“I think my most important job is to make space for people to be who they are and tell their own stories…My role is to cultivate relationship, cultivate curiosity, [and] create a sense of sacred space.”     -Kelly Bean,  Soultribe Cultivator

How do I love Kelly Bean? Let me count the ways! First, she’s a redhead (big points.) Second he has the totally adorable name. (more brownie points.) But most importantly, Kelly Bean is as gentle as she is wise, with more patience than anyone I know, and has a habit of waiting and listening until the solution arrives. (Unlike some redheads we know. Hi. Me.)

There’s nothing like learning from a pro, and at 20-plus years of nurturing the same Soultribe (it’s a record!) Kelly can really give us insight into how to keep something going through the ups, downs and seasons of life.

This is a long, but excellent interview and features a unique shared-leadership model called Leadership by Triad which I’ve never heard of anyone else using. Plus there’s loads of stuff in here for those of you who are in the process of a church break-up, or who are Leaving Church. And don’t miss the bit where she lays out some of the common pitfalls Soultribes trip into, and how to avoid them. I recommend you print this out and pop it in your bag. You’ll want to underline and highlight this winsome goodness, I promise.

Kelly generously gave us her time to write up this interview, so she could encourage and guide you. In the spirit of our on-going Sacred Commerce experiment, please let me know if you’d like to send Kelly a thank-you gift from your Etsy or other shop. (My email is moi at magpie-girl dot com.)

And now without further ado my Soulsister, Kelly Bean, and the Soultribe at Third Saturdays.

Background: Could you tell us what kind of Soultribe you belong to: What do you call it? How often do you meet? How long have you been together as a group? 

My soultribe is called Third Saturday.We are a community of people following in the way of Jesus. Our gatherings vary in size from 15-30 -which includes 6 kids ranging in ages 1 to 13. We meet twice a month for sure and sometimes more frequently.

I began to host this group over 22 years ago. I remember my daughter (who is now 23 years old) was just beginning to crawl when we first started. I can still see her playing in the center of the circle of friends, although now she is a mother herself. Over time I have become the ‘official’ cultivator of this community (thanks Rachelle for the great title, “cultivator.”) I’d venture to say that most of the current participants have been attending for seven to ten years.
Group Content: What does your typical evening together look like?

Group Content: What does your typical evening together look like?

Our meetings have changed over the years. We originally met for a couple hours on Tuesday nights. After our kids began school we shifted to meeting on Friday nights so the children could continue to come along and be with their friends. We met on Friday nights from 7:00 to well past 11:00 for about 10 years. When both our daughters were in high school we found that giving up a weekend night every week made it hard to participate in their activities and to know their friends. We wanted to be able to attend the Friday night ball games at the school, provide transportation and be available to them. At that point, about six years ago, we shifted to our current rhythm.

Our primary rhythm now is around our meeting on the Third Saturday (or sometimes the second or fourth J) of the month. We meet in my home—with the exception of two periods in this 23 years, when we were building or remodeling homes- during these times other group members “hosted.” We share a meal and engage in the evening’s ritual, relational connection, discussion topic.

We also meet the first Friday of the month for Taize Prayerat a local university. After prayer and silent contemplation we trek to a nearby establishment called Chez Jose where we share Mexican food, margaritas and conversation.

Who decides what you will do together? Who facilitates?

There is room for all voices. I guide the group but the general direction we take is borne out of listening to the group. For a few years we tried an experiment of leadership by Triad. Every month three different people from within the group would set the course for the month. They would plan all that we did for the Third Saturday gathering, even down to the potluck theme.

Together the Triad would determine what they wanted the group to do or what they wanted to bring to the group. Sometimes they would choose a topic that they were all fascinated with and they would bring three perspectives. Sometimes one Triad member might be a talker and the others would be introverts. In this case it might be that one introvert would bring a mix of songs they felt illustrated the theme the talker was unpacking and the other might lead a group discussion or an interactive art project to explore of the topic. A Triad might explore a global issue or a feeling or go deep into a scripture or poem. The past two years it seems we’ve had a lot international travelers in our group and we’ve loved learning from them upon their return.

My role is to cultivate relationship, cultivate curiosity, create a sense of sacred space, guide and direct in a way that helps to bring out all the group has to offer. My incredible husband Ken makes a good pot of coffee and is always glad to get a drum circle going at the end of the evening. (Magpie Girl’s Note: In my house we call this being the “Pastor’s Husband. That’s fun to trot out at church conferences, let me tell ya’!)

People: What kind of people attend? How did you initially find and gather these folks? How do people find you now that you’ve been around for a while?

I think that Third Saturday is a microcosm of the possibility of pluralism lived out over time. Together as a community, our life has given us occasion to navigate theological conversions and diversions, some divorces, the collapse of our mother church, graduations and adoptions, addictions- our own or our loved ones, economic boom and financial collapse. marriages, births and deaths (not always staged in that order). 

When we started out we were a rather monolithic group of slightly charismatic Evangelicals in our early years of marriage and of raising young children. We all attended the same church and held fairly similar beliefs. Now 20 some years later, although life has taken us on various courses, we faithfully gather to share, worship, study, serve and create together. But now we are now a motley mixture of people with affiliation to United Church of Christ, Episcopalian, Greek Orthodox, Albanian Orthodox, Baptist, Christian Missionary Alliance and Presbyterian congregations.

Some of us have detached from the “institutional” church completely, others have rediscovered faith in artist communities, others embrace doubt. Some are Republicans and others Democrats, some are prochoice and others are prolife. Some hold to Creationism and others are Darwinists. Some doubt the credibility of global warming and others are environmental activists. Some are Universalists and others are staunch Calvinists. Some are black and some are white. Some are grandparents and others are single college students. Some are artists, some are computer programmers, others are health care workers and still others are engineers. Some are homemakers, others are writers, a handyman, salespeople and entrepreneurs, a bike mechanic, an analyst, and masseuse are all in the mix. We all struggle at times and we all have victories. We are a small enough community that there is no anonymity. We are who we are.

Although all these things are true, we don’t generally think of each other in these categorical ways. We are bound together by shared history, by a heart for the poor, by care and respect that transcends “belief”, by many shared meals , by laughter and tears, by the stories we have trusted each other with, by the burdens we have borne together and by the strong thread of Jesus in our lives and in our midst.

As we have grown and changed over the years I recognize we have continually cultivated relational space which makes it possible to share an encounter of commitments. We retain our unique identities and hold our deepest differences even as we participate in dynamic, creative, life-rearranging relationships together.

Coming Together: How long did it take your group to gel? What was that process like?

