so exciting!!

Exciting news from the San Diego Zoo!!

leadership

I know this has been written about before, and better, but I'm thinking about it again now.

You know how when women act like men, they're called bitchy? Despite how progressive we think we are and how much we deny latent sexism of any kind, this still happens (I know, shocking, right?). Authoritative leadership by a man is authoritarian when done by a woman. Conversely, consensus-building type leadership (women-style) is weak when done by a man.

So, let me get this straight...pastors, who are members of session, are supposed to lead when they are men (they may be talked about as "always got his own way"--but not until after they leave!), but follow when they are women (or risk being told they are too pushy/directional/overbearing... to their faces).

As a pastor who has leadership gifts, I'm not okay with that. My leadership style combines the stereotypical masculine and feminine types, and flows pretty freely along that continuum. And I want to exercise my leadership gifts...and I don't want to be forced to do that in just one way.

There's a difference, of course, between exercising leadership in a particular context and being boxed in to a particular style...I like the first. Not the second.

that's all.

i know, I know

sorry. lots of unbloggables lately--and lots of stuff going on in general that just keeps me away from blogger, even though it's right there, smack in the center of my bookmark bar, mocking me.

so, in no particular order, some things.

* I love curly girl design.

* I love sunny days. I wish we had more of them.

* I love kale.

* I love hanging out with friends.

* I love pajama days.

* I love battlestar galactica. (season 4/4.5 are ahead! Yay for Amazon and good friends.)

* I love my kitties. I spent several minutes on Saturday afternoon taking funny cell phone pictures of Ollie trying to get milk out of a tall glass--when sticking her head in didn't work, she stuck her paw in (almost her whole leg was in the glass!) repeatedly and licked the milk off her paw. ha!

* I love sleeping in.

* I love inserting random Eddie Izzard quotes into everyday conversation and seeing if people notice.

* I love driving along with the windows down and the Indigo Girls blaring.

* I love reading books. I'm reading 4 books right now. I'll let you know if I finish any of them. And no, those 4 don't include books I'm reading/reviewing/thinking about for church. And none of them are the planned re-read of Harry Potter either. That can't start until I finish all 4 of these books.

* I love the idea of DVD based curriculum for adult education. I don't know if I'll love the practice, but I love the idea. Mainly because it sounds like less work for me along with better substance for the class. But we'll see, when said curriculum arrives, what I think after reviewing it.

* I love taking walks (you know, for exercise) between the farmer's market and Jenapea's.

that seems like enough for now...enough to make me happy, give me a little attitude adjustment, and get me ready for bed!!

and so I asked myself...

...do I have anything to blog about today?

let's see, some random dots of randomness:

* i watched last night's fireworks display from my bed--it was clearly visible just over the house across the street. cool.

* Ollie is sneezing again in spite of the medicine...but I'm hoping that continued regular dosing (hard sometimes given my crazy work schedule) will make it go away.

* Andrew is just as furry as ever. and just as determined to lick my face when he's hungry, even if it is 2am. or 6am. or any other time when I'd prefer to be sleeping.

* it's sunny outside again.

* Yesterday's children's time was very long because I lost my train of thought and was unable to regain it even with repeating myself. Had no idea where I was going at all, even though I had carefully thought out the plan ahead of time. Awesome.

* I really need to stay on top of the whole dishes thing, but I just don't like to do dishes, and so I don't. They pile up in the sink until I need more bowls, then everything goes into the dishwasher overnight (off peak electricity time!).

* I am trying to figure out an opening for my "between the sheets" chapter in the spirituality for young adults book Amy and I are working on. (the chapter is about sleep as a spiritual practice--get your minds out of the gutter, sillies!) Once I have the opening, I think the whole thing will flow, but I obviously haven't found that opening yet because it's all still in my head.

* we are doing Sunday morning Taize soon (in two weeks, I think) and that's so fun and exciting and I get to put it all together today! woohoo!

* speaking of today, I guess I should get a shower and get my act together, eh? time to get moving...

woohoo!

the RCLPC Church Information Form is finally up! It's so exciting, I can barely contain myself!

new experiences

I like to have new experiences. I'm interested in learning things, going places, meeting people, trying stuff out.

So, this summer, I thought I'd try a new experience, something I've always wanted to do but never have...I signed up for an adult ballet class.

I'll wait while my family members recover from snickering.

So this class, I thought, would be full of people who, like me, were beginners but didn't want to try to take a class with 3 year olds. Or at least people who were dancing for fun, not for a career. And maybe some exercise would happen, and I'd learn some basics, and maybe then I'd be brave enough to try out the adult class that happens at my local ballet studio during the regular school year.

This class is at a convenient time for me--Tuesday evenings. It didn't take much trouble to clear my Tuesdays, since my small group doesn't normally meet in the summer and we don't have Taize in the summer (normally those two things take up 3 of the 4 Tuesdays in any given month). It's only an hour and a half, for six weeks, for a mere 82 dollars. So I did it--I took the plunge and signed up for all 6 classes, I bought ballet shoes, and I went to class.

Last week was okay...not great, but it was my first time ever and I didn't understand most things but I could try them and I'm flexible and I generally think of myself as a fast learner so it was fine. A little of my enthusiasm waned when I discovered that there were professional dancers (and other advanced students) augmenting their workouts in this class, and that I was the only true beginner, plus maybe 3 or 4 others who were relative newbies. But I made it.

