I admit it.
I’m one of those people.
I own an Apple iPad.
I help make Steve Jobs one of the richest men in the world and he didn’t even have to sell me on the iPad. He held it up. I saw it. I wanted it. I bought it.
Apparently, some people need to be sold on it, hence all the iPad commercials. To me the most brilliant line from those commercials is this:
“You already know how to use it.”
I love this idea that there are parts of us that are hidden from even ourselves, that there are things we know how to do, people we know how to be if we just give ourselves the chance.
When I first saw the memorial garden at Hope Episcopal, I was taken aback by its quiet splendor. As beautiful a landscape as it was, though, it was also a little bit lonely, tucked away behind the trees. The white picket fence had collected dirt and moss and other things … things that grow, pop up overnight when no one is looking.
So I asked if I could clean the fence.
To know what it took for me to offer to do that, to know how God truly works from within when you are willing, you have to know a few things about me.
I hate cleaning.
I buy paper plates and plastic forks because I’m too lazy to load the dishwasher. I am an environmentalist’s nightmare.
Also, as I have mentioned before, I am not an outdoors person. In fact, my skin sees so little of the sun, that even when I’m outside for hours I don’t tan or burn because seemingly my skin’s forgotten how to. I’m so pale my friend Beth calls me Twilight because I could easily get a part as an extra in the next vampire movie.
And yet I found myself, one Saturday morning, crouched down by that white picket fence with the sun beating down and the bees and bugs buzzing about … cleaning fence post after fence post until the water and sponge became so dirty I started making a mess instead of cleaning one.
Somehow I enjoyed every minute of it. I wasn’t enjoying the bugs, or getting dirty or having my knees remind me every time I stood up that I wasn’t in the shape I should be.
I enjoyed accomplishing something, doing something, appreciating the moment when dirt and grime disappear and reveal the beauty underneath.
Sure, it’s just a white picket fence, but now it’s a white picket fence with a caretaker and who would have thought I’d be that person?
I kind of like that person.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Sea Monsters
Barbara Brown Taylor writes in An Altar in the World that “The House of God stretches from one corner of the universe to the other. Sea monsters and ostriches live in it, along with people who pray in languages I do not speak, whose names I will never know.”
What I love most about Taylor’s description is her inclusion of sea monsters as occupants in the House of God. It reminds me that there are many things on this earth that defy my limited imagination, things that are indescribable and magnificent and sometimes thrillingly terrible. Taylor’s description reminds me that the worship of God must extend beyond the four walls of the church.
God is everywhere.
He is all things … all the time.
Hope Episcopal Church is surrounded by towering pines, struggling oaks and surging Brazilian peppers. In Florida, such abundant vegetation is rare in highly developed and populated areas. Combine that vegetation with a view of the water and Hope Episcopal becomes an oasis in a concrete desert.
I have never been a nature person. But a few weeks ago I went out to the church one Saturday morning to take pictures of the trees and the water. I followed Pastor Debbie down a path and saw her glance at a spider web clinging to a branch.
“Don’t worry,” I said to her, “I broke through all the spider webs when I was down here earlier.”
What I didn’t tell Pastor Debbie was that by “broke through” I really meant that I had accidentally stumbled through several spider webs, after which I flailed about, shrieking like a mad woman, arms wind-milling. But I didn’t want to talk about spiders with Pastor Debbie. I wanted to talk about gardens.
At the end of the path, close by the water, is a memorial garden. The garden is surrounded by a white picket fence and a small stone angel sits nestled in the grass near the back. There are two benches, white concrete with a stone mosaic inlay, and when the sun rises, it bathes the whole area in an otherworldly light.
I fell in love with the area immediately. Hope Episcopal had a secret library and now its very own secret garden. Without a doubt, God was there, in the rustling of the palm fronds, in the calls of the sand hill cranes, in the sunlight that streams through the branches overhead.
I am not a nature person, but I don’t have to be to recognize something truly special. Only God could make me forget about spiders, ticks and mosquitoes.
Only God could convince me to stand still, be silent, and breathe.
What I love most about Taylor’s description is her inclusion of sea monsters as occupants in the House of God. It reminds me that there are many things on this earth that defy my limited imagination, things that are indescribable and magnificent and sometimes thrillingly terrible. Taylor’s description reminds me that the worship of God must extend beyond the four walls of the church.
God is everywhere.
He is all things … all the time.
Hope Episcopal Church is surrounded by towering pines, struggling oaks and surging Brazilian peppers. In Florida, such abundant vegetation is rare in highly developed and populated areas. Combine that vegetation with a view of the water and Hope Episcopal becomes an oasis in a concrete desert.
I have never been a nature person. But a few weeks ago I went out to the church one Saturday morning to take pictures of the trees and the water. I followed Pastor Debbie down a path and saw her glance at a spider web clinging to a branch.
