Being my opposite

The acting class I’m taking has affected me in a way I didn’t expect. I had planned on it helping my preaching by expanding the way I use my voice and body in my proclamation, and maybe it will. But more than that, it has been a way to expand my understanding of compassion.

I have thought a lot about compassion in the past year or so, and how it plays in pastoral care. Brene Brown has some wonderful insights about compassion and empathy (read Daring Greatly or watch her TEDTalks to learn more). She observes that empathy is getting down in the deep hole with someone in pain, rather than stand up at the top and bellow down, “You okay down there?” It is much easier to keep that safe distance, though, isn’t it? (The deep hole link above is highly recommended - click on it!)

How has the acting class helped me to think about this? I mentioned in a previous blog about how we were to find our opposite way of using space, then to find an animal that represents that opposite, and now we are to perform a monologue in the style of that animal (as if it were a person). So for one hour a week, I am having to become a different person – the way I move, the way I talk, even the way I think.

I’m doing more than sitting at the top of the hole, and even more that crawling down into it. I am actually becoming a completely different person.

On our anniversary adventure to the Poconos last week, Michael and I ran into two young women, sisters from Long Island, who were staying there. They were a bit out of place at a “couples only” resort, but there were two of them, and it looked like a nice place to stay, so they reserved a room. Naturally, since everyone else was there for the “Land of Love,” many assumed that they were a lesbian couple. I asked how they felt about that. They said it was a really revealing social study: men ogled them, women glared at them and pulled their husbands or boyfriends away, and even the hospitality at the front desk were friendly but hardly looked them in the eye. The younger, more outgoing sister commented, “We’re used to Long Island, where everything is normal. But we feel really judged here! It’s interesting to see a bit of what real lesbian couples experience all the time. Except we can leave that when we check out of the resort.”

What if we all had a chance to do that – even to take on being a kind of person who is totally different from who we are? In my class, my opposite person is someone who is unbound, light, slow, and indirect, and even this makes me a little crazy. Being unbound takes conscious effort (even as I write this, I notice my legs are crossed), trying to be light makes me trip, being indirect makes me feel completely unfocused, and being slow stresses me out (“I’m never going to get there!!”).

These are pretty mundane things. But what if I consciously tried to have the beliefs of someone whose religious, political, or ideological beliefs are opposite mine? What if I spent time actually trying to get in the head of someone I disagree with, and tried to be that person for one day, even one hour, and see what it is like? What would I learn about them? What would I learn about myself?

What sort of vulnerability and humility would it take to do that? I’m having a hard enough time trying to get through my shower in a different order (a.k.a. be unbound).

I continue to meditate on this possibility, and you may see some blogs in the future reflecting on each of the dichotomies we have focused on in acting class. Meanwhile, I encourage you to try it yourself. Get in someone else’s head and see the world through their eyes. Or if that’s too much for you, just try to move more slowly if you move quickly, or more quickly if you move slowly, or any of the other pairings (bound/unbound, direct/indirect, fast/slow, heavy/light).

See what you notice. See how it changes your view of the world, and how it changes your ability to engage in compassion. See if this is for the better.

Sermon: Listening for the sound of silence (August 10, 2014)

Pentecost 9/Lectionary 19

August 10, 2014

I Kings 19:9-18

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            Earlier this summer I posted a question on our Facebook page asking where and how you were experiencing God this summer. Not many people responded. I don’t know if that was because you didn’t see it, or because that sounded like a boring question to engage in, or because you didn’t want to discuss your faith in such a public forum, or because you didn’t have time in that moment to think about that… Whatever the reason for the lack of response, the question has come up for me again this week, because especially in the story about Elijah in 1 Kings, we see God being revealed in an unexpected way, a way many of us may have missed. And it makes me wonder: am I missing seeing God?

            Elijah is a pretty important biblical character, but his story is not as well known by the average person in the pews. He was a prophet, just like Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and many others, but we may forget about him because he doesn’t have a book of the Bible named after him. But he is often mentioned as a giant of the faith. Both Jesus and John the Baptist are compared with Elijah, and he appears at the Transfiguration of Jesus, next to Moses, with whom he is often mentioned. Along with being a prophet, he was also a miracle-worker, and a great defender of the worship of Yahwah, the one true God, over Ba-al, the false god of the Canaanites.