How did we come together? Well, we mostly met in the same church at various points along the way. A few have come by word of mouth. At this point we are not “officially” an open community; we are not attempting to grow in size or to promote ourselves to that end. If someone has a friend who wants to come along we welcome them. Our more recent regular participants (including our awesome violinist) came to us in this way. 

This answer feels glib but, it seems like it has always worked. And for the handful who have left here and there over the years there has been a sense of a peaceful shift to something new for them. Maybe part of that is due to being flexible and willing to let things go rather than structure them too much. At the same time I do try to keep a plan up my sleeve so if things drag we can shift gears. I trust the spirit in the group and in the process. So something can be a flop and still be just fine. There is always another week!

I think my most important job is to make space for people to be who they are and tell their own stories, to do what I can to ensure that the environment is emotionally safe and supportive, to help people connect with each other and find a way they can belong and to create a relaxed welcoming atmosphere. If people feel safe, accepted, relaxed, connected and welcomed that goes a long way.

If you got to a sticky point where you weren’t sure it was working out, how did you know to press on? When did you know you had “clicked” together?

 I can think of a several sticky points that have been the downfall of many a community but we have weathered. Here are some of those-

Breakup
We were for many, many years, a community that existed within a church. That church; our “mother church”, went through a rough time and eventually disbanded. My husband and I left the church before it disbanded. At that point the community was comprised of people who left in a great deal of pain (like us) people who still thought it could work out and were loyal to the leaders who remained, and people who didn’t identify with any church. It was a tender time and everyone had deep feelings. We resolved to make space for each other to be wherever we needed to be and to trust each other in that. We participated in silent shared rituals for grief together (sitting Shiva together, floating prayer candles, writing our feelings as prayers) to acknowledge that everything was not well and that we could all grieve even if we were grieving completely opposite things.

I was very proud of how the community navigated that time. When the church did eventually shut down there was room for everyone to remain- and everyone chose to.

 Big Change
When we shifted to meeting twice a month (and only once a month in our home) this was a rough spot. Some people felt they would lose their community, others felt like we shouldn’t make such a change. Although some were fine with the decision it did raise strong doubt and dissension with others. In hind sight there may have been a better way to lead the group into the change, but it had become increasingly clear to us that we were sacrificing the best interest of our family and must make a change. After the announcement I met with concerned group members one on one and listened to their concerns and feelings. I acknowledged that I had moved swiftly without preparing the group for such a big change. Good listening and owning your own stuff goes a long way. Gradual and strategic introduction of the idea would have been a good idea too. But, by the time we reached the point that change was needed, it was past time to make the move. I did learn some things about leading people along gradually.

 Myopic 
A few years back I got to feeling that as a group, we had become much too self focused and ingrown. I led us through a process of group discernment to determine together as a community what our strengths were, what brought us together and kept us together, what we imagined and wanted for the future (and what we didn’t want) and where we could learn and grow.

This process led to a focus on global issues and local community engagement. The focus led us to do collaborative art projects to raise money for communities in Africa. It led us to serve each other in more practical ways and to think beyond the needs of the group. I was impressed by the initiative that the community took to make this shift.

Take-Away: Why do you think people come to your group? What does being together do for you? What are the benefits of belonging to this kind of Soultribe?

Some of the many benefits are shared meals (we love good food and beverage!), encouragement for the journey of life and faith, shared history, care for each other, practical support for day to day life and through hard times, authentic relationships, new ideas and study, a sense of belonging, shared ritual, a desire to grow as a person, a desire to be known, fun, a community that welcomes kids.

The Real and the Ideal: What did you think your group would be like? How did it actually turn out? What’s that like for you?

 Since Third Saturday has simply become what it is over the years and we all have changed in many ways along the way it feels tough to answer that question.

I sometimes look at Soultribes that are just launching. These generally come together around fairly clear mutually held theologies, beliefs and philosophical or political values- these are common and not bad reasons for  people to form groups. I look at these and at times I think “Ah that looks less stressful…no debates about global warming vs global warming hoaxes that make me cringe, no strongly held difference about abortion rights to navigate, no stress when your favorite political candidate comes up in conversation.”

But then I look at the way that we respect and learn from each other, the way we can share life and still make space for the “other” right in our midst, I remember the love that holds us, and I am reminded that in a world split by difference, this is a hopeful story.

When we started out we were a Bible study and prayer group, and that was okay for that time. Over time we have been a spiritual formation group, an emotional support group, a topical study group. In more recent years we are a group of people intent on always learning and growing, urging one another on to love and to good deeds, caring for the world and our local communities together and caring for each other through thick and thin. And that is more than enough.

Advice Girl: What would you have done differently in the early days of your Soultribe?

I have loved all stages of the evolution of Third Saturday. When I look back the one thing I would like to have done differently is to have relaxed about cleaning my house. Getting ready for a large group of people to gather in your home every week can be stressful if you aren’t particularly a good housekeeper (but wish you were!). When my kids were growing up I could be crabby and uptight the day we were getting the house ready. Thank goodness the kids loved the gatherings as much as the adults did or they would have resented that high pressure preparation more than they do. Still, it would have been fine to have my house look a little more lived in when people arrived and would have been more fun to prepare without pushing so hard at the last minute to pull it all together. Frankly this is good advice to all parents of young children when it comes to house cleaning- whether a Soultribe is coming over or not. Relax and enjoy! A little mess (or even a big one) never really hurt anyone. And in hindsight, being bitchy to get a house clean isn’t worth it.

What  other tidbits would you like to add to our giant pool of wisdom?

• Laughter is good.
• Listening is essential.
• Let the seasons of your life inform your direction. Listen to your life. My own spiritual journey and the unique needs of our family have shaped the direction for the community over the years. As I look back and see this come clear I am grateful.

Kelly Bean and a slew of her wonder women are up next at Christianity21, October 9-11 in Minneapolis. Loosely based on the TED Talks model, 21 speakers will hit 21 topics in 21 minutes each. It’s the hottest Christian conference I’ve seen in years — plus, all the women are speakers but it’s not a “women’s conference.” In the world of the church my friends, that is a small miracle. To find out how to meet the miracle workers, click here. Pay special attention to Nadia, Seth, Makeesha, and our grand dame, Ms. Phyllis. They will rock your socks!

Soultribes is an on-going series helping creative souls build a place to call home. Demonstrate your commitment to forming your tribe by adding this badge to your website, and follow us on Twitter to read the next edition. “There ain’t no where to go but together!”

Right around Easter I wrote a post that was a little bit pissy. I did this intentionally because I was feeling pissy—and I was pretty sure other people were as well. (And indeed, they were.) But I got a little bit of push-back for being “too negative.” So let me say this about that, there are spiritual benefits to being pissy.