Yesterday, not so much. An hour into the class, I literally broke down and cried. That's right, I, an adult person, cried in ballet class because it was so overwhelming.

I'll freely admit that I brought a lot of stuff into class with me yesterday--I was tired, there's been lots of stress at work, etc--and that definitely played into this, but the pace and difficulty of the class were a part of it too. I stood there in the studio with 30 other people twirling and leaping around me and felt as though I am not good at anything--not my job, not friendships, not relationships, not ballet.

I know that's not true, but there you have it--ballet was the last straw.

On further reflection, I think the issue is that I've never not been good at something I *wanted* to do. The only other times I remember being really, obviously not good at something were softball (the summer after 8th grade--I don't think I've ever been so miserable) and calculus (junior year of HS, but I was taking my classes at the college by then so it was a college class).

Softball was something mom made me do, and I begged to be able to quit but was lectured about commitment, and I stuck it out even though I was terrible. I think my batting average was somewhere around .066. I was an okay pitcher, but if people hit the ball back at me, I would duck. I would rather have been reading in my room or even practicing the clarinet! PLUS, to add insult to injury, the uniforms were bright yellow and black. we looked like bumblebees.

Calculus was a class in school, something you did because it was part of schooling. And after I figured out that I really wasn't good at it (I failed a 3-question test with a 30%. That's right, I didn't even get one whole question correct) though I'd been good at basically every other class I'd ever taken, I worked harder and ended up with an A anyway.

But ballet--this is something I personally wanted and looked forward to. I intend to stick it out--4 more weeks to go--but at the moment it feels really hard and scary and overwhelming and also like something I will never be good at. Add that to some of the vibe from church right now and we have a recipe for staying home and eating mashed potatoes all summer, because if nothing else I can make mashed potatoes, darn it, and I AM good at that, I swear.

I'm thinking that for next summer's try-something-new experience I'll look into either horseback riding lessons (horses pretty much terrify me) or maybe a new language. Or maybe I'll stay home and read more books--I already know I'm good at that....

Fools Rush In--a sermon for Ordinary 13B

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Fools Rush In
Mark 5.21-43
June 28 2009, Ordinary 13B

When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered round him; and he was by the lake. Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet and begged him repeatedly, ‘My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.’ So he went with him.
And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, for she said, ‘If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.’ Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, ‘Who touched my clothes?’ And his disciples said to him, ‘You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, “Who touched me?” ’ He looked all round to see who had done it. But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.’
While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader’s house to say, ‘Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?’ But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, ‘Do not fear, only believe.’ He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he had entered, he said to them, ‘Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.’ And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, ‘Talitha cum’, which means, ‘Little girl, get up!’ And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.


When I was in high school, my best friend Rachel was also the daughter of our high school band director. Rachel and I were pretty well-grounded girls—we were into classical music and books, mostly, and we stayed out of trouble without really trying. Nonetheless, we still were well acquainted with a look Rachel’s dad could give very well, and which we called the “you are such an idiot” look. It came over his face with only a moment’s notice whenever we asked a dumb question, said something bizarre, or showed ourselves for the naïve 16 year olds we were. In the more than 10 years since I last saw Rachel’s dad give me that look, I’ve seen it on countless other faces, and I’ve probably given it myself without even realizing. I’ve seen the look on the faces of those who heard I wanted to be a professional musician, those who heard I thought I might be called to ministry, those who heard I was planning to move to the Middle East. I’ve seen the look on the faces of professors, friends, and colleagues when I’ve said something ridiculous or showed my idealistic side, daring to dream that the church and the world could be different than they are today. I’m sure I’ve given the look in similar situations, as well as when I’ve seen or heard someone do or say something that betrays their lack of common sense.

It’s also the look I imagine Jesus got a lot, especially in this story. I picture Peter and the other disciples with Rachel’s dad’s face when Jesus, in the midst of a huge Taste-of-Chicago-sized crowd, pushing and pulling and jostling for position, has the audacity to ask, “who touched me?” I mean, really, Jesus…you see the size of the crowd, you feel the people all around us, you see us being swept along rather than moving on our own—how can you possibly ask, “who touched me?”

But Jesus does ask, and he keeps asking, and he keeps turning around and looking, looking for the outcast, for the unclean, for the woman, for the one who is shunned and looked at with disgust and outrage. And when he finds her, after looking as if for a needle in a haystack, after repeatedly asking the same apparently stupid question, he changes everything in her world. No longer is she an outcast, no longer is she unclean, no longer is she shunned—he calls her “daughter” and reaches out to her, there on the margins of society, there in the land of no health insurance during a catastrophic illness, there in the invisible space where people we don’t want to see often live.

Doesn’t sound like such a stupid question anymore, does it? While the disciples, and the crowd, and the whole society—even including the church—said “why bother?” Jesus was looking, and asking, and doing something to meet a need. Sure, that need seems small if you’re the disciples, and outrageous if you’re the crowd, but it literally meant life for that woman.

Almost as soon as the look gets wiped off the disciples’ faces, servants come from Jairus’ house with bad news…and we see the look again as Jesus sets off in the direction of this house once more. Why bother, Jesus? Why bother when the girl is no longer sick, but dead? Why waste your time on an insurmountable problem? You’re being silly, Jesus—you can’t do anything, this is too big even for you.

But Jesus goes anyway.

