Giving Up

It's Lent.

Today -- the first Sunday in the liturgical season of Lent.

The stoles and paraments went purple. The hymns -- a bit more solemn.

I guess I like the changes that happen with this season of the church year because I tend to be an observant person. I notice things.

I notice when a new business shows up on Mass Street.

I take notice when a friend changes her hair or perhaps another friend, by a change in the tone of voice, indicates a change in her life she might be making.

I'm observant -- and intuitive.

I kind of like that there are ways to value that in our faith, too.

One of the ways that we "observe" Lent is by giving something up. It's not a bad practice in and of itself but sometimes becomes a spiritual discipline truncated into a checklist; kind of like so many other checklists in our lives.

So I've been thinking about it -- the 'giving up' part of Lent. And in my observation of myself and others around me, I've been taking note of the contents and variables of our lives.

And I'm well aware that sometimes the things we give up were not chosen, they're just no longer there.

Sometimes the Lenten sacrifice is a friendship, a relative, a romantic relationship, a place of employment, a disposition. These things aren't chosen, but wind up absent from our lives nonetheless.

What about those things? Do they count?

I heard a sermon this morning in which the pastor mentioned the practice of giving things up during Lent, the fact that Lent can seem like a season in which we say 'no.' But the thing is, according to this preacher, is that the things we say 'no' to make room for us. Their absense makes room for us to say an even bigger 'yes' to God.

I bring this up not to make light of my losses, or yours. If anything, it's to validate those losses. Giving things up is definitely a part of honoring God with the essence of our being. But what I'm considering now is how those things we let go of may not be voluntary. And yet, maybe even the things we are court-ordered to do, encouraged by physicians, hospice chaplains, mortgage brokers, pastors, marriage therapists or addiction counselors to let go of are of spiritual worth, too. Maybe these mandated omissions can be the beginning of the work of the heart; the spiritual discipline of releasing our attachments.

Thanks for Reading.

Lenten Intentions

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the liturgical season of Lent. As people of faith around the world we received the tangible reminder of dark ash rubbed into porous flesh. The reminder is this: we came out of the dust and will return to it one day.

Yesterday, I felt the weight of it. 

Did you?

Literally, it isn't much weight. We're talking a thumbprint worth of ash. You can feel it, but you can forget. (Until you look at the ghastliness of it in the bathroom mirror. Oh yeah! Ash Wednesday...)

But the weight of the existential meaning of Lent, yes. That's heavier.

Human, you are dust.

Kendra, you are dirt.

Mortal, your number will be up one of these days.

It is not the message of the church to humanity every day. But it is the message of Ash Wednesday. And it is like a smoke signal, a shotgun, or a stopwatch. The lenten clock is turning. Soon we will witness flowers poking through the ground, grasses coming back, the Alleluias of Easter returning with brass and fanfare. But we have to get there. Sometimes with a skip in our step but sometimes with the thud of weary feet against the pavement.

In the meantime, we make disciplines.

I made some.

I'm tempted to broadcast them here, but, for fear of faulty practice, I'll keep them concealed. For now, know that I have intentions. I pray to keep them.

And to those observing Lent - hello!

We are kindred travelers on a journey of the Spirit. Here's hoping we will find ourselves the same though somewhat changed in these forty-some days.

Thanks for reading.

The Heart

"The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?" ~ Jeremiah 17:9

There is a
divided highway
that bifurcates my heart;
runs
right
through
it.

Tell me, God.
Did I inherit
the Psalmist's ambivalence?
Extreme moods,
impassioned actions?

Since when did
Affection and Anger
become identical twins
so fond of playing tricks
on their teachers.

I confess that they dwell within me.

My heart is a lump
of cookie dough, at times
in need of thawing.
But when thawed, Lord,
it is raw and dangerous.
Trustworthy? Maybe --- not.

Where must we live, God, where?

Is it in the seam of healed skin,
that scar, between brokenness
and sealed-off-ness of the
heart's landscape?

You know,
The Psalmist says,
(according to chapter thirty-two),
that he hides -- in you.
Maybe I'm asking
that you let me hide there, too.

Tear in Your Hand

Have you ever favored a particular musician such that you've listened to them for half your life? For me, it's that way with Tori Amos. She's the artist I lipsynced to in my lengthwise mirror as a ninth grader. Over the years her music has morphed and shifted and I still listen to it.