            And that last fact is what gets him into the trouble we see in today’s reading. Elijah has recently prophesied a devastating drought that will come upon the land, a drought which is punishment to Ahab, the King of Israel, for his bad and hurtful decisions, his choice of an idol-worshiping wife, and his own idol worship of Ba-al. Just before today’s story, Elijah has also killed several prophets of Ba-al, and Queen Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, is not happy about it. In fact, she has vowed to have Elijah killed this very day! Elijah understandably takes off running for the desert, in fear for his life. But his zest for life quickly fades once he finds himself scared, alone, and depressed out in the wilderness. In anguish, he says that he might as well die. He has failed in his mission, he is no better than anyone who has come before him, so why bother continuing? But just when he has abandoned all hope, God sends some angels to provide him with food and water, saying he will need strength for the journey ahead of him. With this sustenance, Elijah gains the strength to make it up to a cave in Mount Horeb, where he falls asleep.

            That is where today’s story starts. God asks Elijah, “What are you doing here?” and Elijah pours out his tale of woe: “I’ve been working so hard for you! But still, the people of Israel have abandoned your covenant, destroyed the places of worship, and murdered your prophets. I’m the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me, too.” Words of hopelessness, discouragement, and desperation. It doesn’t sound like he’s blaming God for this – like, “Why, after all I’ve done for you, have you left me in this situation?” – but more like self-doubt: I’ve done all I can, but I have failed. I give up.

            When I cry out to God like this, I always want some big sign from God to say to me, “Take heart, Johanna! It is I. Be not afraid.” Some dramatic gesture of assurance. But God doesn’t offer that here, and that’s what I find so compelling about this story. God’s assurance doesn’t come to Elijah in the form of a dramatic gesture, at least not at first. A windstorm comes through, splitting mountains and breaking rocks. Sounds like God, right? But no, God was not in the wind. So then an earthquake comes. Well, God moved the earth into existence, so surely this is how God would be revealed to Elijah, yes? No, not this time either. And then, a fire. Ah yes, a fire, just like Moses and the burning bush, just like the pillar of fire that led the Israelites through the wilderness. God loves to appear in fire. But no, God was not in the fire. God was not in any of those places one would expect God to be.

            No, where God appears is, rather, in “the sound of sheer silence.” Or the version you perhaps know better: a still, small voice. That still, small voice gently beckons Elijah out of the cave. That still,

small voice again asks Elijah what he is doing. Then that still, small voice offers him the assurance he needs, telling him he is not alone. God has some people in mind to help Elijah in the mission God has given him. Furthermore, there are 7000 people in Israel who have not forsaken the covenant, who remain faithful. Elijah is decidedly not alone.

            All this, not from a wind, or an earthquake, or a fire, nor any other grand theophany that we would expect from a God so great as ours, and which, in fact, God has used to be revealed before. Rather, a still small voice, the sound of sheer silence.

            I’ve been thinking about this a lot in relation to the sermon I preached two weeks ago, about how simply breathing can be a prayer, about how the Holy Spirit intercedes in prayer for us with sighs too deep for words, and so if the Spirit prays using sighs, why shouldn’t we pray this way as well. At the end of that sermon, instead of praying aloud, I invited you to simply breathe with me – a practice I have continued to incorporate in my personal prayer life. When we did that, of course, the room was nearly silent. And in that silence, I don’t know about you, but I truly did feel the presence of God and the power of prayer.      

It is counter to how we think God should appear, isn’t it? We pray and expect an answer in some form, but all we hear is silence. We think that is no answer at all, and yet, silence is what Elijah heard, and he knew that God was present in that. It’s not unlike when a loved one is hurting and we find no words are enough to heal their broken heart, so all we can do is sit silently with them, and find that silent presence is the best medicine in that moment. It would be nice if words could fix everything,

wouldn’t it, but more and more I find that silence is often the most important thing we can “say.”

God knows that. And so in Elijah’s moment of hopeless anguish, God appears to him in the sound of sheer silence, rather than the noise of wind, earthquake and fire. And Elijah hears God, loud

and clear.