When he arrives, he finds the professional mourners wailing and the family and neighbors sobbing—and when he says he’s going in, the incredulous look returns, this time with derisive laughter. You’ve moved beyond silly, Jesus—this is the full blown look now, complete with disbelieving raised eyebrows.

But Jesus goes in anyway. He walks right into the house made unclean by death, right into the midst of a family’s pain, right into a hopeless situation. He takes the hand of a little girl, worthless in the eyes of society, a piece of property to be married off in order to increase her family’s wealth and standing, a ritually unclean nothing in the house of a church leader. And in that one impossible moment, Jesus looks at the insurmountable task and he DOES SOMETHING. He takes a step, he makes a small movement, and manages the unbelievable. The girl gets up and walks around as though she’s just woken from an afternoon nap, Jesus orders her a snack, and everyone is amazed.

Gone is the apathy everyone felt in the face of a problem larger than they can imagine. Gone is the paralysis that comes from overanalyzing a situation. In its place, amazement.

I think initially that amazement was about the fact that Jesus raised a girl from the dead. But after that shock wore off, I bet people were amazed about something else entirely. Sure, it’s exciting and unreal that the girl was alive after being dead, and that the woman was healed after all the money and time spent. But it’s even more amazing that Jesus got into it at all. I mean, the crowd was overwhelming, the girl was dead…what’s the point of even trying?

How often do we hear these words? I know I hear them a lot, usually in the same sentence as I’m accused of naïve idealism as though having ideals is a bad thing. There’s so much wrong in the world, there’s so much violence, poverty is so overwhelming, hunger is so prevalent, disease is so uncontainable, what’s the point in even trying? I can’t fix the problem by myself, we together probably can’t even fix it, and even if the whole country and all our politicians were united on one thing, there’d still be other things. Why not just walk on by, since we can’t help every person who lives on the street? Why not walk on by, since we can’t feed every child suffering from hunger? Why bother at all when the crowd is so thick we can barely walk and when the girl is already dead?

But that’s not the Jesus way, and not the way of those of us Jesus calls to follow him, either. Jesus never asked, “why bother?” He looked. He went. He asked. He did something—anything to help even a little. When he sent disciples out two by two, he didn’t say, “if you can’t heal everyone, then just keep walking.” He told them to do what they could, to keep their eyes and ears and hearts open, to look and ask and go, to DO SOMETHING.

I spent the past three weeks at the Presbyterian conference center in Montreat, North Carolina. One of those weeks, I went to a workshop where we talked about gospel foolishness—that what we do in following Jesus, in proclaiming the gospel with our words and our lives, is foolish, stupid, deserving of the “you are such an idiot” look. No logical person would do this—it’s insane. The things we claim, the person we try to follow, the action we’re called to—it’s all ridiculous, and also ridiculously important. And then, when the youth arrived, we spent a week learning about the World on Fire—both in bad ways, like poverty and climate change and violence, and in good ways, with the fire of Pentecost, the fire of disciples, the fire of love. That week we talked about fighting fire with fire, which sounds ridiculous and foolish and wonderful all at the same time. The keynote speaker said one day that we are called to do SOMETHING, anything, really, not later "when we're ready," but NOW. We pray “thy kingdom come,” and now it’s time to realize that we are part of that coming, part of building God’s kingdom—that our living and our DOING is also our praying. In everything we are and everything we do, we dare to dream that the church and the world can be different, and that we can make that difference, even with our own two hands.

In that spirit, I invite you to finish the sermon with me, claiming our foolishness and our willingness to rush in where God has called us.
We believe in a with-us God
who sits down in our midst to share our humanity.
We affirm a faith that takes us beyond the safe place:
into action, into vulnerability, and into the streets.
We commit ourselves to work for change
and put ourselves on the line;
to bear responsibility, take risks,
live powerfully and face humiliation;
to stand with those on the edge;
to choose life and be used by the Spirit
for God’s new community of hope.
May it be so. Amen. *

*from the iona abbey worship book

home

I got home Saturday night. Still recovering from a week at the youth conference, spent being both the back-home group leader AND a small group leader. Preaching this coming Sunday. Hoping to have head above water any day now....

apparently I lied

I am not being a good blogger while I'm gone either.  Not sitting in front of a computer all day, and not having regular internet access (have to go either to the Assembly in lobby or the Dripolator coffee shop) are both putting a damper on my general internet activities.  Instead, I've been having a grand time at a great conference (one of the best I've been to, actually, so y'all check out the Proclaiming the Text conference at Montreat!), developing my preacher crush (Otis Moss III), hiking/walking, meeting new people, reconnecting with old friends, learning stuff, reading books...you know, the stuff we do when there's no internet.  Imagine that.