“Don’t worry,” I said to her, “I broke through all the spider webs when I was down here earlier.”
What I didn’t tell Pastor Debbie was that by “broke through” I really meant that I had accidentally stumbled through several spider webs, after which I flailed about, shrieking like a mad woman, arms wind-milling. But I didn’t want to talk about spiders with Pastor Debbie. I wanted to talk about gardens.
At the end of the path, close by the water, is a memorial garden. The garden is surrounded by a white picket fence and a small stone angel sits nestled in the grass near the back. There are two benches, white concrete with a stone mosaic inlay, and when the sun rises, it bathes the whole area in an otherworldly light.
I fell in love with the area immediately. Hope Episcopal had a secret library and now its very own secret garden. Without a doubt, God was there, in the rustling of the palm fronds, in the calls of the sand hill cranes, in the sunlight that streams through the branches overhead.
I am not a nature person, but I don’t have to be to recognize something truly special. Only God could make me forget about spiders, ticks and mosquitoes.
Only God could convince me to stand still, be silent, and breathe.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Habits . . . not just something worn by flying nuns
When asked why she makes her son go to church, author Anne Lamott writes in her book Traveling Mercies, “I make him because I can. I outweigh him by nearly seventy-five pounds.”
When I was a teenager, my mom outweighed me too, except in this case, I was the one who wanted to go to church and Mom was the one sleeping until noon. Mom was a night owl and routinely slept late in the morning which is how we wound up one Easter Sunday in the very last Mass of the day. Only after we sat down did we realize the Mass was being said in Polish.
“Just move your lips,” Mom said. “No one will know the difference.”
At some point Mom revealed to me that her parents had threatened to disown her if she didn’t go to church. They didn’t expect her to go to the same Mass they did, but they would know if she didn’t go at all. That was when Mom started putting my super-memory in action. My grandparents, not willing to invest in a private investigator to follow us to church, had a simple test to see if we had attended.
St. John’s Catholic Church had three priests who rotated giving the Homily each Sunday. Every Sunday afternoon, Grandma would ask Mom which priest gave the Homily. Mom would turn to me—I had memorized the rotation—and after a long second I would spit out the name—uh, Father Pat or whoever.
Going to church each Sunday is actually an easy habit to maintain once you start. It’s the starting that’s the issue for most people. When I was a teenager, I wanted to go to church because even then I realized there was something missing in my life. At the very least, I missed the simple things, like having Sister Julie give me communion each Sunday. For anyone who thinks that nuns are evil because of whatever they have heard of Catholic school, let me tell you that Sister Julie was the kindest and gentlest nun I have ever known.
For my mom, she had fallen out of the habit of church-going sometime during my teenage years. It’s not that she wasn’t religious. I still remember her telling me late one night when I was little and afraid that there were angels in each of the four corners of my room watching over me—which made me instantly jealous of the octagon shaped house down the road. They had twice as many angels.
But once my mom fell out of the habit, it was hard for her to pick up again. Make no mistake—going to church each Sunday requires a lot of commitment, but at the same time offers such amazing rewards. I have never left church, any church, feeling worse off than when I went in.
After awhile though, I fell out of the church-going habit too. It’s taken me 17 years to find a church I want to go to every Sunday. It’s taken me 17 years to find a church I look forward to going to every Sunday.
If you are out of the habit, try church again. It doesn’t have to be Sundays. It can be Saturday services or Wednesday night Bible studies. I understand that a lot of churches offer dinners on Wednesday night and really who can turn down free food?
When I was a teenager, my mom outweighed me too, except in this case, I was the one who wanted to go to church and Mom was the one sleeping until noon. Mom was a night owl and routinely slept late in the morning which is how we wound up one Easter Sunday in the very last Mass of the day. Only after we sat down did we realize the Mass was being said in Polish.
“Just move your lips,” Mom said. “No one will know the difference.”
At some point Mom revealed to me that her parents had threatened to disown her if she didn’t go to church. They didn’t expect her to go to the same Mass they did, but they would know if she didn’t go at all. That was when Mom started putting my super-memory in action. My grandparents, not willing to invest in a private investigator to follow us to church, had a simple test to see if we had attended.
St. John’s Catholic Church had three priests who rotated giving the Homily each Sunday. Every Sunday afternoon, Grandma would ask Mom which priest gave the Homily. Mom would turn to me—I had memorized the rotation—and after a long second I would spit out the name—uh, Father Pat or whoever.
Going to church each Sunday is actually an easy habit to maintain once you start. It’s the starting that’s the issue for most people. When I was a teenager, I wanted to go to church because even then I realized there was something missing in my life. At the very least, I missed the simple things, like having Sister Julie give me communion each Sunday. For anyone who thinks that nuns are evil because of whatever they have heard of Catholic school, let me tell you that Sister Julie was the kindest and gentlest nun I have ever known.