If you were raised in fundamentalist Christianity, or even in the slightly less stringent evangelical flavor of the faith, you were probably not allowed to be pissy. This is especially true for women, because fundamentalist constructs are primarily patriarchal in format. Even if you didn’t come up in church, if you grew up in America you still got the lite version of this patriarchy model, because we are, in theory, “one nation under God,” which means our religious roots are showing.

Women, religious or otherwise, are generally speaking taught to be nice. Politeness and gentleness reign supreme. It’s not lady-like to raise your voice, express disagreement in public, or swear like a sailor. And why should you be questioning authority anyway? There’s an established belief system going on; men (for the most part) control that system; and your status as a member of that system and therefore that community requires acquiescence to those beliefs. To question, contradict, or to complain threatens your belonging. And so the tendency to suppress disagreement is strong. And suppressed disagreement, along with being unheard, being denied a “voice”—these lead to anger.

But anger is healthy, normal, and to be expected. In fact, anger is helpful. Here are my top three reasons anger is spiritually beneficial.

Anger Signals When Something is Wrong. Anger, like pain, is a helpful thing. Just as pain signals that something is wrong within our bodies, anger signals that something is amiss in our souls. When I talk to my children about anger we often refer to it as “a cover-up emotion.” I ask them what the anger is hiding, and they can usually come up with an answer. Women who have grown up in the church are not so skilled at this. They haven’t been practicing it since they were 3 years old, like my kiddos have. And it can be a hard skill to learn. But in time, with practice, it becomes easier. The next time you feel a surge of anger, ask yourself, “What is underneath this?” You might even try visualizing the anger as a stone. Then imagine yourself lifting up the stone, and see what is underneath. See if you can address that root issue. I bet you’ll be surprised at how skillful you are!

Anger Allows us to Live our Authentic Self. The modernist approach to faith values conformity to creed over allegiance to our authentic self. In a post-modern milieu (which is where much of the non-religious west is living these days), authenticity is highly valued. It is considered a hallmark of emotional and spiritual good health. For those of us raised in church, especially fundamentalist and evangelical branches of the church, were brought up in the modernist approach. (The church is about 10-20 years behind the cultural learning curve when it comes to the modern-to-post-modern shift.) But we are living in a post-modern culture. This push-pull relationship between these two messages—“agree with the creed” and “be your authentic self” creates cognitive and emotional dissonance. This dissonance often manifests as anger. Pressing through the anger into your God-given internal authority, and trusting that authority to give you permission to express your authentic thoughts, releases you from that dissonance and allows you to flourish in the playground of truthfulness. Doesn’t that sound lovely? Embrace your authentic self by expressing your anger and find your way to the other side.

Expressing our Anger Allows us to Mentor the Next Generation. Post modernity is not strictly a generational game. I’ve meet people in their 70’s who are more twigged into post modernity than I am, and I’ve met 20-something’s (mostly those raised in fundamentalist churches) who don’t get it at all. But generally speaking anyone born in the Gen X, Gen Y, and anyone falling under the category of Millennial Kids are thoroughly embedded in the post-modern mindset. This means they value transparency over all. They can sniff out a lack of authenticity from a mile away, and intuitively recoil from it. If we are to be good guides—good teacher/learners—for and with these next generations, we must embrace our authentic selves. And if we are going to be honest with and about ourselves, anger is going to have to be acknowledged as part of the package. Learning to identify and express our anger will help the next generation—especially the young women who are coming up behind us. Isn’t that a legacy worth leaving.If you can’t be angry for yourself, do it for your girls.

What do you think? What has been your experience with expressing anger in your life? Have you found a way to express anger within a conservative religious construct? Have you had a breakthrough in dealing with anger? Share your story in the comments below, and add to the giant pool of wisdom, forming now.

So, I wrote this article about my Easter discomfort, and it threw me into two worlds. The first world is the one I adore, where recovering evangelicals and other misfit truth-seekers cling to each other and celebrate discovering a (rek)new(ed) way to be. The second world is the world of religious debate, in which people–people who I like and respect and admire–spend a great deal of time trying to convince me that ”we” are wrong and “they” are right.

I get why this is. I get that in the evangelical/fundamentalist world view, there is a Right and a Wrong and never the twain shall meet. Furthermore, for these folks getting things Right is highly valued. In part, this is because not getting it right results in not being right with God, and ultimately in a really long stay in Hell. So it stands to reason that people who hold this worldview want to debate with you about the places where your ideologies and their ideologies do not match up. Of course they want you to come to The Right. They like you. Maybe they even love you. They want you to fix your thinking because they care. They really care.

The problem with this is that we are experiencing cross-cultural dissonance here. Because in the post-modern world, there is not a Right and a Wrong in the same black-and-white sense that there is in modernist country. In the post-modern world truth is not seen as a concrete, attainable goal, but as an intriguing, slippery beast. To post-moderns there is more than one true way of answering the same question–and so the questions, and not the answers are tantamount. In the post-modern zeitgeist, this is fine, because you can hold two different truths in one open palm. But in the modernist milieu, that is not an option.

So, to use a phrase of my father’s “Let me say this about that.“….My target audience is this post-modern group of malcontented seekers. Malcontented Seekers. I know it’s an awkward phrase, but both of these words are important here.

Malcontented: by which I mean “requiring change, discontent.”
Seekers:  by which I mean “not willing to stay in the discontent, but being eager to create/discover something proactive and positive, something (re)new(ed).” 

I have readers who are modernists, and I thank you for being here. But I’m asking you to please remember that you already have a place to belong. A place to live out your beliefs. A place where others share your convictions. It’s a super well established place with lots of support for your way of being. You can live there in comfort. But the others–the malcontented seekers–not so much. They are out there on their own:  beat up and disoriented; hungry and eager; excited to find something new, and more than a little bit sad that they had to leave the former behind. It’s a difficult place to be. And these folks, they need a safe place, and they need to find each other. That’s what I do here. It’s what I strive to achieve. That is mycurrent calling.

So, if you are one of those lucky folks who live happily in a safe and content place;  one of those folks who know the Truth and the Truth works for you; if  you  feel  confident in your understanding of things like Jesus, and Easter, and Sin and Redemption–I’m happy for you. Believe me, we all sometimes wish we were there with you. But we aren’t, and we literally cannot be there again. So please try to understand. We aren’t rejecting you. We aren’t trying to pull you out of what you know, or convince you that you are wrong and we are right. But your language is no longer our language, your culture is no longer our own, and the basis for how you form your understanding of the world — the idea that the Bible holds all the answers, or that faith is cut-and-dry, or that all our holy stories are literally true–these things  are no longer bedrock for us. So we may miss each other a bit, we may not always connect. And that’s okay. We can still be significant one to another. But we need you to let us explore.

