“Lie back, daughter, let your head be tipped back
in the cup of my hand.
Gently, I will hold you.
Spread your arms wide, lie out on the stream and look high at the gulls.

Phillip Booth, Words of Mouth

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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Way back in January, I began a list of Wednesday Reviews focusing on books that have changed my life–and which just might change yours. I started with the Artist’s List, moved on to the Feel Better List, then got waylaid just after the Budding Feminist List. Now I’m back to offer you the last two installments: Religious Awakening and Survival Parenting (next Wednesday). Thanks for hanging in there with me…and remember, any purchases made by clicking on the embeded links help support this website. Here’s to brave new worlds!
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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 Suggests.

cate and pelt at the dog park

sometimes, simple moments seem sacred.
savor them at sacred life sunday.
namaste.

Did ‘cha know that I’m a contributing editor over at BlogHer? Find me every monday writing about things like this or this. See you there!

One year in college, a couple decades ago, my girlfriends and I decided to wear black on Valentines’ Day. We were all boyfriendless at the time, and Spring had hit early so couples were coming out the dorms like moths from a wardrobe. We rebeled against coupledom in all it’s sacchrine glory. And what else is a rebel to do, but wear black?

Many years later at graduate school a professor of mine asked me to tell her my life story. I told her all the basics: where I grew up, what my undergraduate degree was in, when I got married. When she asked me how old I was when I got married, and the age “23″ came out of my mouth, this wise woman nodded her head and said, “Oh, so you’ve never been single.”

No, I have never been single. I went straight from a small Methodist college, where (almost) everyone was not so much single as just not-married-yet; on to graduation; and then straight to “Here Comes the Bride.” I never lived a day in the life as a single gal.

But she had been a single woman, my 50-something thesis advisor, and many of my girlfriends have as well–either as women who have not married, or who have married and are single again. And there’s also those girlfriends who have had long-term partners and common law unions, only to find themselves on the single side of the chart once again.

These women do not live lives of bereavement. They are not bereft. And whether they are single by choice or by circumstance, all of them have built lives that are as full and rich as any woman with a ring on her left hand and someone else’s clothes in her closet.

So every year, on Valentine’s Day, I remember that year in protest-black, I recall that a-ha moment with my professor, and it prompts me to post this blessing. I wrote it out of love for St. Lucy, for my single friends, and for the passionate heart of St. Valentine. If you are single, I hope it is a gift to you today. Thank you for living lives of admiration, and for putting up with all of us who go all gooey under the influence of paper hearts.

With Love and Respect,

Rachelle
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I bless you in the midst of your singleness,
In the ebb and the flow of it,
In the hot and the cold of it.

Amen.

Well boys and girls, these are the questions asked of me by my nine-year-old between 8:20 and 8:31 this morning:

“Why does God let our bodies hurt? I mean, why make my ears hurt when I’m trying to help it get better after getting them pierced?”

“Why doesn’t God just make illness stop? It’s mean of him to let people be sick, I mean, if God can do anything then why doesn’t he fix that problem.” (Notice, this child insists on using the masculine pronoun even though I primarily use the feminine. She doesn’t like new things, this one. In contrast, the other one is bouncing a blue balloon on one finger and insistently shouting, “Yes she does answer us when we pray. She does, Mommy!” Meanwhile, the agnostic one is making cheese sandwhiches and laughing his head off, which is not entirely uncommon.)

“Why doesn’t God make it easier to understand things he says– I mean, if we can’t communicate too well with him, at least he could communicate with us because he made us and he should know how to talk to us? I mean, if his mind is so much bigger than ours that it makes it hard for us to understand they ways he is thinking, couldn’t he just—you know—adapt?”

“Mommy! God should just make sure that everyone can see him really easily. I mean, there hasn’t been a miracle in a LONG time. And he should just make sure everyone can understand him. (Pause) Because then more people would believe in God and its good to know God. (Pause) He’s is pretty good to know still. (Pause) Even if I am still really upset about that feeling pain and being sick stuff.”

Yikes! Does anybody have a book called “A Kids’ Guide to Theodicy?” or maybe “A Child’s Garden of Prayer and the Problem of Evil?” Anyone? Huh? Huh? Anyone?

Children lighting candles-as-prayer at the peace installation, December 2004. Photograph by My True Self.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent (from the Latin, meaning ‘to wait’). It is the time in which Jesus-y folks everywhere prepare for the arrival of Emmanuel, God-with-Us. (The very concept of that possiblity give me anticipatory chills.)

Last year Advent went by in a flash, and my carefully cultivated discipline of keeping a peaceful, presence-ful schedule evaporated in a sea of poor planning. Ironically, in the midst of packing for an international move, this year we seem to be approaching this season with a more reasonable sense of time. To help this along, the note on my fridge says, “Today will unfold with measured grace,” and I am carefully prioritizing our calendar to help my family sink into this beautiful season.