Monday begins the next conference (Alt7)...I hope to upload some photos before then so I can start fresh with my camera's memory card!

lame

I'm a lame blogger. sorry.

here's a fast recap:  spiritual gifts series (in sermon and in adult ed) was good--learned some interesting things with some interesting people!  pentecost was totally awesome with a children's time that featured helium balloons tied to wrists as a reminder that we can fly hi when filled with the breath of God, and also of what dancing tongues of fire must have looked like.  The balloons danced all through the service and made me so happy.  then work work work work work trying to get ready to leave for three weeks.  I'm headed to a preaching conference, then the Alt7 (for PCUSA clergy under 40)--both at Montreat--and then my youth (led/driven by four fabulous adults) will come down for the youth conference (also at Montreat) and then we'll all drive back together!  I've been trying to get everything ready so those fabulous adults have everything prepared for them, but that's harder than you might think.  I've also been trying to get everything ready just to be gone for so long--at my house, the office, etc.  And, of course, there's tons going on at church between the Covenant Network explorations, the end of the year, the Bible Bowl (which was today and was SUPER FUN), the PNC getting ready to finish the CIF (which means they can start looking for a new pastor soon!), and other fun.  Good times.  My kitties are going to be mad, but they'll (hopefully) get over it as usual about 10 minutes after I get home.  :-)

I should in be in bed, as I have to leave in a little over 8 hours.  But instead I'm still cleaning up the kitchen, wishing I'd vacuumed, and packing.  I did all the laundry, I even bought new clothes (or new-t0-me clothes, some of them, from my fave consignment shop!)...but everything is sitting in neat piles next to the suitcase.  Perhaps I should get on with that.  

Do you think I can justify 6 pairs of shoes for 3 weeks?  ;-)

In theory I can blog while I'm gone.  Maybe I'll try extra hard, complete with pictures from the mountains...

Commuting with God

Okay, so I've been thinking a lot about spiritual practices for a new generation--reframing traditional practices and also thinking about ways for busy people with little connection to traditional spirituality to connect with God.  Amy and I have actually been working on this for about a year, but we've discovered some gaps in our experience and so it's taking us a really long time to explore these things.

So one thing I've been thinking about is Commuting with God (get it? I'm so funny...haha, bad puns...okay, I'm done).  What are some ways that we can turn the daily grind of commuting into a spiritual experience?  I know there are the usual--things like praying for those you hear on the radio news; turning off the radio and driving in silence, just thinking/listening; sending up prayers for those drivers who cut you off; listening to music that makes your spirit sing.  I'm sure there are plenty of others too--things that don't necessarily involve a traditional understanding of "talking to God" but could feed our spirits and connect us to the Holy even in our cars, on the train, etc...

But my daily "commute" (if it can be called that) is 10 minutes each way.  I don't make longer drives often enough to make a regular practice out of it.  So I'm wondering, from those of you who DO commute--what are some things you either do or can imagine doing while you commute that would bring you closer to the Holy, perhaps even setting the tone for your day or night (depending on when/where/how/why you commute...)?

mother's day

Dear mom,

I still miss you.  I still hate the month before mother's day when every website, piece of junk mail, and email remind me to do something special for you.  I still hate going to church and having people pray for moms, be thankful for all you've done, and then neglect to mention how painful or difficult or anxiety-producing a day like this can be for some of us, for many different reasons. Today the pastor praying even thanked God for the privilege of taking care of our moms when they get older, the way they cared for us when we were young. It's a privilege I wish I could have, but won't.  I'd give almost anything to be able to spend that much time with you again.  Instead, I took the day off, I wandered around a city I love, I stared at tulips, I ate lunch with friends, I played Wii Bowling for the first time (and I'm still terrible, even when it's not real), I read about amazing women who are changing the world.  I cried a little, I talked to family, I remembered the time I threw up rhubarb in grandma's bathroom sink and got in trouble for throwing up in the sink.  

I also remember how fab you were, and am thankful for the time I did have with you, though I wish there was lots more of it.  And I remembered all the "extra moms" I've had, people you talked to too, people you entrusted me to, people who nurtured and taught and helped and extended grace when I needed it.  They were, and are, awesome women that I do not keep in touch with the way I should.  Too bad I didn't get your letter writing gene.

I don't really know what else to say, except thanks, and I love you.

Love,

Teri

excuses

You've likely heard by now that the Egyptian government had this bright idea--to cull the swine herds to stop the spread of swine flu.  Nevermind that there's no evidence that pigs are actually carrying the disease, or that it's spreading between livestock, or that it's spreading from pigs to humans at this point--everything seems to suggest a human-to-human interaction right now.  The pork industry is right about one thing: pigs aren't dangerous, and if using the phrase "swine flu" rather than H1N1 makes people think pigs are dangerous, then we need to stop using it.

So back to Egypt, where the government is slaughtering pigs, ostensibly because of swine flu.

You may know that in Islam, pigs are unclean.  Which means that the majority of Egyptians don't eat pork and would never imagine keeping pigs.  But the 12% or so of Egypt's population that is Christian are perfectly fine with both pork and pigs.  And in the Cairo region, most of those people who keep pigs are also people who collect garbage.  They live in an area commonly called "garbage city" where the ground floors of houses are the place to sort garbage and keep pigs (who eat the edible leftovers).  Some of the garbage goes to be "recycled"--at scrap yards, into various crafts, etc.  The rest is eaten by pigs or burned.  The families live in the upper floors, just above the piles of garbage and wandering livestock.

These people are poor, they're different, and they live in what the majority of the country would call filth (in more ways than one).  Culling the pigs is a way for the government to punish these people for being different, to push them further into poverty, and to highlight a religious issue that has been simmering under the surface in Egypt for many years.  

In other words, it's an excuse...

...to punish the poor...

...to widen the divisions between people...

...to persecute Christians.

(sigh)

H1N1 it is, clunky a term though it may be. The side-effects of a more convenient-to-say term are too great.

just some little things...