What this means for me, personally, is that I won’t always respond to all the comments from modernist Christians. I just can’t. I’m a chronic pain survior, I’m the mother of several, and I’m an ExPat trying to live in a foreign and difficult (for me) culture. That doesn’t leave a lot of energy for me to play with.  The energy I’m left with I am JOYOUSLY compelled to give to my malcontent friends and soulsibilings who’s questions lead them to seek truth in the margins. These are the edge-dwellers and my passion leads me to them — leads us to each other. So their thoughts and concerns will get the bulk of my time. I hope you understand.

That being said, thank you for all who have commented here, and on BlogHer, and on Twitter, and especially on Facebook, where the discussion is the most active. I appreciate your passion, your concern, and your gorgeous hearts and minds.

And to those of you who have come to those same places to be pissy, or sad, or curious, or hopeful, or all of the above–I am so, SO glad you are here. I know that together we can form a giant pool of wisdom that will allow us to create a way of living that doesn’t do damage to our souls.  Come join me on the picnic blanket, and bring your most favorite passions–especially the one’s you’ve had to keep under that mattress until now. We’re going to have fun!

Karin and Lindord my friends, play us out, will ya please? …..

Next up at Magpie Girl:  On authenticity, niceness, and the benefits of being pissy . :-)

A few weeks ago Kazari sent in a question for Advice Girl. Kazari likes the idea of a Dreamboarding Circle, and she dug reading up on our soulcare community, Monkfish Abbey, back in the States. In the end her question boiled down to this:

So I guess the question that I have is, where can I find people like you in real life? Or, how do I go about helping such a community to grow in my own house?

Or, more basically, what do I do with this spiritual crisis I grew all by myself? I feel like I need a community to help sort it all out.

This is not the first time I’ve been asked this. It happens quite often. Even more often people write to me about how badly their church fits them, or how worn down they are from trying to find their spiritual “place.” Most of the time those folks resign themselves to one of two things: leaving, or staying somewhere that is a very poor fit – somewhere that pinches their toes, leaves blisters on their heels and keep them from reaching the mountain top because, damn it, their feet hurt too bad to climb on up there!

Soulsiblings, this is the year to build our tribes. No more wandering about on our own, or cramming ourselves into institution and ideologies that no longer fit. This, my friends, is not for us. It’s time to move on – or perhaps more precisely it’s time to move in: to move in to the territory that is truly our own, to put some holes in the wall and hang up our oil paintings, to stick pictures on the fridge. It’s time to make our souls at home.

In the upcoming weeks and months, I will be writing posts that in one way or another have to deal with forming your Soultribe. Grant it, they might be only tangentially related, and of course there will be rabbit trails along the way. But over all, this will be the theme.

So here’s your first assignment: make space for your tribe. Rites and rituals are powerful because they take an abstract idea and make it physical. When you can see, touch, smell, hear or taste your dream, it becomes solid, it becomes real. So make a physical space in your home for your Soultribe. How? Here are two suggestsions

Vest your space. Do something once each week, every week, for at least one month that communicates welcome and gathering to you. Maybe you stack the magazines and fluff the pillows every Monday. Maybe you bake a loaf of bread on Friday night. Perhaps you replace all the candles and light up the room on Sunday.

In liturgical traditions, before a priestess officiates at a service, she dons the robes and stoles of her office. This is called putting on her vestments. When you prepare a space for a holy purpose you vest your space – you prepare the space so that something sacred can get born. What very simple thing could you do as a one-month experiment in vesting your space?

Send an Invitation. Nothing anchors me into a new reality like building a shrine. I’ve made them to quiet my demons, to honor my anger, and to let go of my burdens. Most recently I made one as an invitation to my Soultribe. It consists of a dollhouse chair, a tea light, and my December dreamboard. It took about ten minutes. Well, a couple days of musing about it, then ten minutes to set it up. It’s on the window sill behind my desk and every time I sit down at my computer, I light the candle and as I blow out the match I see that breath as a whisper of welcome. I’m making space for whoever The Muse or The Universe wants to bring my way. (I’m so curious to see what happens!) What object symbolize tribe to you? What things communicate welcome and belonging? Where can you gather them to indicate your openness to the in-gathering that is to come?

What will you do to make space for your Soultribe? Let us know in the comments and put a picture up at our Soulshrine Flickr group.

Now before you go getting all up in arms, be assured that at the time, I loved growing up in church. In my traditional Christian years there were many things that were beneficial and good for me. Somehow, in spite of the overemphasis on personal holiness, I did learn to look out for others. I was captured by the concept of transformation – the idea that healing, change, and forgiveness were always available and can change the world. Also, I was nurtured by the rhythms of the liturgical year and holy celebrations. I felt grounded in a long history of faith and forbearers. I had a good sense of call and a passion that lent energy to my work and to my living. At times I even had euphoric experiences of the presence of the Divine, which I will never forget. And sometimes I felt so happy to be celebrating with a community, so sure that I had a place to belong, that I thought my heart would be split from the joy of it.

But even in the midst of all those things, the emotional memory I carry with me most –at least at this stage of my life—is the pervasive feeling of shame I carried throughout my religious life, and the accompanying fear of doing something shame-full that came with it. Right now, when I think back on my life in the church, this feeling of shame and fear is a filmy substance stretched tight across my heart –an emotional thumbprint of angst and self-disappointment. My chest tightens and my throat constricts with anxiety. It is very visceral, very real, and it does not good to just close my eyes and hope it goes away.

I’ve been thinking about this personal reality for years now–literally for years—trying to assess how it came about; trying to imagine if there was or is any way of being in church without this experience. I don’t know the answer to that yet, but what continues to astonish me is that I lived in it for so long. I’m not a young woman. It’s not like I’m 20 years old and leaving my parent’s church for the first time to find out there are other things out there. I’m nearly 40 years old, and I’ve spent a good twenty of those years studying theology, working in various religious institutions, and writing about spirituality. But it’s only in the past—what—year? 18 months?—that I have really said goodbye to the institution that has caused so much damage. (It’s only recently I’ve been able to walk back in there from time to time without feeling like they were “pulling me back in”.) I’m a pretty strong person. I don’t naturally tend to tow the line. So what kept me in there so long?

