Tag — Leaving Church
UPC : VBS
My children, along with a couple hundred other children, are sitting in the dirt wearing the same bright orange shirts they have worn the past four days. They are singing an old hymn, based on an older psalm. There are drums, a college student playing an acoustic guitar, and one cheerful teenage girl wielding the pre-requisite church-camp tambourine. Between each phrase of the song the children clap a complicated pattern while standing in small circles, each child’s palm against the palm of the child to their left or right…Or they shout “Woo Hoo!” in one choreographed voice…..Or they pump their fists into the air and grunt “Ugh!” energized by sheer joy. Each time they repeat the song they speed it up a little, until it resembles the Chipmunk’s Christmas Album, only higher and with more squeak. It is silly and graceless and loud – and it rapidly brings tears to my eyes.
Nothing could be more beautiful.
Conversations with My Daughters
My girls are attending half-day church camp this week. It’s sponsored by one of the biggest churches in town (Presbyterian) and features lots of lovely things like super-fun teenage group leaders and all the silly songs you could shake a stick at. One of the downfalls of this particular camp that makes it tip into the “indoctrination camp” category at least once each year, is that mid-week the group leaders give the kids a piece of paper asking them to sign if they’ve made a decision “to accept Jesus as their personal Savior”. (Thus the reason none of Cate and Eden’s friends-who-aren’t-Christians go to this camp anymore.) Today in the car Catie waved this purple “commitment” sheet around started this conversation:
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.”
Feminist Theologian
“Eve just wanted to know shit.”
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.
Another bride, another groom, another sunny honeymoon…
the jen’s (lemen and payne) and i
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.
Reflections on a Summer’s Evening
It is the last day of May and my children are scampering through the sprinklers. It is like miracle, to be this lovely and warm so early in the sunny season. It feels as though the whole city is breathing a sigh of relief and sinking back into the lawn furniture, which they’ve only just now got brave enough to pull out from the basement to expose to the elements.
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