For my mom, she had fallen out of the habit of church-going sometime during my teenage years. It’s not that she wasn’t religious. I still remember her telling me late one night when I was little and afraid that there were angels in each of the four corners of my room watching over me—which made me instantly jealous of the octagon shaped house down the road. They had twice as many angels.
But once my mom fell out of the habit, it was hard for her to pick up again. Make no mistake—going to church each Sunday requires a lot of commitment, but at the same time offers such amazing rewards. I have never left church, any church, feeling worse off than when I went in.
After awhile though, I fell out of the church-going habit too. It’s taken me 17 years to find a church I want to go to every Sunday. It’s taken me 17 years to find a church I look forward to going to every Sunday.
If you are out of the habit, try church again. It doesn’t have to be Sundays. It can be Saturday services or Wednesday night Bible studies. I understand that a lot of churches offer dinners on Wednesday night and really who can turn down free food?
Friday, May 21, 2010
Go Ahead . . . Open the Door
A few years ago, my step-mother, Barb, and I went to an antique store. Barb had just had knee surgery, so I was pushing her in a wheelchair, winding our way through stacks of books, magazines, old toys, chipped plates and glasses and faded and worn furniture.
This particular antique store had numerous, large, oak wardrobes. As we came up to each wardrobe, I stopped, opened the doors, peeked inside and closed the doors again.
“What are you doing?” Barb asked.
“Just checking,” I said.
My fascination with wardrobes began when I was little, when my dad bribed me to read The Chronicles of Narnia. Even though I was a reader, the idea of talking animals seemed babyish to me and at ten-years-old, I was far too sophisticated for that sort of thing. But after I devoured the first book of the series, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, in one sitting, the bribe became inconsequential. The books were their own reward.
For many Narnia fans The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is the one to read first. In the novel, four children discover a fantastical land that they can only enter through an old wardrobe. While in Narnia, the four children go on to meet and to fight for Aslan, the Christ-like lion at the center of the series.
When I was looking online for a church to attend, I found Hope Episcopal. There were many things that drew me to Hope, but it was the rumor of a Narnia-themed library that pushed me through the doors.
When I first visited with Hope’s rector, Pastor Debbie, she ushered me into a room off of her office to sit. After a few minutes of chatting, I blurted out, “Is it true you have a Narnia-themed library?”
Pastor Debbie smiled. “Would you like to see it?”
As it turned out, I had walked past it at least a half dozen times and never noticed. Apparently, a lot of people walk by the library, thinking it’s a coat closet.
In order to enter Hope’s library, you must walk through two enormous, intricately designed wardrobe doors. Once inside, you’ll find a secret treasure, shelves upon shelves filled with books not only by C.S. Lewis, but also recently updated with Kathleen Norris, John Eldredge and Madeleine L’Engle. It is a library that begs to be used. The windows overlook the water and the wooden shelves and paneling give the room richness and warmth.
If you are thinking about going to church for the first time, don’t ignore the little things, like the promise of a library. Try every door and let yourself explore.
This particular antique store had numerous, large, oak wardrobes. As we came up to each wardrobe, I stopped, opened the doors, peeked inside and closed the doors again.
“What are you doing?” Barb asked.
“Just checking,” I said.
My fascination with wardrobes began when I was little, when my dad bribed me to read The Chronicles of Narnia. Even though I was a reader, the idea of talking animals seemed babyish to me and at ten-years-old, I was far too sophisticated for that sort of thing. But after I devoured the first book of the series, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, in one sitting, the bribe became inconsequential. The books were their own reward.
For many Narnia fans The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is the one to read first. In the novel, four children discover a fantastical land that they can only enter through an old wardrobe. While in Narnia, the four children go on to meet and to fight for Aslan, the Christ-like lion at the center of the series.
When I was looking online for a church to attend, I found Hope Episcopal. There were many things that drew me to Hope, but it was the rumor of a Narnia-themed library that pushed me through the doors.
When I first visited with Hope’s rector, Pastor Debbie, she ushered me into a room off of her office to sit. After a few minutes of chatting, I blurted out, “Is it true you have a Narnia-themed library?”
Pastor Debbie smiled. “Would you like to see it?”
As it turned out, I had walked past it at least a half dozen times and never noticed. Apparently, a lot of people walk by the library, thinking it’s a coat closet.
In order to enter Hope’s library, you must walk through two enormous, intricately designed wardrobe doors. Once inside, you’ll find a secret treasure, shelves upon shelves filled with books not only by C.S. Lewis, but also recently updated with Kathleen Norris, John Eldredge and Madeleine L’Engle. It is a library that begs to be used. The windows overlook the water and the wooden shelves and paneling give the room richness and warmth.