Shah Afshar at Shawshanked Redemption has some thoughts on the matter. In his post Whatever Happened To Honor: Part II, Shah writes about Martin Seligman’s theory of “Learned Helplessness”, a phenomenon that occurs when one is in a situation which continually causes them pain. In Shah’s words, what Seligman found was

Subjected to repeated punishment, animals and humans come to believe they have no control over what happens to them, whether they actually do or not. In Seligman’s original experiment, dogs given repeated electrical shocks would prostrate themselves and whine, even when escaping the abuse lay within their power. [Emphasis mine]

Shah goes on to detail what kinds of behaviors cause Learned Helplessness, and why they allow the institution to continue to function in its status quo. The thing that most captured me about the Seligman’s experiment was this:

It was noted that the only way to get the helpless dog out of its cage was to send in another dog that had never been shocked. With the gate left open, upon receiving the first jolt of electricity, the new dog would bolt out of the cage and by doing so, it would teach the helpless dog to get out as well.

Now, as a writer I’m aware that in the literary tradition, using any metaphor relating ‘human’ to ‘dog’ is not an especially good one. But if we can get around our metaphorical habit for a minute and not associate being dog-like to being something negative, then I’d like to say this:

I’d like to start being a new dog—specifically the one that comes to the scared dog in the cage. Now, I’ve been shocked. Plenty of times I’ve been shocked. And sadly, because I was a church leader and a pastor, I’m pretty sure I’ve shocked others. (This is one of my deepest regrets.) But lately, I’ve been feeling a little bit healed up from the shocks, and I think, maybe, I have enough energy to run in and out of the cage.

That’s what I hope my blog (and maybe someday my book) can do. This is what I hope my writing can be: the redemptive action of dashing in and out of the cage, of demonstrating with energy and eagerness that there is a way out. Maybe even a way out that doesn’t require us to give up our spirituality, or our faith—maybe we can even hold on to Jesus, if we want to. Who knows? It’s possible.

When I wrote about this in my latest manuscript proposal (especially request by a publisher, who, sadly was never heard from again), I put it this way:

My main intent is to provide a map for the journey towards a new expression of faith. When we move into previously unexplored territory we sail into places where the sea charts read, “Here there be monsters.” But the monsters we fear do not exist. A bit of illumination along the unknown edges can reveal that there are no vicious creatures lying in wait, but only new, wide open places to explore.

I have been sailing these seas for a while now, and have begun to discern a pattern in these currents. There is a process to this faith re-formation, and it is possible to retain and rebuild one’s faith in the midst of this sea change. People should know the experience they are having is not a random and isolated event. There are stages in this journey that can help them find their way. Furthermore, there are traveling companions, and tools to help readers reconnect with the God in a way that is true to their spiritual core.

Unlike the early adaptors who traveled before them, the current generation of postmodern seekers does not need to feel alone and lost in foreign seas. Those of us who have already sailed these waters can be good with-mates. Help is at hand.

I think that’s true. I think it can happen, you and I holding hands and moving out and forward and into a newly imagined future. I believe we can do it. Don’t you?

Play us out boys…

my faithful prayer beads from Church of the Apostles in Seattle, WA.

This morning we went to church. I know, I know. I never thought I’d be there again either. But there’s a nice International Church here where every week we get to sit in a historic sanctuary and take Communion in a circle while everyone prays the Lord’s Prayer in their mother tongue. (I want to say it in French, just to show off, but I resist and stick with the formal version I learned in catechism.)

I have a dear friend who’s a long term ex pat in Thailand and he says, “Look, if it hasn’t sunk in over the past 20 years of church, I doubt we’ll ever learn it. So at this point in our lives, I think we should just go to a church because we like the community.” I think maybe he’s right. So after the service we go eat cheese with caraway seeds in the kaffe hall, and have conversations with people from all over the world. Last week we met our first Danish acquaintance, Anne-Mette, who wrote down the address of a museum where we could see her grandmother’s doll houses. Today I had tea with Alex, from Armenia, whose uncle happens to live in Seattle. Alex plays the piano, and the organ. When I bemoaned the fact that our children are so much louder than Danish kids, he says, directly to Eden, “This is good, that you have passion! This will make you a marvelous musician when you master the piano.” That’s pretty good stuff, right, to have someone affirm your nine year old like that? I think this one might be worth it.

Still, today as I sat in front of the huge gold crucifix with its weighty, anguished Christ, I had second thoughts about bringing my children to this place. You see, I believe you have to use art to preach. I believe that for a post-modern generation image is often, maybe always, more powerful than words. And this art, this occupied cross, is screaming “YOU stuck me up here and I’m never EVER coming down.”

I don’t want to indoctrinate my children with that kind of passive aggressive Jesus. I don’t want them to bear the incessant guilt, to always see an image of pain crowning their holy space. I don’t think the good news of Christ is that we get to soak in scenes from a Mel Gibson movie for the rest of our lives. I’m pretty sure Jesus never said the good news was, “I’m going to die on the cross and you get to look at that for the rest of your lives.” I’m pretty sure what he said was, “Woo Hoo! The kingdom of God is at hand!”

Somehow we didn’t keep up with that reality. We got stuck in the pain, in the bleeding. Here, my children will never see the cross bare. They will never get a visual celebration of new life, of new chances–of resurrection. Not even for a season, not even for one Easter day. He’s always up there, suffering. And while the potato the children are growing in the pot on the church steps is a lovely illustration of emerging life, somehow it doesn’t have the same impact of a life-size statue ripped full of wounds and shining in the winter sunlight.

Can you combat this golden year-round image with a few well-timed words? Can you redirect your children’s malleable minds to the potato? Can you help them focus on the shared loaf; the ring of candles ignited from one common light; the cup that never runs out? Or will they primarily remember the bleeding cross and the man who will never climb down?

Oh how I wish this congregation of nations could gather in the chancel, not just to pass around bread and wine, but also to share the task of taking Christ down from the cross. If only our many hands could lower him with ropes and pulleys; carry his weight away from that place of torture. If only we could leave the beams bare, clean-scrubbed and oiled. If only it could shine there on Easter day, and empty, carry us into the forgiven reality of Eastertide.

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Shortly after being ordained as an evangelical minister, I became almost entirely disenchanted with the world of church. The church wanted me to debate people into conversion; I want to dialogue with people about life. The church wanted me to de-bunk all other religions; I wanted to learn from their holy stories. The church wanted me to entertain people on Sunday morning; I wanted to host a banqueting table heavy on the bread, wine, and storytelling. The church wanted a water-tight system of belief; I wanted a way of living that recognized everyday moments as holy.

I spent a lot of time at staff meetings blathering on about these things while my co-workers looked at me with concern. Then I read these books, held the hand of their authors, and gleefully jumped off the diving board and into the deep end of generous faith.

