Lockdown

It was 10:36 when the announcement came over the intercom speaker on the phone on my desk. I knew it was coming. It is just a drill. I know it is just a drill.

Childcare lockdown.

For about 6 minutes, my daughter's preschool (whose phone system is tied in with ours) was practicing what they would do if someone came into their school to do them harm. And for about 6 minutes, and for a full 15 after the "all clear" signal came through, I've been sitting at my desk crying.

I had the same reaction to the email I got from my son's kindergarten teachers back in January. They did a similar drill, though in their infinite creativity, they called it a "giant bunny drill", you know, in case the class was put upon by a herd of giant bunnies. Each kid was given a special hiding place int he classroom, safe from the giant bunnies. They were just letting parents know that if our kids came home talking about attacking rabbits, this was why.

They were also letting us know that they were thinking about my child's safety, and even in thinking of that, they were also protecting his 6-year-old psyche, one that--so-far-- believes that bad guys only exist on Lego Ninjago and Star Wars.

I am grateful that my kids go to schools where the teachers are trained in "lockdown". I trust those teachers every day with little beings more precious to me than my own life. But I am so sad for the world they live in. I am deeply grieved that my three-year-old is learning how to hide from bad guys during her school day and something inside me permanently broke when my kindergartener laughingly told me about his giant bunny hiding place.

This is the part of parenting that no one can quite articulate: this feeling of total helplessness in the face of obvious evil. And that evil might be anything or anywhere: drunk driver, cancer, man with a gun in an elementary school. There is absolutely nothing practical we can do to escape either the evil or the helplessness, so we do nothing practical.

Instead, I do the impractical, the lavish, the ridiculous, the first stop and last resort: I pray. I have to. For non-believers, this sounds pointless, I get that. But at least feels like more than sobbing with my head down on my desk. And I believe that it is more than sobbing. It is admitting that, while I'm doing my best at taking care of what I've been given, there is a point after which control is no longer mine. There is terror and comfort in that. It's the best I've got in times like this.

Liturgy, in a mirror

I have presided over a funeral with military involvement before, but the one this morning was different. Maybe because it was so big, maybe because I knew the honoree so much better, maybe because it was on my home turf. In any case I was reminded how really beautiful the "liturgy" of the military can be.

The whole things started with an unexpected fly-by in the middle of downtown Atlanta. Three huge jets came screaming down low over our church yard. (We learned later that the unannounced nature of it terrified the occupants of the nearby office towers.) But it set the tone for the rest of the service. Not in grandeur or terror, but in importance. This time and space was set aside for something of utmost importance. After the Word, Eucharist, Commendation and Committal, the Marine Corps Honor Guard presented the Colors to the honoree's grandson. It was simple, clean and very moving. Throughout the service, I was struck by both the contrast and similarity of our purposes and presentation.

This funeral had nine clergy vested and processing.  It also had a multitude of military personnel: a bagpipe, trumpeter, honor guard, arms presentation, family escort.

I was moved by the beautiful balance of fluidity and rigidity that the military contingent struck as they moved through their paces.  Not a movement was wasted, there was nothing extemporaneous or loose. This had been done thousands of times.

But so had our part, and for hundreds of years.  Our movements are not perfect, but they were smooth.  Our words are full of comfort and a message of grace.  I think the liturgy of military honors speaks volumes about a person's dedicated service to those things which are important here on earth: honor, pride, protection, duty.  But for my part, I believe immeasurably in the Christian burial (especially the Episcopal one!) and what it says about life eternal, and about those things which are important to God: love, mercy, grace, forgiveness.

We are people in the world for a time, so it makes perfect sense to honor those things that we held dear by those who held us dear.  Bill deserved every inch of those military honors and then some. They were beautifully executed and appropriately offered.  I appreciate that such as this is available to God's beloved who spend their lives in so great a calling.  But I am even more grateful that our burial liturgy is available to anyone and everyone who live on this earth at all, reminding us that we are all called into greatness, whether in this life or the next.            

Being a companion and getting things done

I am here! To introduce myself. Thanks Noelle for already opening up a spot for me here. Noelle created this blog, so I will speak to my relationship to her. Noelle is the senior associate rector at All Saints' where I have been a member for almost 10 years. Our kids are about the same age. I have three boys, ages 7, 4, and 8 months. I also have a husband and a dog, who are also, both boys. I was not raised in the Episcopal church. I was raised evangelical. That may come up in some way as I sort things out here. My husband Tim and I were married in the Episcopal church after both attending the same one in college, and we have attended one ever since.

I have always enjoyed hearing Noelle preach and reading her blog. I knew she was interested in a companion, writing here at this blog, and well, I enjoy being a companion, perhaps most of all. While I don't think I can say I enjoy challenges, I do seek them out. I think to write well is hard. I personally appreciate writing that is concise. Mine is not. I have had dear people from English professors to graduate school supervisors, quietly and not so quietly nudge me in the direction of resources for how to be concise. I am working on it. And that's all I'll say about that.

So... I do have some thoughts to share, but one of the things that got me started tonight was that I told myself, "hey, Beth, you don't have to do this all at once". (And you're not alone! Noelle is here too). It can be bit by bit. Or as Anne Lamott says, Bird by Bird. (Interestingly, I read this book in undergrad as an assignment to myself when doing an independent study on short-story writing).  They are wise words that I try to remember. I don't have to tackle the world at once. I just need to start. So here I am, getting started. Getting things done.  This is perhaps the biggest challenge for me, and one I like be reminded of during Lent. During Lent, it is easy for me to beat myself up over all that I'm not doing. And in the midst of all that beating, I am immobilized. I'm doing nothing.