So I was listening to NPR the other day, and heard a story about torture, and how some people are saying that the President should NOT have declassified the "torture memos" (which he said might as well be declassified since they'd all been in the media already) because, and I quote, "now we've told the enemy how far we're willing to go--we've shown them the line we're not willing to cross."

And this is a bad thing.

Umm...

Isn't there a line we shouldn't be willing to cross?  And shouldn't people know what that line is?  Not because the "enemy" will know how to withstand all our interrogation, but because human beings should know that they will be treated as human beings even when they're in custody under suspicion.

Don't even get me started on the strange, illogical (to me) difference in the treatment of torture and of stem cell research. bizarre.

In other news, RCLPC is about to enter a season of dialogue in which we will talk about the Amendment B "issue" in the PCUSA and explore the possibility of becoming a member of the Covenant Network.  Voting to rewrite Amendment B has been going on throughout the PCUSA, and just last week failed.  While I sort of expected it to fail, I'm still disappointed.  But then again, it just shows how important talking about this is, how important the work of the Covenant Network is, and how important a step our congregation is taking by being open about our conversation.

For non-presby-speakers, Amendment B is the part of our PCUSA constitution that bars gay and lesbian people from serving in ordained offices in the church.  Well, that's it's purpose, really, and how it has been used.  It actually says (in addition to the famous fidelity-or-chastity clause) that "anyone who refuses to repent of any self-acknowledged practice which the confessions call sin" (or something like that) can't serve in an ordained office.  Which, for the record, lets out probably 99% of pastors and elders and deacons currently serving.  Possibly more.

For the record, I believe that the current language of Amendment B is bad polity.  It's poorly written, it's unenforceable, and it's inconsistent with the rest of the constitution (including the highly esteemed first chapter or two of the book of order).  I also believe that the current language of Amendment B is bad theology.  The previous paragraph (6.0106a) and the ordination vows clear lay out the requirements for ordained officers, and they include things like faithfulness to God, effort to live a faithful life, and willingness to listen to God's call--all noticeably absent from G-6.0106b.  And our actual foundation (not the constitution, not even the book of confessions), scripture, has so many examples of unlikely people being called to do God's work, so many examples of the outcast being brought in, so many examples of human beings getting it wrong when it comes to leaders of the community.  And there's the whole business where the confessions say "councils err, don't assume these are the right words for all time" should probably also be a clue.  Last but not least, the pragmatic: I don't believe that I can exclude someone with obvious gifts and call from leadership on the basis that who they are is somehow inferior--am I more likely to be asked why I let people in or why I kept people out?

Also for the record: I took ordination vows in which I said I would uphold the constitution of the church (or something to that effect!).  That doesn't mean I won't work to change it when I think it's wrong.  

One last for the record: I don't believe in forcing people to think like me.  I also don't believe in other people forcing me to think like them. If you disagree with my thinking on this, I'm happy to hear from you and to talk.  But I'm not willing to accept treating of other people as less than human, less than made in the image of God, less than called, or more sinful than me or you. 

I don't know how this conversation is going to go in our congregation, but I'm excited to have it.  Our new mission statement calls the church "an ever-widening circle of grace" and I'm hopeful that we will have grace-filled dialogue as we consider our next steps.  I do believe there's room in the circle for people of differing opinion.  I do believe there's room in the circle for people of differing gifts.  I do believe there's room in the circle for all of us, in other words.  That's what an ever-widening circle is about, right?  

This season of dialogue includes two "classes," one movie night ("For The Bible Tells Me So") and one town-hall meeting.  It should be a good time.

See, just some little light things, right?

In other news, my cats are cute, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me by podcast is awesome, and I'm still reading that series about ancient Rome.

I think that's all for now...

An Open Book--a sermon on Luke 24.36-48 for Easter 3B

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
An Open Book
Luke 24.36-48
April 26 2009, Easter 3B

While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’ They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.’ And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.
Then he said to them, ‘These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.’ Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, ‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.”


Can’t you practically see the disciples’ eyes bugging out as they watch to see whether Jesus really eats, whether they can see the fish going through his system like a ghost, whether this solid matter has a strange interaction with a misty incorporeal form? But nope, it’s just Jesus, hungry after a lot of walking, enjoying the fruit of his fishermen friends’ labors. Not a ghost, even in the visible Harry-Potter-type-way, not a hallucination, though they must have all felt crazy…just Jesus, their friend, alive again when he was dead just yesterday.

They’d been gathered in the room, listening to the stories from the walk to Emmaus, hearing about hearts on fire, broken bread, opened eyes. But when their own eyes beheld something impossible, still their minds could not take it in. Our human minds are always just a little bit smaller than the greatness of God, aren’t they? And we’re always trying to fit everything into our logical boxes, but with Jesus that’s no longer possible. He has very decisively burst out of the boxes, out of the rational mind, out of the tomb.

Jesus’ response to this problem, to the evident terror mingled with joy mingled with wonder—the classic “I can’t believe it!!!” response—is not just to show the disciples his hands, and is not just to have a snack, but to follow that up with a gift: a story, told to minds newly opened to the possibilities of a changed world. Jesus tells his own story, yet again, beginning with Moses and coming down through the ages. He opens the book and tells the story, complete with living pictures, and the disbelieving joy turns to wonder at the love God has for the world, and has always had for the world, that the story should go like this.

