As you know, Gentle Reader, the reverendhousehold is in discernment mode. We’re pretty relaxed about it—no deadline, no urgency. However, it’s amazing how things can start happening just by setting an intent. I’ve read, heard and seen stuff over the last few days that has really struck me as interesting, significant, amusing, etc., in light of the “what’s next” question we’re wrestling with. There’s nothing magical about this—it’s like when you learn a new word, and then you start to see it everywhere. That’s why setting intent seems to be a good first step in these things, whether you’re down with God or not.
No conclusions here, just tidbits, clippings in the mental scrapbook.
Somewhere I ran across a blog of a professor who talked about the perception of academic writing being fun—a perception he (or she? I have no idea who this was now) rejected. That gives me an inner “bleah,” because I can see how that might be true. I remember now how sick I got of writing papers in undergrad and seminary. Do I want to write to make a living? Do I want that pressure? I just like writing stuff. See Anne Morrow Lindbergh quote at the top of this page.
I’ve had a ball reading and commenting on the blog of a woman who’s currently in seminary—she’s raising great theological questions. I know those types of discussions feel like a total waste of time to some people, like navel-gazing. I find them fascinating and vital. Of course the discussion’s gotta be connected to real life, but I love talking theology. Gives me energy.
There was a great column in the Washington Post this weekend: “We’re Only Human: And None of Us Are Made to Run Like Machines”. Recommended. It’s all about our tendency to be slaves to our technology—to feel like we have to be ever more productive, get by with less sleep, poor nutrition, less connected to loved ones. Nothing new, just well articulated. And I crave another rhythm to living. One of the pastors on the panel I was on two weeks ago (a pastor of a small rural church in Minnesota) said his goal in life is to do as little as possible. I could tell, he’s a contemplative, not a slacker. And the irony is that his life is quite fruitful for all its inactivity.
I am totally captivated by Poppa Neutrino, the 74-year old wanderer who’s building a raft to cross the Pacific Ocean, Thor Heyerdahl-style. He did the North Atlantic some years ago. I read a long New Yorker article about him last week. (Read this interview with the author of the article if you don’t know who I’m talking about.)Poppa’s the big clipping this week. Big, both in terms of how much he’s on my mind (I even had a dream about his upcoming journey), and big as in big, giant puzzle, an unexpected visitor—like, what is this about? I get this strange feeling that Poppa’s hanging around to teach me something. On the one hand, here is this guy who lives so differently from me that I’m just boggled and perplexed at the variety of human experiences out there. We are of the same species! But so unlike one another. On the other hand, he takes incredible risks in a very calculated, thoughtful way. You should see the raft he’s building; it’s not some Huck Finn thing. And the author of the article talks about this guy’s amazing presence: “Neutrino is an extraordinarily vital man. At times, the force of life running through him is so powerful that being with him is thrilling.” Now, I think this is something you’re just born with, or not. But a zest for life can also be cultivated to some extent. Maybe that’s the appeal. Insert some platitude about living out loud, or dancing like nobody’s watching, blah blah blah.
Like I said, no conclusions. No burning bush. Doesn’t work that way in my experience. But man is the journey fun!
There were other little things this week, but I’ll stop there. I’ll probably be pretty scarce this holiday weekend. Feel free to stop by and post any clippings of your own. And be safe and have fun, wherever your little raft takes you this weekend.
Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith - Mary Oliver
Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun’s brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can’t hear
anything, I can’t see anything —
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green
stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,
nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,
the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker —
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.
And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing —
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,
the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet —
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.
And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt
swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?
One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn’s beautiful body
is sure to be there.
Oy. At this phase of my discernment process, I seem to be mildly depressed at the thought of moving forward, although I know I must.
One little thing happened this morning, however, that seems to be important. I went into our home gym (aka #1 Son’s purloined bedroom) to get on the elliptical for the first time in a week and noticed a stack of books on the floor, including Kristin Linklater’s “Freeing the Natural Voice.” I’ve been thinking a lot about voice and know that’s a significant part of discerning my next step. So she is my clipping for today. Here’s a quote:
“Creativity grows best in the garden of innocence; we have to invent the means to give us back the freedom we lost when we left childhood behind. The voice must also be offered liberation from the prohibitions of society: “Learn to speak nicely”; “Don’t shout at me”; “You’re too loud, too noisy, too full of yourself and your ideas”; “Shut up!” If the actor is to be true to Oedipus, Medea, Cleopatra, Leontes, King Lear or Queen Margaret, his or her voice must be unlimited by societal niceties, psychological inhibition or emotional fear. The actor’s voice must run, ripple and pour through the sensory, sensual, emotional and, yes, erotic pathways of the body—if the voice is to pick up and reveal the rush and nuance of a character’s inner states of being.”
And if that’s true for the actor, what must the preacher do?
I’ve gone back again and again to the post in which St. Casserole mentioned her joy in finally finding her preaching voice, and that’s an important clipping for me, too.
More clippings for me…
We watched Motorcycle Diaries on Friday which is a superb movie–and I’m putting this experience in the category of the Poppa Neutrino/journey archetype (coincidental that I’d experience both stories in one week, since we’ve had the movie on Netflix for WEEKS).
Last weekend we got home Saturday night, but I had arranged to be on vacation until Sunday. The joy of having a *weekend* made me want to cry. It was SO nice to have two days just to be with the family. Today, however, I was back in worship, and it was communion Sunday, and it is so amazing to offer the bread to these people and to know their stories, to be able to say a little unspoken prayer for them.
“D____, the bread of heaven…” Grant healing and comfort during his surgery this week…
“R___, the body of Christ…” bless him in his retirement…
Two years ago this weekend, R and I moved into our house. About 15 members of the church came over and helped unpack, put together furniture, haul away cardboard. It was the most amazing gift. As I offered the elements to a mother and grown daughter, I remember their careful placement of shelf paper in our kitchen cabinets. B’s sermon centered around the Mother Teresa line, “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.”
Indeed. This is a great job.