Be patient, I tell myself. God's work takes time. Just take a step forward. One step. You'll get there. And most likely, when you do, you'll find out how much further you have to go.

This is wonderful.  As a parent, I hope that my kids have half as much intergrity as these kids when they are in high school. Watch all the way to the end.

Walking in the middle, yet again

This morning's Gospel reading from Matthew took me in the opposite direction from where it was supposed to.

Jesus is warning the disciples against being like the scribes and Pharisees who spend a lot of time being "greater than".  They expect praise and recognition for their piety.  they don't practice what they preach.  What we are supposed to learn from this is pretty clear:  Don't be a puffed-up jerk.  Be humble, be faithful.  Do without expecting praise.  Lead without expecting recognition.

I get that.

But after reading this passage this morning, I realized that the other end of that spectrum gets on my nerves just as much.  I can't stand the overly pious, self-effacing behavior of those who take this Gospel too seriously.  In fact, this probably bothers me more than the puffed-up jerks of the world.  I wonder if drawing attention to oneself by purposefully taking the lowest seat or waiting to only gather up the scraps doesn't have a similar effect to self-aggrandizement: it is alienating and counter to good community-building.  Just as no one wants to be bossed around by a big shot, no one wants to be made to feel inferior for NOT wanting to be a doormat.

Anglicans have been talking about "The Middle Way" forever.  It is, if I am honest, my fallback response to most dividing forces in the religious world is some version of this via media.  When we are at our worst, this makes us Anglicans look floppy and uncommitted, as if we can't quite make up our minds on where we stand (see previous post).  At our best, however, it means that we are making room for both ends of the spectrum (pick a spectrum, any spectrum!) and everyone in between.  I love the middle way because it means that I have some thinking to do. 

And this issue of grandiosity vs. humility gets solved for me in the middle way:  Don't be a jerk, but don't be a doormat either.  We were created for goodness, goodness we should be.  I'm not really sure what that might look like, but I'm open to your suggestions.  I think it has a lot to do with intentionality and motivation, about keeping God in clear sight at all times, and when our sight gets clouded, wiping the windshield and starting again.  This middle way-- in this respect and in so many others-- is, for me, the Christian walk: purposeful and strong, but with a light respectful tread.  

Who we are, who we are not.

At the rector's request, our program staff have been reading Deep and Wide by Andy Stanley.  Stanley is famous around these parts for being the creator of an enormous Christian ministry conglomerate known as North Point Ministries.  Like many folks who are extremely successful at what they do, Stanley gets a lot of flak for his methodology, pedagogy and theology, primarily from those of us in mainline traditions.  We've been not-so-secretly sneering at the North Point way for years.  But the truth is, in one very basic respect, Stanley is massively successful:  there are butts in the seats.  In an age where Christianity is purported to be dying on the vine, the several Atlanta-area North Point mega churches are bringing in newcomers by the hundreds each Sunday and playing to a cast of thousands each week.    

To be frank, I'm not really enjoying the book.  His writing style is irritatingly informal and chipper, while at the same time treading obnoxiously close to "daddy knows best".

BUT...

It is making me think, and I appreciate that.  And I appreciate Stanley's willingness to unlock his secret formula and lay it out for the world (including his detractors) to read, pick apart and learn from.  He is bold and he's got some exciting, out-of-the-box ideas about church.  There are ways in which I wish I could ingest some of that boldness and translate it into Episcopalese.

Because in the end, there's the rub.  One of the wonderful things about being a Christian is that there are so many ways to be engaged in Christianity, so many denominations that answer big questions in so many ways.  That same gift is also a challenge, though.  So often, we don't quite speak the same language, we don't see eye-to-eye or we think that OUR way has a corner on the Jesus market.  That, obviously, is when we get divided, pissy and decidedly un-Christian with each other.

For generations, Anglicans have been defining ourselves as NOT something else.  We're NOT Roman Catholics, we're NOT Protestants, we're NOT Evangelicals or any of the rest.  But we get stumped when asked to define who we ARE.  We're the "middle way", don't you know?  I think we can get so afraid of offending or alienating or disrespecting by proclaiming a positive identity that we avoid the issue altogether.

Stanley's book is reminding me to step up to the challenge of defining who we ARE then claiming and owning it.  I keep thinking while I'm reading, "That's nice but it wouldn't work for us.  It isn't who we are."  And I'm forcing myself when I have that observation to answer "well, why?"  It is a hard question because i'm having to make choices about who I think we are.  Why don't we have giant screens in our worship space?  Why do we have pews?  Why is most of our music classical?  Why are our sermons 12 minutes instead of 45?  Why don't I preach a feel-good message every week?  Why are we confessing all the time?

There are non-snarky reasons for all fo these things (snarky ones, too, but that's not the point).  Reading a "how-to" from a tradition so different than my own is helping me ask these questions again and frame them in light of community definition.

Finally, I want to be clear that I don't think that defining who we are, what we believe and how we worship is creating an "us" and "them".  The bare truth is that we are not going to change who we are to fit the needs of every person who walks into our narthex (See that insider language right there?  See that?).  We will strive always to be open, welcoming, hospitable and TOTALLY HONEST about who we are.  We will be the community God created us to be.  And the sooner we claim it, can talk about it and be proud of it in positive terms, rather than over-and-against terms, the more people appreciating our vision of Christianity will want to be a part of it.

Sharing this space

I'm really excited that Saintly Mama Beth Frilingos is going to blog with me over here.  I had originally intended this to be a group project, but that didn't quite come to fruition.  But Beth is joining in!  I'll let her introduce herself, but watch this space in the next few days for her contributions to the melee.