Sometimes, I would really like to be able to predict God’s actions, to know how and where to see God, how God is speaking to me, how God is making Godself manifest to me and to the world. But God has a way of appearing in unexpected ways: in painful experiences that bring us to deeper understanding; in tragic events that lead us somewhere we couldn’t have gotten otherwise; in tears cried on the shoulder of a friend, in bread and wine on a table and water in a font…. And perhaps the strangest most unexpected way of all: in a man hanging on a cross, bearing the weight of the world so that we might have salvation from fear of death. If God can be made manifest in this unexpected way, and make such grace available to us through this horrific event, then what other ways might we find God speaking to us? What storms, what moments of desperation, what still small voices, is God using to tell us of God’s unrelenting and ever-abiding love?

I’m going to post my question on Facebook again this week: “where have you experienced God this summer?” Think about it, and if you can, offer an answer. If you don’t have Facebook, just give me a call or write me a note to tell me about it, or tell a friend about it. Whatever you do, notice it. Notice how God is speaking to you, beckoning you, and offering you the grace and assurance you need.

Let us pray… God of wind, earthquake, fire, and silence: you speak to us in many and various ways, some of which we expect and some we can scarcely comprehend. Give us the patience to listen for your voice, in whatever form it may come. [leave some silence] In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I was a jellyfish in the shower

I'm taking an acting class this summer called Voice and Movement. Why, you ask? Well, I figured it might help me be more creative in my preaching, but also just because I've always wanted to know more about acting, so now is my chance. (And I already got a sermon illustration out it.)

One of the first things we did was talk about how we as people naturally use space. The instructor set up three dichotomies: we are bound or unbound, fast or slow, heavy or light, and direct or indirect. These describe the way you hold you body and move through life. I determined I am bound (I have started noticing how often I have some body part clasped or folded), fast (I'm always in a hurry), heavy (clunk, clunk, clunk...), and direct (or what I have started to think of as more like focused, on a mission). What would you say you are?

Using those four, we have done various exercises acting both as our true selves, and as our opposites. At our class yesterday, we started doing animal work. We determined what animal shares the spacial traits of our true self.

I came up with bloodhound. I crawled around the studio, barking at the cats and birds, collapsing on the ground in exhaustion, only to be interested once again in a scent, and so on. It was a fun part to play, and made me feel closer to my own mini hound, though it wasn't too easy on the knees.

Then we had to be our opposite animal. So, unbound, slow, light, and indirect.

I came up with: jellyfish.

Now, I don't know much about jellyfish, but it seemed a fun enough animal to be. This time, as we moved about the room, I mostly stayed in one place, floating gently back and forth, occasionally sweeping to the side as I imagined being caught up in a current. If I bumped up against someone, I stung them. It was relaxing... until it turned terribly boring. I needed something proactive to do. Funny what we learn about ourselves in these exercises.

At a previous class, we had been asked to pantomime some activity that we do every day, and I had chosen taking a shower. Turn on faucet, step in, shampoo hair, rinse, etc. Now, our instructor asked us to do that same pantomime... as our opposite animal.

At first I was stumped. The bathroom wasn't my natural habitat - how would I move with no water? I considered taking a bath instead, but she was very clear that we should do all the same things, keeping in mind the new limitations of our animal. So I made the decision that in this alternate reality, I was able to move about without water, but would still be susceptible to the flow of water... and I suddenly realized what a brilliant scenario I was in. What luck that I had chosen an activity that used water!

When my turn came, I floated into the "bathroom," flexed my jelly self out of my clothes, floated into the shower, used my jelly body to turn the shower faucet, floated over to get into the spray... and then let it pin me solidly to the ground. Having thrown myself on the floor, I stayed there, arms and legs sticking up at awkward angles, twitching as I tried to get out of the jet.

My teacher thought this was hilarious and laughed heartily. I was proud of myself for entering so well into this bizarre role, for really becoming a jelly fish.

As I left, I considered how this is related to ministry. Certainly whenever someone is called on to display some level of empathy or compassion, one has to take on what that person or people is enduring. It is an exercise in understanding. The Apostle Paul talks about becoming like those whom he is aiming to share the gospel, because if he is like them, they might be more readily convinced. (Not that I'm trying to win jellyfish for Christ or anything...)

But I think more than anything, exercises like this allow me to get out of myself, out of my usual routines, so that I take notice of things previously unnoticed. How does it feel to be light, unbound, indirect, and slow? Relaxing at first, then boring. Why? Why can't I be satisfied with relaxing now and then, without thinking about the next task? Why do I so frequently fold my body parts when I'm talking to someone, and what message does it send? How might I be more like a jellyfish in daily life, and how might that help me be a happier and healthier person and pastor?