A New Kind of Christian

The Story We Find Ourselves In

The Last Word (and the Word after That)

Brian McLaren

If you are a traditional church-goer who has felt kind of squirmy at Sunday morning services lately, I strongly suggest dipping into this trilogy. McLaren presents emerging/post-modern theology in the form of a fictional conversation between two friends—a pastor and a science teacher/philosopher. McLaren doesn’t claim to be an accomplished fiction writer, but his technique here makes these books easier to read than most religious texts.

were the unofficial required reading for the spiritual growth community I used to host. They’ve been a life line to the many ‘recovering evangelicals’ who have walked through our door. A New Kind of Christian breaks things open. The Story We Find Ourselves In ourselves In re-defines the Bible as a descriptive family story (as opposed to a prescriptive rule book). The Last Word (and the Word after That) tackles the concept of hell.

I would consider McLaren’s approach to be gently progressive; fundamentalists will hate it, but it’s great for the Jesus-y person who is deconstructing their faith in the hope of finding something at the center that’s worth holding on to. Read bravely. Today’s Flavor: Scratches where it itches.

The Spiral Staircase
Karen Armstrong

From her life as a young nun to her current role as an interfaith expert, academic Karen Armstrong The Spiral Staircase tells her story of journeying through faith and reason. Her tale spirals through faith, disillusionment, enlightenment, and back again, with each turn bringing her new understanding and depth. Most known for the popular texts A History of God and The Battle for God, in Spiral Staircase Armstrong uses a different voice to tell her own complex and very personal story. I’ve already marked up one copy, given it away, and started re-reading another. A well written memoir from one of today’s top scholars. Today’s Flavor: Find yourself on every tread.

The Power of Myth
Joseph Campbell

Okay, so it’s not a book, but he has written plenty of them. The Power of Myth DVD series, Joseph Campbell’s theories on comparative religious studies are broken into bite sized bits for those of us who aren’t pursuing an advanced degree. I’ve only begun watching this amazing collection of lectures, quotes, and images – but already I know it will be a pivotal item in my transformational tool kit. The late Joseph Campbell was one of the most respected scholars in his field, and his work is amplifying this voice in my head that’s telling me “All truth is God’s Truth”—no matter what package it comes wrapped in. Today’s Flavor: Expand you mind without over straining your brain.

Find more great reads and other stuff I like at Magpie Reviews.

The mystic in me and the artist in me are good withmates. Neither one of them requires a reasonable explanation for what they want to do. Both of them are willing to follow intuition over traditional logic. I’m pretty sure both of them would have posters of the Muse up in their dorm rooms.

Since I left the traditional church, my mystic tendencies have been on hiatus. I haven’t had any mysterious flashes of insight, and my dreams are of the most mundane variety. But the other night I had a comforting and lovely dream.

I dreamt that I was lying alone in a spring field, just looking up at the sky. Then my real life worries started slipping into the dream. Would the kids be lonely at Danish school? How could we get everything packed up in time? What will happen if I can’t find a neurologist who’s willing to continue my stateside treatments?

As these worries and more threatened to overwhelm me, I became aware of the gentle presence of Jesus at my side. He too was lying in the field, enjoying the sky. I felt a warmth in my hand and realized that Jesus had wordlessly taken a hold of it. When he removed his hand a few moments later, a tree nut rested in my palm.

This image – of a small nut in an open palm – has long been one of comfort for me. Julian of Norwich, anchoress and mystic, once had a vision of a tiny nut in the center of an expansive palm. From this image came her most recognized saying:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

This phrase has often been a comfort to me, and I have often extended it as a comfort to others. Yet somehow I had forgotten it in the midst of this big life change, in the left-brained nature of to do lists and moving plans. (This is spite of the fact that Rebecca gave me a silver acorn to carry about in my pocket!)

How grateful I am, that this message came to me again, in the passing of a small nut, from one dreamer to another.

It confuses me – as I’m sure it does you – how I can so deeply love Jesus and be so genuinely grateful for my Christian roots, and at the same time be so clearly scarred by the experience of religious indoctrination. I suppose this is because cult and faith cannot easily be balanced. Because Christianity is a social movement and all social movements eventually metastasize and bulge away from their original intent. Because, in my opinion, “Jesus got ‘jacked.”

When I think back over my religious upbringing there are a string of damaging thoughts that got grafted into my being which came purely from attending church, Sunday school, and youth group. Among the long list are these 7 most-damaging messages:

Any impulse you have towards physical intimacy is naughty. (Result: A lifetime of distrusting one’s body and seeing one’s physical self as the great betrayer.)
You should only date someone to get married. (The worst possible message you can give a fifteen year old)
You are not good enough, but God puts up with you anyway. (Result: A life-long feeling of inadequacy and a lack of self-love.)
Everything you love must be given as a “sacrifice” to God. (Thereby making you feel guilty for anything you feel passionately about that cannot be turned into “church work.”)
There is no wisdom/love/spiritual truth/devotion/generosity outside of Christianity. (Result: A really unattractive and utterly false sense of spiritual/moral/political superiority.)
The devil lurks around every corner waiting to attack. (Instilling a constant sense of anxiety and fear.)
God is only male, therefore women are bad because they are not like God and because they brought sin into the world. (Results: such a plethora of damaging crap I cannot even BEGIN to list it all here.)

These messages, these draining repetitive tapes that I still struggle to rid myself of, prevent me from taking my children to church. As much as I want them to have the beauty of growing up in church – community, religious ritual, music – there is too much ….crap…that comes with the package. I can’t allow my girls to be damaged by this as I was. As much as I’d like to think I can counter these messages with parental chats and at- home lessons, I don’t think I can. After all, my parents never taught me any of these deadly messages. I got those all on my own. From church.

Ideally, I could move out of the evangelical branch of Christianity and avoid these things. But really, it’s not true. No matter where I go—and I’ve gone to a LOT of churches—there are still things that keep me from resting easy: exclusively male pronouns for God; one person holding all of the wisdom in the pulpit; patriarchal models of hierarchy and decision making; and the ongoing staggeringly depressing truth that Sunday morning is still the most racially segregated hour of the week. Being a part of these things from a young age shapes you, moulds you, into a certain kind of be-ing. In spite of the changes many of my ministerial friends are chipping out in this old institution, I still have to take a time out. I still have to protect my children in all their malleable young glory. And I guess, above all, I still need time to be …sad.

May it not always be so. May those with the passion and drive to make changes have the strength to continue the work. May healing come, may truth return. Next year, Jerusalem!