One of her songs has a line in it: "You don't know the power that you have with that tear in your hand." (Incidently, the song is called "Tear in Your Hand.")

Some song lyrics echo in my brain long after I've heard them sung. This one has been lingering in my brain lately. I agree that there is power in the possessor of the tear-dampened hand. What does that beholder look like? Maybe one who offers a shoulder to cry on, maybe a priest or confessor, perhaps a therapist whose office contains an endless supply of [non-abrasive] tissues.

I would like to argue that, similarily, we carry this power as women, as mothers.

Yesterday I read "Deborah's Song." You can find it in the Old Testament, Judges 5. Deborah is a prophetess and judge, charged to provide military protection and spiritual guidance to Israel as they struggle under Canaanite oppression. In her song, Deborah praises another woman, Jael, a tent-dweller who ends an army commander's life by luring him to her tent, offering him spoiled milk (a strange cocktail -- meant to lull him to sleep, or poison him? Hmm...) and when he is most vulnerable, she taps a tent peg through his temple. (Nighty-night!)

Perhaps I'm behaving gingerly with this text but the truth is that Sisera, the commander of the Canaanite army, would not have submitted himself to a tent-peg-through-the-temple were it not for the illusion of hospitality. (What did he think would happen in that tent? I am quite curious. However, that inner dialogue didn't make it into the biblical text.)

Last year I viewed the foreign film, based on the book, "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo." I would like to see the Americanized version, but am hesitant because of two particular scenes. They are scenes of sexual violence - one act of abuse of power, one act of revenge. Perhaps these are the "dark sides" to the power of "the tear in your hand." When do we misuse the vulnerability intrusted to us? When is a vulnerable moment an opportunity (as in the striking end of Sisera's life) to bring about justice?

There's got to be an upswing, right? I'll stick with music references. My friend Shannon (who I mentioned in my last post) introduced me to a new musician who kind of messes with all of my preconceived notions. MC Yogi's style is "yogic hip hop," so, the artist raps --- about Hindu faith. Yogic chants are woven in with rhythmic, clever beats. One of MC's songs is called "Son of Shiva." It is the story of Ganesh, the child of Shiva and Parvati. Ganesh, before he is called Ganesh, faces his own tragic end. He is guarding the path to where his mother is bathing. (This is all according to a hip hop song, so, bear with the gaps.) Meanwhile, after being away for some time, Shiva comes home and tells the boy to move. Out of obedience to his mother, the boy refuses. In his anger, Shiva beheads him. Parvati is crushed. But, as the story goes, the gods look out for this family and provide the head of an elephant for the decapitated boy. Parvati affirms that the head fits, and goes back to loving him. "Son of Shiva" becomes "Ganesh," a deity known for "removing all obstacles." His beginning is born when you are quite certain his life is over.

What the heck does this have to do with anything? I'm still working on a connection. But I think the link I want to make is that Parvati birthed her son and wasn't done with him -- even as he appeared to be dead, and headless. She took a gift from the gods of an elephant head, awkward as that may have been, and continued to love her son. Maybe her love empowered the boy who died to become a deity whose narrative lives on in the consciousness of billions of Hindu people worldwide. It's a thought. (And probably not an original one.)

Tears. Vulnerability. Temptation for Revenge. Actual Revenge. Anger. Destruction. These all can seem like ends. They all reflect the power, or can, of that "tear in [one's] hand." But they can also be beginnings. New starts to amazing transitions and new narratives. What if my head were cut off, and a new one were supplied? Not going to happen, literally, but I wonder -- would I accept the gift? Would I even have a choice not to? Oh Ganesh. You are making me think too much.

Thanks for Reading.

Reflections on Retreat: Re-mind, Re-new.



Shannon and Kendra, contemplating...