We shall see. Meanwhile, enjoy this video of a exotic jellyfish, doing their thing:

Sermon: "...with sighs too deep for words." (July 27, 2014)

Pentecost 7A/Lectionary 17

Romans 8:26-39

           

            In her book, Souls Raised from the Dead, Christian author Doris Betts tells a story about driving

down the highway in North Carolina. As she drove, she saw a bunch of highway patrol men on the side of the road. She could see that a chicken truck had run off the road and broken apart, and chickens were everywhere. The driver was running around trying to capture what chickens he could, some people were trying to steal the chickens, and there was chicken blood everywhere. You can imagine it was a scene as horrific as it was hilarious, as the patrolman was trying to bring some order to the chaos. Betts observes: That’s us. We are that patrolman. In the middle of life’s chaos and horror and humor, we try to bring order, meaning, and stability.

            Often, we try to do this through prayer. In my personal prayer life, I have felt a bit like that

From ELCA Bishop Mike Rinehart's blog
(Read it here.)

patrolman these past couple weeks. Every time I check the news, there is some new tragedy to be praying about: the violence in the Holy Land, where 80% of the fatalities on the Gaza strip have been civilians; the 57,000 unaccompanied children (so far!) who have crossed our borders seeking refuge from violence and poverty in their home countries, for whom their best option was to leave their families and everything they know for a strange land hundreds of miles away; a plane allegedly brought down by terrorists and nearly 300 innocent people killed; continuing violence in the Ukraine. And that’s just on the world scene! Let’s not forget the brokenness and hurt that we all see on a daily basis among those who are close to us, from illness and injury, to loss and sadness, to whatever other daily struggles we may face.

            As I have tried to pray for all of these things, I have felt like that patrolman, wanting so badly to help, to bring some sense of calm and order to a world that seems to have spun out of control. But even as I try to pray, whether while I’m driving, or in the quiet of the morning or before bed, I find I am at a loss. No words are enough. And even if words were enough, I don’t know what words to pray! Some of these situations are so complicated and have so many different sides, so even if I could be sure that whatever I pray will come to pass, I’m not sure what outcome is the best!

            In times like this, when the words of prayer escape me, I am grateful for Paul’s words this morning in Romans. “The Spirit helps us in our weakness,” he says. “For we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.” I just love this image. I love that although God delights in my prayers, God also doesn’t let me just flounder around helplessly with no direction. I picture putting myself out there, vulnerable and in need, and the Spirit swooping in under me, holding, even cradling me securely, and saying, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this for you.”

            But I also love that even the Spirit doesn’t use real words, but rather “sighs too deep for words.” When you think about it, what better prayer is there than that? What better prayer of lament than someone’s gut-wrenching sob, or a prayer of thanksgiving as uncontrolled laughter, or a prayer of praise as a soprano voice wafting over an orchestra? Mere utterances, with no verbal language behind them, are perhaps the most creaturely prayer of all – even as they are also the most divine.

            I am taking an acting class this summer, called Voice and Movement. We had been working on

movement, but this past week we added the voice. Our instructor gave us actions – such as float, dab, thrust, push, slash – and we were to walk around the room making our bodies do that action. And then lastly we would make our voices do that action as well. [Demonstrate some.] Never did the vocal “movements” use words – we expressed the emotion or character merely with our voice and body. At the end of class we took turns performing these actions for each other in body and voice, and it was always clear which one it was. The sighs and utterances were plenty to get the point across.

Prayer is that way, too. When words escape us, our sighs are enough. That is how the Spirit prays on our behalf, and that is how we can pray in the Spirit. We are released from the demand we may put on ourselves to pray beautifully worded prayers, as if God will somehow hear and understand those better, and respond more readily. Our breath, our deep sighs, are plenty to get the point across.

Something else happens when we so intentionally consider our breath to be our prayer. I heard once that for every drop of water you consume, there’s like a 99% chance that that drop had been through a dinosaur at some point. If that’s true with water, how about air? The air we breathe, the air that makes us produce those sighing prayers, is truly a shared commodity, and in that way it is unifying. It is common to all of us. And just as we say that the Holy Spirit, the Holy Breath, gathers us together and makes us one body, one Church, our deep breaths do this, too. In this way, every breath, every prayer, that we pray for ourselves, is for someone else, and every breath we pray for someone else, we pray for ourselves.