If you are thinking about going to church for the first time, don’t ignore the little things, like the promise of a library. Try every door and let yourself explore.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Bring a Pencil
I am a self-proclaimed church hopper. When I was seventeen, my dad gave me permission to look beyond the Catholic Church in which I had been raised and try out other denominations. I’ve been looking for seventeen years. During that time, I have been to well over a dozen different churches, Baptists, Methodists, back to Catholics, Presbyterians, Disciples of Christ and more. But though I believed with all my heart in God, no church grabbed me, no church moved me in such a way that I felt like I had to come back. I was anonymous. I sat in the back. I shook people’s hands but never said my name. When visitors were asked to raise their hand, I sat on mine.
And never once did I fill out a card with my name and address. I did not want to be contacted. I wasn’t ready. This church wasn’t “the one.”
In the meantime I prayed and my prayer was always the same. I prayed that God would bring healing in my life, physical healing, emotional healing and spiritual healing. There was something missing in my life, a spiritual need I had not been able to fill.
Kathleen Norris writes in her book Amazing Grace that “prayer is not asking for what you think you want but asking to be changed in ways you can’t imagine.” When I prayed for spiritual healing, I was praying for change even though I had no idea what that change might be.
On Easter Sunday this year, I walked into yet another church, Hope Episcopal in Suntree. I had found them on the Internet and thought that the Episcopal Church might be the right fit for someone like me who still enjoyed the Catholic traditions, but wanted a church that was more liberal minded.
As soon as I walked into the church, I knew that this church was where I needed to be. I can tell you, after having attended many churches, that each church has a vibe, has a current, sometimes positive, sometimes negative and sometimes stagnant. I could tell right away that Hope’s vibe was more than positive. The people in the church genuinely seemed to like each other. They laughed with each other, teased each other, encouraged each other. The congregation was a mix of old and young and when the pastor called for “Godly Play” (the children’s sermon), a full 1/3 of the church rose and walked forward, a sign of a healthy, thriving church.
I reached into my bulletin for the yellow card to write down my name and address. For the very first time I wanted a church to contact me. I wanted to sit down with this pastor, Pastor Debbie, and know everything there was to know about Hope. So I held that yellow card in my hand and reached for . . . nothing . . . there were no pencils . . . anywhere.
Really? I thought to God. Really? I have to wait seventeen years to find a church and I’m being held back by a pencil?
A few weeks later I related this story to someone who was looking to come to Hope, but hadn’t attended yet.
“There was no pencil,” I told her.
“Well, that forced you to contact the church on your own, right?”
“No,” I said, “I just brought my own pencil the next week.”
I’m writing this blog to let you know how my journey goes as I explore what it means to be part of a church community. I’ve loved God and believed in Him since I can remember, but I have never really, truly been a part of a church before. I’m excited to learn what that means.
And never once did I fill out a card with my name and address. I did not want to be contacted. I wasn’t ready. This church wasn’t “the one.”
In the meantime I prayed and my prayer was always the same. I prayed that God would bring healing in my life, physical healing, emotional healing and spiritual healing. There was something missing in my life, a spiritual need I had not been able to fill.
Kathleen Norris writes in her book Amazing Grace that “prayer is not asking for what you think you want but asking to be changed in ways you can’t imagine.” When I prayed for spiritual healing, I was praying for change even though I had no idea what that change might be.
On Easter Sunday this year, I walked into yet another church, Hope Episcopal in Suntree. I had found them on the Internet and thought that the Episcopal Church might be the right fit for someone like me who still enjoyed the Catholic traditions, but wanted a church that was more liberal minded.
As soon as I walked into the church, I knew that this church was where I needed to be. I can tell you, after having attended many churches, that each church has a vibe, has a current, sometimes positive, sometimes negative and sometimes stagnant. I could tell right away that Hope’s vibe was more than positive. The people in the church genuinely seemed to like each other. They laughed with each other, teased each other, encouraged each other. The congregation was a mix of old and young and when the pastor called for “Godly Play” (the children’s sermon), a full 1/3 of the church rose and walked forward, a sign of a healthy, thriving church.
I reached into my bulletin for the yellow card to write down my name and address. For the very first time I wanted a church to contact me. I wanted to sit down with this pastor, Pastor Debbie, and know everything there was to know about Hope. So I held that yellow card in my hand and reached for . . . nothing . . . there were no pencils . . . anywhere.
Really? I thought to God. Really? I have to wait seventeen years to find a church and I’m being held back by a pencil?
A few weeks later I related this story to someone who was looking to come to Hope, but hadn’t attended yet.
“There was no pencil,” I told her.
“Well, that forced you to contact the church on your own, right?”
“No,” I said, “I just brought my own pencil the next week.”
I’m writing this blog to let you know how my journey goes as I explore what it means to be part of a church community. I’ve loved God and believed in Him since I can remember, but I have never really, truly been a part of a church before. I’m excited to learn what that means.
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