 Last week I attended a conference at Phillips Theological Seminary in Tulsa for clergy renewal and continuing education. But the fun began and continued even after the alotted sessions on campus. I have a fondness for car conversations. Shannon and I had several good ones along our Kansas-Oklahoma commute. One of my favorites involved our review of the conference. In a presentation by Diana Butler Bass, we were asked to consider our identity. She asked the question: "Who's are we?" Shannon brought this question up in the car, she wanted to know how I would respond. My answer unfolded as I gave it but I began with the liturgy spoken to baptized children in the Lutheran church. (Something like: "you are a child of God, marked by the cross of Christ, sealed by the promise of the Holy Spirit forever, no one can take that away from you...") I added that I came from Texas ruffians and Pennsylvania Baptists. I am my mom's daughter, my dad's kid. I am a sister, a wife, a friend, an auntie. I have so many belongings. I belong to the Kansas Disciples, too. Shannon had her own answers, some that overlapped with my own. One that was unique from mine is that she said she belonged to the planet. That inspired me.



Sometimes the cup of blessing....is disposable.

Shannon arranged for us to lodge with her friends in Tulsa for our overnight stay. [Shannon took care of a lot of logistics. Basically, Shannon rocks.] Anyway, I was a little nervous about staying with people I had never met before, but I had no need to. Shannon's friends were incredibly hospitable, delightfully conversational and their home had peaceful energy. I took a picture in their bathroom. (I am weird like that.) But I was impressed that their "bathroom cup" was a disposable cup they obviously didn't replace everyday.



I named this image 'Starfish Worshiprize'

 The conference had two times over two days for worship together. On the first day we were invited to pick a rock up off the communion table and keep it until the next day. The following day, we walked it back to the communion table while the musicians (complete with djembe drummers!) soulfully and repeatedly led us in a rendition of "Veni, Sancti Spiritu." Preaching both days was powerful, impressive, thought-provoking. In my mind, equally powerful were the prayer experiences like the one I mentioned.




The pillow on the stack of yoga blankets says:
 "A friend is a gift you give yourself."

We had some breaks during the conference. The first one kind of overwhelmed me - I wasn't ready to non-awkwardly mingle. So, I was grateful that Shannon needed "carrying help." Shannon is a certified yoga instructor (as well as a minister-in-training) and plans to offer yoga classes to PTS students and community starting this week.

Extremely. Serious. Adult Human Subjects.

It was a delightful surprise to run into not only my Committee on Ministry representatives, (Karen is one), but also my "Kindred Weirdo" running partner's dad (that would be Robert). Karen and Robert are "Kansas Disciples," like me, and they are also the parents of my good friend. I texted this picture to Bethany so she would know that we were all behaving like serious adults at our conference.

Oh, there's more I could say. (You know -- like something about the content of the conference!!) But instead, I won't. For a description of the content and presenters visit: http://ptstulsa.edu/RemindRenew

But before signing off, I'll give a shout out to Phillips Theological Seminary for this conference. It was reasonably priced - $90 or free if you're a PTS student. And the seminary community wove the registration experience, the space, the speakers, food, worship and breaks into a tapestry of spiritual growth and mindful reflection. For that I am quite grateful.

Thanks for reading.

I'm Glad I've Somewhere to Go

Not much to say, but....hmm. I'm in an interesting season of my life. There is much that is transitory. I cannot ruminate on the past, I shouldn't dream the future in its entirety just yet. There are loved ones I hold dear who are hurting and figuring out their own journeys. But I cannot walk those for them. So, on this day, an ordinary day, I am thankful. Thankful for a place to go. A sanctuary without pews. A place of quiet where the Holy Spirit whistles to my soul....and, at least today, my Kansas family is with me.

Thanks for reading.

Bless Our Father

For Our Father and My Dad (or My Father and Your Dad)

How many fathers
does a willow tree
carry? Too many.
Father Abraham
only counts his
sons, but maybe
his calculator
is off. I have a
father who makes
bets with peanut
butter but I also
have a dad who
lives in my heart.

A Riddle of the Lord

for Clementine

The Holy Spirit has a twin
her name is Fran and
she's your mom's sister
or maybe she's your
sister's mom or
maybe she's mom's brother
in drag. Sometimes she's
evil, sometimes she's good.
She's totally a shapeshifter
and has a fondness for
clever games. Have you
met her? Betcha can't tell
if you love or hate her. She
has a heart and a garden, too.
She may ask you questions that make no
sense at all. "Remember when
you met me at the flea market in Tulsa?" (uh, no...)
When she has a stroke she'll squint
her eyes to the heavens, "good heavens!"
and say, "is that all you got, Lord?"