Tonight we will go to “A Tranquil Advent Evening” at the cathedral on the hill. Though I’ve offered to let them beg off, the girls have both asked to go. They will be content to walk the labyrinth and light the peace candles while Momma –who was raised singing cantatas every year in the school choir — will join in the singing the gregorian chants and the verses of the O Anitphons, inviting the peace of Christ to come and dwell amongst us. My favorite verse, as always, will be verse eight: “O come, Desire of nations, bind in one the hearts of all mankind; bid thou our sad divisions cease, and be thyself our King of Peace. ”

The first time I came to this service on the hill, a profound sensory experience surrounded me, forever altering my experience of the Advent season. Here are my memories from that Advent, three years ago.

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Last night we went to “A Tranquil Advent Evening” at St. Mark’s Cathedral. The labyrinths were all candlelit, as were the steps to the altar. There was a classical guitar, a bevy of peace candles, perfectly executed Gregorian chants, a stellar harp.

It was raining outside, as it had been all week, and I had become acustomed to the constant drip. But inside the cathedral, I wasn’t prepared for weather’s resplendent sound.

It was as if the wind had decided to roar and sweep only around the cathedral walls. As if the rest of the city had been abandoned by her touch, that she might rally around this one space, this one focal point, her tendrical arms weaving and circling only around the deep, quiet nave.

“I am in a ship,” I thought, behind closed eyes, “below deck, and out of the way in my berth while the crew works to outstand the storm. Or perhaps we are all below, grasping tin mugs of coffee, working with the sway of the sea, hoping for the best, now that we’ve battened down the hatches.

No, it is more like a submarine, submerged and silent and waiting—hoping not to be heard by the enemy, hoping to be found by rescue rather than salvage.

Or perhaps we are Jonah, sloshing amongst fish bones, listening to the sounds of digestion, praying for rapture.”

Then another thought sprang into my consciousness—more true for its unbiddeness, for it’s unlooked for appearance…

“We are in a womb, in this strong walled Mary. We hear, not the howl of a storm, but the pulsing and swish of the stuff of our own making, the life-blood of our own to-be-ing. Hoping. Waiting. Being very still, yet very present.

Are these not the actions of both the mother in pregnancy, and the infant in utero? Mary’s song, the howl and swirl of heartbeats, the rush of blood in the vein. Entombed. Enwombed. Either way, a closing-in before the reality of new life, shown in a crowning head, in the left-behind emptiness or an abandoned tomb.

Advent, to wait. Emmanuel, to come. Oh! What could it be, if we would hold both words in one space– hold them there, between the roof of your mouth and the top of your tongue; soft in between the hollow of your cheeks, holding two truths in the loose-jawed spaciousness.

To Wait. To Come. Do you feel the void between these phrases? It spills out, whispering, “hold steady, be present.”

Breathe in…the sound swirls inside this still, incubating space where words come, waiting to be birthed into a reality. They hover amongst your teeth. Exhale….your breath hanging like a plea. “O come!”

To learn more about my Advent-y world, visit my previous blog Urban Abbess and choose ‘December’ in the archives window, or browse through the ‘rites and rituals’ category. Thank you for reading.

Order Here

Mmmmm…Fall is here, time to put on your warm socks, find your favorite blanket and curl up with a good read. Lucky you! My Fall zine is ready for you, just in time!

Volume three of a four-season series, the zine is dedicated to the some of the seasonal celebrations we practice in our home: Ramadan, Rosh Hashanah, Sukkot, a 9/11 remembrance, and our communal meal. You’ll also find recipes, collages, and the next saint in my Saints and Sinners collection. The first ten orders will also receive an extra saint card to give a friend.

May the spirit of gratitude that accompanies this season be instilled deep within you!

Shalom,

Rachelle

“Blessed is the one who shares
the power and your beauty.”

Here’s another little matchbox shrine for the current Creativity Challenge. This fun project is perfect if you only have a little time to be your creative self. I made this ode to Mary in a half hour, while the kids ate afer school snacks at the kitchen table.

I’ve been carrying this vintage enamel token in my pocket for a couple of months, ever since I found it at our local flea market. I’m constantly afraid I’ve lost it, until I dig through the pile of dirty clothes to find her resting serenely in some pocket or another. I’ve been yearning the past few years for more feminine images of the Divine. The BVM, or Blessed Virgin Mary, is a good stand in. While while Mary doesn’t quite fit the bill for me in that regard, (DaVinci code conspiracy theories aside), I do find it comforting to have a nurturing mother figure at my side.

I’m having fun putting together a nice little ephemera package for making tin-box shrines. It will be the prize in the matchbook shrine drawing on October 5th. Carve out a little time for yourself this weekend and indulge in some mucking about with tiny things — make a matchbook shrine. There’s plenty of room in the pool!

P.s. Do you remember this song? Sometimes it gets stuck in my head when I’m wishing for Mary…

“So if I say save me, save me
Be the light in my eyes
And if I say ten Hail Mary’s
Leave a light on heaven for me …”

-Mary’s Prayer
Danny Wilson