us, and especially with the person most deserving of winning at Super Boggle. My Aunt Charlyne said. “Nice try, but prayers cannot help you now.” We all broke out laughing.

See, I have only beat her at Super Boggle and Trivia Pursuit one time apiece. In a recent email to her–where I urged her to consider not doing the chemo at all–I reminded her of these two seminal events. I wrote her saying:

In my mind I go back over my whole life experience with you. My first memory? Being out on the horse farm with you and calling you “Aunt Charlyne.” You told me that you were “nobody’s aunt” and to call you Charlyne. I guess I am a true Osborne Woman–headstrong and all–because my whole life I have completely ignored you and called you “aunt” anyways! (laughing) You are not just my mother’s sister, but you are my aunt, and I love you. You have a place of honor in my heart, and my experiences of you are real. I remember the family times when you would be pissed off (The Trinity-as I like to call Aunt Frances, Mother and Aunt Gail-can be a real pain in the ass and very self righteous sometimes.) and the wonderful fun, humor and intelligence you brought. Of course there is also my fear of your amazing game-playing abilities. I can still tell you the year and the holidays that you have ever been beaten at ANYTHING by me! Christmas 1989 Betsy and I beat you at Trivia Pursuit on a Sports and Leisure question (our biggest weakness) where the answer was Martha Graham, whom I had just studied in my college Humanities class. Then in 1997, again at Christmas, I beat you at Super Boggle. All my friends know about this and that I figured the only way to even the playing field between us was for you to get Alzheimer’s! Not that I would wish that on you just to be able to beat you, but it did cross my mind! (really laughing now)

Jacqueline’s Feast ended with me and Aunti Sandi being shown our hats by the Whiz, but also with being able to say and hear, “I love you.” What joy to hear her laugh, throwing her head back and cackling! How fun to see her reach for her third roll and smear it with lots of good butter! How precious to show both of

them my Granddaddy’s newly recovered chair sitting in my Living Room, and to show her where I put the antique dresser they drove to North Carolina to get for me back in 1991. Most importantly, what a wonderful sacred moment with those whom I love, especially the one who has spent so much of her life separated from us all.

I spent a good part of Monday crying–and here I am at it again–over how precious her time really is and how much I want each one of her moments to be poured to overflowing with more love, care, good food, laughter, family, games, and joy than she can handle. She has spent a lifetime without enough, so I figure it is high time she gets too much. (See my other post about this.)

So many of us are starving, like my Aunt Charlyne, for more love, more joy, more kindness, more understanding. I really believe in being the very thing you think is lacking in the world. Too many mean people? Be kind. Too much noise? Be quiet. Too much media? Turn off the TV. Too much fighting? Be peaceful. To much pain? Love more. Not enough time? Spend what you have loving and holding and cherishing before you miss the chance.

And of course: Chocolate batter on the spoon? Call “fins” and lick it up!

(”Fins” is a family expression akin to “shot-gun” or “dibs.”)

The following is a true story told to me by a live-in health-care aide at one of my patient’s homes. “Mary” worked in a large nursing home before starting to work privately, which is the setting for this story. I regret I cannot write in such a way that you could hear the melodic Haitian lilt to her voice. You will just have to use your imagination.

Let me tell it to you as she told it to me:

“Once when I worked in the home, every day they give to me 10-13 patients to clean, help use the bathroom or bedpan, bathe, feed…all the help they needed for daily living. One woman on my floor had THE worst reputation! She had no legs and only one arm left cause the diabetes get to her so very bad. I hurt to look at her, but she was not nice. She was mean. I tell you, she was mean.  Always yelling and cursing at everybody.  People would saw terrible things behind her back about what a horrible person she was.

One day another aide went to bathe her, and she had the most terrible bed sores you ever saw. She messed herself, so the aide had to clean her. Given how ugly she was, always yelling and talking down to people there to care for her, the aide was not gentle when she bathed her. She used a washcloth and scrubbed her clean until her backside was not just raw, but also bleeding. I guess she thought she would teach her a lesson

The next day, they give her to me. I go to her and ask her if she was ready for me to clean her up. I could smell that she had messed herself again. She told me, “Get out of here! Leave me alone! Go away!”

I say to her, “But you are dirty; you need to be clean. Won’t you feel better when I clean you?”

She tells me to go to hell and to leave her alone.

A little while later I go again. “Don’t you want me to clean you? I will make it so you smell nice and feel good.”

She starts yelling at me, “Why don’t you just leave me here and let me die? Go away. I do not want you or anyone else to come near me or to touch me. Get it?!!”

I say to her, “But you will feel better. Please let me clean you.”

She only glared at me, so I left her again. I tend to my other patients and when they are all done, I go back again. Three times Chaplain! Three times I go to that woman, but I just cannot go home knowing that she is lying there in her filth.

I go in again and say, “Please let me help you.”

She looked like she would explode and tells me that she will call my supervisor if I do not leave her alone. She will have me fired!  I tell her to call. I just do not want to leave her like that all the time. I am a good person and just can’t go home and leave her in her own mess.

Somehow she softens a bit and tells me that she was rubbed too hard by the girl the day before and that her backside is raw and bleeding. This is why she does not want anyone to rub her or touch her or bathe her. She would rather sit in her filth and die than have that much pain again.

I say to her, “I will be gentle. I will not use the wash clothes but the wipes. I will get you clean and put lotion on your sores to heal them.”

She say to me, “You promise that you will not hurt me.”  She was almost crying at this point.  So, I promised her that I would be very careful.

So I wash her very gently. I clean all of the mess away. She never cried out, not even once. I rubbed the lotion to help soothe her skin. She smelled so good when I was done with her!

She then says to me, “Only you…I only want you to give me my bath from now on. I will tell them what a good job you did. You were so kind and gentle. It never even hurt.”

The Christian Scriptures teach us that when we care for the least among us, it is as if we were doing it to Jesus or the Holy One.

This is dedicated to my aides: C, P, E, M, F, & L.