Last Sunday morning, our sister Betty had a fall and was taken to the hospital. Her daughter was on her way to church, unaware of the fall. As she drove to Bethlehem, an ambulance came up behind her, and she pulled over to let it pass. As she always does, she said a prayer for the person in the ambulance, and for that person’s family. Then she continued on to church. Later, she discovered that this had been her mom’s ambulance! She said to me, “I had no idea that I was praying for my mom and for myself!”

Praying in the Spirit, breathing the breath of God, does this: when we pray for one in pain, we pray for all. For we all share the pains and sorrows of this world, though they may take different forms for each of us. With the Holy Spirit, we pray as one body, one breath, sighing deeply for all the earth.

And of course, when we pray in the Spirit, with deep, Spirit sighs, not only are we connected to one another, we are connected to Christ, who is our head and our life. At Jesus’ baptism, the Holy Spirit came down on him like a dove, and that same Spirit came on each of us in our baptism, and hence all of us are a part of each other: one Body, one Breath. And because of that, as Paul so powerfully states at the end of today’s reading, “neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

That love promised to us through all things… is in every breath – every breath inhaled for life, every breath uttered as prayer, every breath that contains the smell of this beautiful earth, every breath that produces laughter or weeping or song or stillness. Every breath is the breath of the Spirit, interceding on our behalf, sighing prayers for us and for this world that are too deep for words.

As we close in prayer, I invite you simply to breathe deeply. I don’t think we do enough of that.

.

I often find that my breathing is shallow, especially when I am anxious or distressed. So we are going to take some time this morning simply to breathe deeply, all the way to our toes, trusting that with each deep breath, each sigh, we are praying with and being filled by the Holy Spirit. While we breathe, think about something or someone in need of prayer, or pray this simple prayer – “Breath of God, breathe in me” – as you inhale and exhale. Our breath, and the Breath of the Spirit, shall be our closing prayer. Let us pray.

Several seconds of silent breathing… In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sighing for a world in turmoil

"Likewise, the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words." 
(Romans 8:26)

While I was home a couple weeks ago, I met up with one of my oldest friends (since kindergarten!) who is an Ayurveda practitioner. Ayurveda is an ancient health practice that seeks to find balance in the body by considering how diet, activity, spirituality, etc. are working together. I asked to meet with her because, well, I'm trying to regain my health after the last two years, and because I want to have a baby and be the healthiest 40-week host to that baby as I can, not to mention a healthy mama once he or she comes out. My body has undergone a fair amount of trauma, and had all manner of things put into it to rid it of cancer, so finding a sense of balance again can't do me any harm, and will likely do some good.

So I made an appointment with her, during which she did a health assessment on me. One of the questions she asked was what practices do I currently do that are healthy, and what do I do that is not healthy for me. As I thought about it, I noticed I was breathing very shallowly. And I realized I almost always breathe shallowly when I am distressed about something, or thinking hard. I think we all do. I mentioned this to her. So it was no surprise that one of the things she recommended I try is to spend two minutes a day doing what she called “deep belly breathing”: breathing so deeply my belly expands. 

I immediately linked this to prayer. I thought about it in terms of the prayer my friend and colleague and Upstate NY Synod's Bishop-elect often mentions: "Breath of God, breathe in me." It is something I have tried to incorporate into my usual prayer routine, especially since she mentioned it. Deep breathing is, after all, not only healthy in a number of ways, but is also a spiritual practice in just about every religion.

This week it has taken on an even deeper meaning. The epistle the lectionary has appointed for this Sunday is from the well-loved 8th chapter of Romans, about how the Spirit intercedes for us in our prayers "with sighs too deep for words." How powerful this has been for me this week, as I have been overwhelmed with just how much there is to pray for, so many world conflicts, and many of them so complex. Even if I had enough words, I don't even know the outcome to pray for in some situations. What a comfort to think that even the Holy Spirit, when She intercedes for us, doesn't try to use words, but rather simply becomes those deep sighs, that Holy Breath, that transcends words. 

So this shall be my prayer: simply to breathe. To hold in my heart all those in need of prayer, and to breathe for them - because Scripture tells me that these sighs, far deeper than words will ever reach, are a form of prayer so pure that it is how God Herself chooses to pray.

*deep sigh*

Amen.