We sometimes use the word “story” as a way to blow things off—it’s “just a story.” Underneath, we mean, stories aren’t real life, they aren’t worth much, they aren’t “true.” But that’s not quite right, is it? All of life is a story, from the beginning of time until now, through us and beyond. Our lives are made up of stories, and taken together they make up a bigger story. God is telling the story of a beloved creation, through the mouths of a beloved people—a story that started before we can imagine and goes on farther than our minds can stretch. Moses and the prophets and the kings were a part of the story, Jesus on earth and Jesus alive again are part of the story, the disciples were part of the story. Just because it’s a good story doesn’t mean it’s not true—in fact, the gift Jesus gives the disciples gathered in that upper room is the understanding that the story may be the only thing that is true.

It’s unbelievable, of course. The story doesn’t make any sense. No one who was dead comes back to life. Love does not lead to pain and death. Only by the gift of the Holy Spirit can the disciples’ minds be opened to understand. But once their minds are opened, nothing can ever be the same.

I know, I said the same thing last week, and the same thing the week before, but I really do believe it’s true: the message of Easter, the terrifying, unbelievable, outrageous message of Easter is that nothing can ever be the same. The story has taken an unexpected turn, a crazy plot twist, and cannot go back to the way it was before. God has come to earth, has taken on flesh and blood, has experienced life and love and sorrow and pain and death, and has come back from all of that to tell us that love will always win.

Of course, the world looks almost nothing like love is winning. We have war, we have poverty, we have violence in our schools and communities, we have grief and loss, we have exclusion and hate. We sometimes have eyes and ears and minds and hearts that are closed against so many things that not even good news can slip through. But Jesus comes to open our minds to understand the scriptures, to hear the story through fresh ears, to see the impossible come true, to know that God’s love is stronger than the big stone at the entrance to the tomb. Where we thought the story had ended, a whole new chapter has begun.

And then Jesus says the thing that makes this story a perpetual page turner: “and you are witnesses of these things.” Witnesses? Well, yes, we saw it happen—years of wandering, teaching, healing, storytelling, eating, sharing, loving. But witnesses do more than just see—they tell. They exhibit. They share.

This is the third gift in the story—first came the greeting of peace, then the opening of minds and hearts, and now the title, the commission, the assignment: witnesses.

In other words, our task is to continue the story. To wander and teach and heal and tell stories and eat and love. To widen the circle of grace until all are drawn in. To hope. To share. What good is a mind and heart opened to understand if we won’t share our understanding? What good is a gift of peace if we don’t make peace wherever we can? What good is a gift of love so great it can conquer death if all we do is hide in an upper room and discuss amongst ourselves? The story needs witnesses, people to continue walking through the pages, passing on the message, seeing where the plot goes, looking for the Spirit’s leading. And those witnesses are the body of Christ—meant to be an open book for the world to read.

I wonder what our book will say? I hope it will be a book about love—a book of friends in Christ, caring for one another, sharing our lives together, being open about who we are and our struggles and our joys. I hope it will be a book about grace—a story of acceptance and hope, of traveling life’s road together, telling stories to strangers as well as friends. I hope it will be a book that witnesses to the mystery of a God who makes the world different—who bursts out of the tomb, full of life and light and love, changing everything.

Christ is risen, and nothing will ever be the same, yet the story goes on. May we be witnesses to these things.

Amen.

On the Road Again--a guided meditation on Luke 24.13-35 for Easter 2

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
On the Road Again
Luke 24.13-35
April 19 2009, Easter 2B (off lectionary)


(open the eyes of my heart, lord)

It looks like any other road,
this road we are walking today.
I invite you to close your eyes,
sit up straight with your feet on the floor,
be comfortable.
Breathe in deeply, and out slowly.
Do you see the road?

What kind of road is it?

What do you see?

What do you hear?

Are there other people on the road?

What is the weather like?

How fast do you want to walk today?

Leave the city, one foot in front of the other,
sandals tamping down dust,
even as grief washes from head to toe.
Nothing went the way we thought.
And today’s news is even more unbelievable than last week’s.

alive?
is it possible?
why can’t I see him?

One foot in front of the other,
walking home,
on just another road,
any road—it doesn’t matter now.
Nothing matters—no journey will ever be the same without him.
but where is he?

(open the eyes of my heart, lord)

Just another road,
like any other road.
Can you see it?
One foot in front of the other,
on the road again,
but alone this time.

A stranger comes alongside you.
Do you talk to strangers?

He walks near you for a ways,
in comfortable silence…
and then asks the question:
what are you thinking about?

What will you tell him?
What are you thinking about?
It’s been an amazing three years—
healings,
miracles,
parables,
feeding people,
restoring community,
telling stories,
loving outcasts.
Which story to tell?

Think of your favorite story about Jesus.
Tell it to this stranger as you walk along this dusty road,
one foot in front of the other.

…

This stranger listens well,
he asks questions,
he nods in all the right places,
and he can tell that the story makes you both excited and sad.


As you finish telling your story,
you mention that it doesn’t make much sense.
Things seemed to be going so well until that last night,
that last dinner,
that Passover Party.
That’s when the real questions began.
Sure, other things didn’t always make sense…
but broken body, life poured out,
arrested,
beaten,
crucified,
killed…
and now alive again?

…

The stranger looks at you as you walk down the road,
thinking out loud.
What are your questions?
Keep wondering out loud together as you walk,
one foot in front of the other,
through the dust,
wondering.