This morning there are cherries for worship. They are reddening slowly in my front yard, awaiting sour cherry pie, somehow defying the birds which lurk so near. There is this, and the sound of the sprinklers from behind a neighbors’ fence, one tone as the water brushes the fence, another as it patters on the leaves of whatever bulb is in bloom – first shy daffodils, then a pride of tulips, followed by dominate giant irises and now brash, jubilant lilies. I have brought canned music with me, encased in a white electronic box, fed to me through metal earplugs, but I do not want it. I want only to feel my stride, to let my skin soak in life giving rays, the “taste the colour of peach” (an old line from a friends’ poem lodged in my memory these many years.)

As I walk up the slow slope from my house I pass our local school, a middle school—old and worn, empty of it’s usual wards, all of whom are trying to grow up too soon. Now there is a sandwich board out front, advertising a church. The usual handful of people wander in and out too soon for the service – the mothers setting up the Sunday school room, the worship leader doing sound checks on his guitar, the kids who wander lost and bored at having to come so early so their parents can help. This past week, my children have fallen in love with the singing of church songs. They caught this fever, as they do every Summer at church camp, where the enthusiasm of college-aged music leaders is infinitely contagious. Now, they bellow them all day long to one another, singing at full voice while they leap through the sprinkler or toss one another a ball. This has struck a small cord of guilt in my heart – a heart which is well tuned, over tuned, to vibrate with guilt. Perhaps my children should have these songs more than once a year? Perhaps they need them as a regular part of their diet? So I pause in my worship with cherries, and clad in my walking clothes, venture into the school building to see the church.

The minute I see the man with the guitar I know I cannot stay. My body revolts, my throat grows tight, and I have that feeling again – that metaphysical distress that repels me away from this format, this podium, this song. As much as it leaves me with an aftertaste of sadness on my tongue, I cannot stay in this place I once called home. I cannot raise my children here. Not here, or here, or over there. None of these buildings will breathe for me; will grant me soil to propagate. This is not the fast desired of me.

I am to feast on cherries.

Nothing could be more beautiful.

Cate: “Our teacher says this is the most important thing in our whole lives, and it’s NOT!”

Me: “What is the most important thing in life Cate?”

Cate: (sounding disgusted at my ignorance) “Your FAMILY.”

Me: “Oh, right. Well, some Christians believe that people will go to hell if they don’t know and love Jesus. So your teacher was probably just worried and wanted to make sure you know Jesus.”

Cate: “Mom. I already love Jesus, so this piece of paper is still not the most important thing in our whole lives.”

Eden (piping in with equal indignation): “I don’t even believe in hell.”

Me: “Well, some people do and we should be careful not to make fun of their beliefs. For instance _________ and _______ believe in hell.”

Eden: “That’s because they’re Republicans.”

Tonya, my good friend and brand new graduate of the University of Washington in Women’s Studies (WOO HOO!) turned me on to this t-shirt via feministing a few months back. Being a big fan of the “God Doesn’t Have A Penis” t-shirt of ‘aught five, I happily added this one to my smart ass collection. I wear it cheerfully with the camo cargo shorts I bought in the boys section of Target, and my custom converse which make me feel like the tomboy skateboarder I’ve always wished I was. I don’t often wear such bra-burning gear, preferring to be a little more on the arty-girl side most of the time. Most of the time when I get dressed I’m just trying not to look like an overweight soccer mom—‘though I readily admit there is something deeply troubling in my psyche which urges me to wear my most revealing scoop-neck/push-up combo whenever I’m called upon to speak at religious gatherings. (She’s a rebel and she’ll never ever be any good.) Still, I have to admit that this new slogan stating a possible alternate reality for Mother Eve has really been niggling away at the back of my mind. Believe it or not, I think something as simple as a t-shirt has pushed me over the edge of some invisible boundary into the unknown world of feminist theology. When I put it on I wonder, “What would it mean for me to be a feminist theologian?” Then I want to jump in with both feet.

I was at a wedding recently where the bride and groom wanted to do the Jewish tradition of breaking the glass during the ceremony – only they weren’t Jewish, and they wanted to break the communion chalice. Ray, their oldest friend and ordained minister was officiating at the wedding, and this destruction gave him just a little bit of a pause. He wanted to make sure that the symbolism could hold water. We were sitting at my house the night before the wedding nursing cocktails and musing about how to give this postmodern ritual a consistent narrative. “Maybe,” I said, “maybe we could not break the chalice given as it’s the only symbol of the feminine divine in the joint.” There was that awkward silence where no one quite understands but you’re all too tired and too buzzed to engage in some big new discussion so you just let it slide. But what I meant was that the communion chalice – womb shaped and full of blood for crying out loud, is a fantastic symbol for the feminine aspect of God. I’d love to promote that, got get people thinking about the terrific subversive power the chalice can have, sitting there as it always has been, front and center, throughout all these patriarchal centuries.

Anyhow, that’s what I mean, when I say that the Eve shirt has pushed me over the precipice. I think like this now. I am become this believer.

to read more about how I came paddle about in the pool of feminist theology, explore the priestessy things category at urban abbess.

When I graduated from my semi-conservative Christian college, a lot of people, including myself, followed up the graduation kegger with a wedding chaser. During this heady time, I would go to weddings full of optimism and cheerful resolve. (And to pick up tips for my own upcoming nuptials.) Surely, I thought as hopeful heady vows were exchanged, these people would be together FOREVER. In my naiveté I thought all you had to do was put your will into it and everything would work out all right. I never considered that as all we young one’s grew up, we might also grow apart. It never occurred to me that just a year or two into these marriages men might decide to stray, women might give up, things might become insurmountable. No, these pessimistic thoughts were not to be had by this bride-to-be. I was caught up in the hoopla and the fairy tale, hook line and sinker.

Back then almost everyone I knew who got married at 21 was divorced by 25. I remember one after-graduation wedding where the length of time it took the bride to hand-emboss 200 wedding invitation was longer than the entire duration of her marriage. Another post-college bride was heard to say three years after her marriage, ‘Even when I was walking down the aisle I knew it was a mistake.’ And my ex-boyfriend who so jubilantly said of his bride “The minute I said, “I do” I knew we’d be together forever”? Sadly, he was divorced by the time I finished graduate school.

Weddings can be scary things. We make very big promises – like promising to be together throughout eternity. Or promising to always keep our spouse before all others. (This particular promise usually goes out the door the minute a baby arrives and lands firmly in the catbird’s seat.) In my humble and oft-changing opinion, vows are a very serious thing and couples often take them far too lightly. This is not because we do not promise enough, but because often we promise too much – far more than anyone could reasonably be expected to deliver.

When Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt got married I remember reading in some magazine that they promised to stay together “as long as we are able to to” (or something along those lines), and she promised to “always make him banana milkshakes.” At the time I thought these were ridiculously shallow vows, capable of only holding meaning in some place like Hollywood. But now I wonder if there isn’t a wee bit of wisdom in making our wedding vows a little less romantic (in the broad sense of the term) and a little more practical. I don’t mean to say that wedding vows should be written so as to make marriages disposable. But I do think they could stand a little scrutiny and just a little more reality.

This weekend I was Jen’s date at the wedding of her dear friend Josué and her new friend Nicole. Although I only know these two in the most cursory of ways, it doesn’t take long for anyone to see this is the kind of couple that walks around with a general sheen of romance. They beam, they glow, they are ridiculously good looking – but the wonder of it all is that they do all these things while being clear-eyed and honest. From what I’ve heard, Josué and Nicole dated a good long while and took things one measured step at time. When they wrote their vows they were intentionally aware of what they were saying. Both were attentive to whether or not they were starting out with promises that would ensure each person equality in their relationship — which was both refreshing and wise. Together they wrote vows that were hopeful, meaningful, and romantic. But their vows were also realistic, recognizing the challenges which somewhere along the line were bound to rock their blissful matrimonial boat. My favorite bit? When they promised to be with each other in “success and in failure.” That’s the kind of promise that is both clear eyed and hopeful, that’s something someone could believe in.

It made me feel better, and more hopeful, to witness a wedding where romance and practicality could meet. So thanks Josué and Nicole, for reminding that yes, even in this day and age people do get married, and yes, it is just possible that it could last forever.

It’s Monkfish Abbey night –which, for those of you reading this post on my Magpie Girl site—is a small house church/spiritual growth community that we’ve hosted for several years now. The RSVP’s for this week have been trickling in and our numbers are teeny tiny. The summer siren song of house guests and outdoor haunts has already begun to lure people away to pursuits that can only be enjoyed a few scant weeks out of the year. As the priestess of all things seasonal, I’m totally fine with these sun-induced absences. There is nothing more important in the Northwest than enjoying the sun while you can. It’s a big part of taking care of your body and your soul while living here in this semi-hospitable climate.

Hosting Monkfish Abbey is always a bit of an uncomfortable jobfor me. At first I called myself a pastor and tried to do churchy things to keep everyone nice and saved/safe. Then I started seeing myself more as a spiritual director and I spent some time teaching people contemplative practices, because that is what my Type A personality needed the most. And as my ordaining mentor always says, “You only preach the sermons you need to hear.” My hope—our hope as founding members—has always been that this would be a teaching-learning community with a lot of equal footing, the sort of place where everybody could play. It’s taken me a long time to let go of old, patriarchal, hierarchical church habits. It’s only very recently that I’ve been acting more like a simple hostess—vesting the space with peace and cleanliness, making sure there’s TP in the bathroom and cutlery on the table. On my best days, this seems as natural to me as breathing. Other times, when I’m worn down it is very very hard. There’s a lot of sweeping involved–sweeping and washing dishes, and emptying ash trays. That probably doesn’t seem like much, but as you know I am sickly, and kind of a whiner. So some weeks, it feels like a lot. But no matter how burned out I am on the prep-and-clean-up, I always get a little lift when everyone is here. I always feel happy that we are not living alone, an isolated family with 2.5 kids in a house that’s made of ticky tacky and they all look just the same. Every Thursday night, when I go to bed, I am grateful.

More and more often other people are making the meals and offering the post-dinner activity, with me offering some small semblance of a ‘spiritual development’ activity just once in every 3 or 4 weeks. It’s pretty far removed from the senior pastor model of church life where the ordained person controls and takes care of nearly everything, their finger in every pie and their signature on every sermon. For most our exisistence as a community I’ve struggled with this lack of active guidance, and I rarely feel satisfied with how well I’m taking care of our little monkish life. There’s a lot of self talk telling me that I’m not doing a good job as a “pastor,” followed by a great deal of guilt that I’ve quite possibly left my real vocation behind at the mothership/motherchurch. Shouldn’t I be consistently offering people some sort of lesson? Shouldn’t I meet with people one-on-one during the week? Shouldn’t we be cracking open the Bible, or at least reading some of the dozens of religious non-fiction books publishers send me throughout the year? Shouldn’t we, you know, pray?

Simultaneous to all this worry is the undeniable compulsion to write, collage, and generally muck about in my studio – basically doing anything but pastoring. It makes me wonder what in the world a person with a master’s in theology is doing crafting zines and knitting rabbits. At the same time, these newfound studio loves are what brings me the most joy. I can’t imagine relegating this artist-work to the sidelines of my living.

When my best self is present–when I am the most centered and most aware– my guiding voice says, “You know, your pastoring self is doing just fine. You shouldn’t be doing any of those religiousy things, not any more than you are anyway. Really. It’s just fine. Go pick up your paintbrush.” It’s a peculiar thing – that all the things I’ve been preaching over the years – ‘everything we do is worship’ and ‘art creates holy space’ and ‘conversation is prayer” —all of these things are actually becoming real, and my very silly self is having a hard time believing it. It’s as though I’d hoped Willy Wonka’s factory was really, and now that I’m in the midst of the multi-colored glory of it all I’m blinking my eyes and waiting for it to disappear.(Go ahead dear, you can even eat the dishes.)

When I stop worrying long enough to ask myself “what’s really gone on this past year at Monkfish?,” I actually get a rather nice answer. We’ve talk about our lives. We’ve wrestle off and on with how to be more giving and more justice seeking. We’ve given money to good causes now and again. We’ve mourn the damage our old faith practices have done to us and others. We’ve gotten angry about stuff. We’ve engaged in our own forms of intercession and hope. We’ve put our toes in the water and to try to find new ways of being and doing and living. All of that seems pretty good really, even if it’s done in a very quiet, very laid back way. It all squares nicely with the way Jesus lived (especially all that wine!); it’s nicely moral, and its not been too damaging with the dogma. Not bad really, for a bunch of renegades and a heterodox pastor.

This summer we are closing Monkfish – at least at our house—for six weeks. I don’t think we’ve had more than two weeks off in a row since we started in 2003, so I guess it’s time for a sabbatical. When we return, if people return, I’ll continue to “hold space until something good can get born.” (Jen says that, or maybe Anne, or both.)

So, if you’re reading this on the Urban Abbess site, things will be quiet for awhile – maybe for good, as I’m considering rolling all my writing into one site again. Where on sabatical, you see, trusting the Muse and enjoying the sun. This site will stay up for your perusal and my storage purposes. Maybe I’ll see you again in the Fall. Until then, enjoy the sun, be good to each other, and eat lots of watermelon. Namaste, and God(ess) bless!

Much shalom,

Rachelle