…

(open the eyes of my heart, lord)

As you come to the end of your questions,
your voice trails off
and both of you stare down the road,
walking slowly together.
Then this stranger begins to tell a story of his own…
but it’s a story you know well,
except this time it begins to make a little bit of sense.
Just a little bit.
Grief and confusion are still there,
but now there’s something new…
something warm…
something blooming in the desert.
Listen—
what story is he telling you?

…

As he finishes his story,
you look up and realize you’re almost home.
You’ve just met this strange man,
this storyteller,
this listener,
this fellow traveler,
but you invite him in for dinner.
There’s something about him…
And as you sit down at the table,
he offers thanks for a journey safely completed,
for new friends,
for hospitality,
for a simple meal of bread and cheese.

and as he takes some bread and offers you a piece,
you see.
He’s been with you all along,
transforming the journey,
making it part of the story,
part of God’s story,
part of our journey together.
On the road,
an ordinary road,
any road like any other,
yet unlike any other.

He’s alive!
is it possible?
You see him!
Hurry, on the road again…
What will you tell the others?

…

(open the eyes of my heart, lord)

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, ‘Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?’ He asked them, ‘What things?’ They replied, ‘The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.’ Then he said to them, ‘Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?’ Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.
As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, ‘The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!’ Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

off to the sun

okay, I'm headed to the land of sun, but without my computer. see you in a week....

happy Easter!!

What if it's true? -- a meditation for Easter

Rev. Teri Peterson
What if it’s True?
RCLPC
Mark 16.1-8
April 12 2009, Easter

When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, ‘Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?’ When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, ‘Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.’ So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.


“They said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” That’s it? That’s all we’ve got? Is that any way to end a story? No happy ending, tied up in a pretty little bow? No wrap-up, no recap, no “the end”? I’d grown to expect better from Mark, a man who knew how to tell a story.

But then again, the beginning of his gospel seems to be missing something too—he starts just by saying “the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” No manger scene, no wise men, no shepherds. Just “the beginning of the good news.” And here we are, seemingly at the end of the gospel, the good news, and all we get is “terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

I don’t know about you, but fear is not an emotion I tend to equate with Easter. Sure, it’s what the women and the other disciples must have been feeling on Thursday night, on Friday, even on Saturday—that fear that comes with grief: wondering how things could have gone so wrong, if they could have done something differently, what to do now. That’s a fear I understand. Even that Sunday morning, walking to the tomb, I understand fear—fear of not being able to open the tomb, fear of seeing the body again, fear that this final act of care for another will somehow make this whole nightmare more…well…final.

But then comes the next shock in a string of shocking days: He Is Not Here.

This pronouncement by the angel seems like the best news ever—The angel reminds us that Jesus said he would be back, he would live again, and now he’s not in the tomb! Isn’t that great? There should be laughter and cheers and tears of joy! But instead we get terror and amazement, fear and silence.

Why? Why terror and fear? Why not tell anyone? Why end the story this way?

I don’t know what the women were thinking that morning when they ran away in fear. I don’t know what most of us are thinking when we run away from good news either. I do know what I would be thinking if I were those women, though:

What if it’s true?

What if the grave wasn’t robbed but God has truly broken the bonds of death?

What if it’s true that Jesus, who was dead, is now alive, having burst out of the tomb, and is now cavorting around in Galilee?

What if it’s true, what we’ve been saying all these weeks together—that God is doing a NEW THING, even now it springs forth…can’t we see it?

If all those things are true, then the things Jesus said and did must be true too, and the things he asked us to do, the calling he gave us, the standard he set, the love he poured on us and commanded us to share—those must also be true.

And now I’m just as scared as those women must have been!

If it’s true, if Christ is alive, then nothing in the world is what we thought. Death is not the final word. Darkness does not win. Hate and violence are powerless. Even though the world looks the same—it’s not. Nothing is the same on a morning like this. And then, once you know that, what do you say? We can’t just run back to the disciples, or into the Temple, or out into the streets, and say “guess what? Jesus is alive again and everything is great!” There’s a reason the story doesn’t end like that.

Instead, the story ends with silence. The women run away and say nothing to anyone. But even without words, their story gets out. Once God has broken the bonds of death, there’s no WAY we can expect God to keep quiet! God isn’t willing to stay in the tomb, and God isn’t willing to stay in our nice little boxes constructed out of fear, either. God is out, alive, dancing around the world, making everything different. And we know it—we have walked through pain, we have been blinded by grief, we have been frustrated and angry and anxious, but we still know it, because we, too, have witnessed resurrection, that awesome power God has to do THE new thing, whether we’re looking or not, even if we’re silent in our fear.

Even without words, the story gets out. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here today, would we? Yet here we are, whether in fear or joy, part of the story of God’s love that smashed all our notions of how the world works. Here we are, part of the circle of God’s grace that just keeps widening, in spite of our fear, in spite of our timid voices, in spite of our failings. What if it’s true? What if nothing is the way we thought? What if God is still doing a new thing, still breaking bonds, still shattering stones, still shedding graveclothes? Will we leave this place to continue the story?

Because it’s not over, you know. Mark doesn’t give us an ending because, as he said in his first sentence, he’s only telling the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Fear, death, and loss are not the last words. The good news—news of love, grace, and hope—keeps going. Christ is risen indeed!
Alleluia!
Amen.

Holy Week

It's holy week (or holy cow! week...or other words besides "cow"...).

In fact, it's Wednesday of Holy Week.

Two days down, five days to go.

Five days that include one Wednesday evening program (including a class taught by me), a Maundy Thursday/Passover service--a Seder complete with feast, and a communion service after (coordinated and led by me...no idea how I'm going to pull that off), and a Good Friday service (partially led by me...all ready to go). Those five days also include cleaning my house, shopping for cat food, going to yoga class, getting my first pedicure of the season (thank GOD), watching Dollhouse so I don't get behind, toasting "bonus years" with a friend/congregation member (Friday is the day he will officially have lived longer than his own father), laundry, writing a meditation for NEXT Sunday, finding a catsitter, and packing.

Oh yeah, and writing a sermon for Easter.

Thank God for family who live in Southern California who will take me in when I need to get away and when I find a cheap flight.

And thank God for the San Diego Zoo panda cam.

Okay, I'm getting to work, I swear. I really am. No, really, look at me working...

Holy Week, batman!

Hosanna--a sermon for Palm Sunday B

there's nothing quite like a complete re-write that starts at 1230am!

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Hosanna
Mark 11.1-11
5 April 2009, Palm Sunday B

When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two of his disciples and said to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it, you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.’” They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, some of the bystanders said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” They told them what Jesus had said; and they allowed them to take it. Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it; and he sat on it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting,
“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple; and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.


Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!
It does sound like a throng of pilgrims on their way to the biggest festival of the year, doesn’t it?
It was nearly Passover, the time of remembering and celebrating God’s power, God’s faithfulness, God’s bringing the Israelites out of Egyptian slavery. The time when everyone who possibly could made their way to the Temple for the celebration. The time when a lamb would be sacrificed, unleavened bread baked, songs sung in praise of the God who rescued the people.
And on the way to the holy city, the crowds would sing, recite psalms, and tell stories. On the way to the holy city, pilgrims would cut branches and trade recipes. On the way to the holy city, people coming together in the name of the Lord would celebrate together with shouting and dancing.
Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!
In the midst of this crowd comes Jesus, in a carefully staged parade. Not on a mighty warhorse, but on a donkey’s colt, feet dragging on the ground, bumping along with the jerky movements of a fool’s animal. No armed escort, no gleaming shields and helmets, no parting of the crowds to let the king through. No symbols of military power, no symbols of empire, nothing to confuse him with Rome. Just a man on a donkey, riding toward the holy city.
Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!
He’s a popular rabbi. He’s a known healer and miracle worker. He’s a great teacher. There are whispers he might be the Messiah, the one to rescue them from Roman oppression, the one to crush the powers that be with a mighty hand. And now, at Passover, at the celebration when we remember God’s power to save us from slavery in Egypt, comes a man to save us from yet another cruel political and military power.
Hosanna! Save us, Lord! the people plead, even as they affirm “God saves us!”
Messiah, anointed one, God’s chosen. To the people in that crowd, that means military hero, mighty warrior, powerful king. When he rides into the city, they wave palm branches, they shout praises, they shout pleas. They line the street with coats so his feet don’t get muddy, they fan him with leaves, they cheer like they would for a king returning victorious from battle. They hope—no, they expect great things, a better-than-Roman-style general’s triumph through the streets of the city to the governor’s palace, mighty deeds of power that end years of humiliation, objectification, and oppression.
Hosanna! Lord, save us! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord! Long live our Messiah, our warrior king!
Jesus, parading into the holy city, parody of a Roman victory procession, knows God saves. Jesus, vulnerable and looking ridiculous, chooses to make fun of military power, showing its inability to save people, just at the moment people place all their expectations on him. Hosanna, they cry, save us!
From what do we want to be saved?
Fear? Anxiety? Hopelessness? Grief? Anger? Illness? Desire? Hatred?
What do we think life will be like when the Lord has saved us?
Bright and cheery? Without any bad things happening? No more sin, no more death, no more worries because the blood of a sacrifice has set us free, rescued us from something awful?
What happens when our expectations, our hopes and fears projected on another person, are not met?
Hosanna! the crowd cries. Save us from Rome!
And Jesus goes into the Temple alone, looks around, and quietly leaves the way he came.
This anti-climax begins to turn the tide from Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord! to whispers, then shouts, of Crucify! Crucify this one who did not meet our expectations! Crucify this one we have so misunderstood. We thought he was the one to rescue us.
But what if the kind of salvation Jesus brings, the kind of salvation we need, isn’t another rescue from another cruel political leader?
Hosanna! Save us! the people shout. And Jesus, in his parody parade, does exactly that, but not the way we expect, not the way we want, but the way we need. He comes. He comes into the city, into the houses, into the crowd. He shares our life, he shares our joys and our sorrows, he shares our death. God comes, in the flesh, to be with us, to give us courage and strength, to walk with us on the journey. God comes, not with political power and military might, not with coercion and crushing, not with violence that only begets more violence, but with compassion, with care, with love.
Hosanna! we shout—save us! come again into our lives, into our world, into our community, and walk with us the road of this world’s suffering and this world’s joy. Redeem us, make us whole again, reconcile us to one another, help us to love and serve.
Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!
In some traditions these words are part of the Communion prayer—evidence that God’s story doesn’t always go the way we expect. We say these words with palm branches waving, and then pray them on the way to a table where we remember again that we, together, are the body of Christ, the ones who come in the name of the Lord, the hands and feet of the one who saves us by coming into the world to share a common life.
May it be so.
Amen.