Escapism Theology

I teach a Bible Study to an ecumenical group of people aged 55+ in a high rise in town. There are about 10 people who meet with me weekly and I must say I enjoy them. Only 1 has any Presbyterian ties and he's the one who invited me to teach. The rest represent all kinds of denominations, including pentecostals, seventh-day adventists, methodists, "former" catholics, and other miscellaneous non-denominations. There have been times I haven't wanted to be the leader of this group -- like the time I was teaching about honoring Sabbath and realized that one in my group considered Sabbath-keeping one of the highest commandments to the exclusion of others, demanding that Saturday be kept or else . . . or the time when one of the people really wanted to make this a religious right political discussion when I have quickly recognized that ALL political views are represented in this group -- especially because this is a low income group. But there are other times when I truly recognize the spirit of God in this group -- like when we are disagreeing but choose to put aside our own passions to listen to the other and recognize that they too are trying to listen for God's word to them. This past week something stuck with me. One woman for whom I have a lot of respect, spoke up saying "when I die I don't want to be remembered as Sister B. who prophesied in church. I want to be remembered as one who showed God's love." This was especially poignant as the discussion ran away (as it does frequently) to the second coming and how we are finally going to get to escape all of these hardships. And then Sister B. spoke up: "I'm not ready for the second coming. I hurt for the many who do not know God's love. I just want to use every second I have to communicate this love and compassion to others." Her comment allowed the escapism theology to halt and opened the door for all of us to think. Another woman spoke up: "Everything we do -- how we spend everyday, every second -- is being recorded in the Lamb's Book of Life and I just want to have a clear conscience so every night, before I go to bed, I ask God's forgiveness for everything . . . " Until finally I could say what was on my mind -- "I think Sister B. is right. I think our salvation is intricately tied into the salvation of others. As long as we are thinking about what is going in the book of life about US, we are only thinking about ourselves. But when we are thinking about others, when we are loving others and showing compassion to others as only God through us can do, then we are extending the joy of our salvation to others. And I also believe that things aren't as hopeless as we confess. I believe that if we will listen to the Holy Spirit, God will show us how to speak and to whom we should speak in love. God will show us how to love in such a way that even those who are closed to the love of God can receive the gift of love that is offered to them." And as I said this and thought further about it, I really began to reflect on how our salvation is tied to the salvation of others. Sure, I believe that there is an individual part of salvation -- that we have to open ourselves up to receive, but I also believe that even that is impossible without the prodding of the Holy Spirit opening us to desire love and to be changed by it. But I am really beginning to think further about the communal part of salvation -- that we are to listen for God's words to us so that we know how to connect with others, knowing that the true connection is a gift from God, is Love itself. I may have to write more on this later, but I am seriously thinking about all of this and wondering how best to receive it myself so that the world can be changed.

Hair and Small Town Connections

I got my hair cut today! For those of you who haven't seen me in awhile, I was wearing it long, but because of a bad highlighting job my hair was breaking all over the place so I fell in love with the new Katie Holmes bob and suddenly it's on my head. (to my friend Dixie: I really hope it's not a helmet style! You've got me paranoid about my own hair now!) Anyway, it took me a couple of years here before I trusted anybody to cut my hair. I was afraid I was going to get a beehive and, well, that's just not my style (but it works for our choral director). Last year I finally found just the person and when I walked in, she asked me a couple of questions and it turns out she had been one of my daughter's daycare workers when we had first moved here. Small town. I was talking to my secretary this morning who was raised in this little place and when I told her who cuts my hair she asks, isn't that the girl who married my friend so-and-so's brother? Turns out, she was right. Small town. I finish getting my haircut and treat myself to Arby's and while there I see our substitute musician (also a dentist's wife) and a member of my congregation and we strike up a really nice conversation. Small town. From there I went to the chiropractor's office (you know, my social hangout) and on the table next to mine (it's open adjusting) was the woman who works at my bank. We too struck up a nice conversation amidst the popping and cracking of our adjustments. Small town. I went over to the gym to pick up the girls and ran into an "occasional" church go-er who fell in love with my hair and then the coach stopped mid-sentence with 100 kids to compliment my hairstlyle. It felt good to be recognized.

In a small town, there's really nowhere you can go to "get away" from people except your own home. And really, unless you're mad at the world, that's not a bad thing. It's nice to be seen and to be known. We all crave that. Sure, there are some days we'd like anonymity, but that's what the internet is for. In the real world, it's nice to be identified. When I lived in the city I still yearned to be known and I was -- in specific places. But here it's nice to be known, to be "found" in the crevices -- in the potholes and in the corners, in the bank drive through and in the Dollar General and walking down the street in my own neighborhood. And this is the news from Arbuckle Creek, where all the women drive golfcarts, the men are blatant carnivores (EAT MORE BEEF!) and the children watch for alligators in their backyards.

Sharing Stories

My 8-year-old started the Harry Potter series this summer and it is everything I can do NOT to tell her the endings! She's just finished book 2 and had made some correct predictions (that's my girl!) and was taken off guard by a few other surprises. Already she's carrying around Book 3, ready to start it as soon as her head clears.

I think what excites me the most about my daughter's reading is that we're now sharing stories. As a pastor, much of my life is spent telling and retelling biblical stories in ways in which people can not only hear them but also participate in them. It's the shared stories that define us and that define our relationships. When stories are no longer shared, we feel that missing piece of our own story whereby we open our mouth to spout words and more words, hoping to redeem relationships and reconcile the eery silence.

I've heard that as people get older, they don't need to tell their stories as much. Perhaps all of the characters have played their parts or the teller has accepted the inherent mystery that is always open-ended throughout each life story. Personally, I love to listen to the older people's stories. It too is part of my job, and when people let me in to their own story, I feel that it is an honor and a privilege.

Out here in Arbuckle Creek, the stories are always being told. Today a woman came in my office and shared the story of how she got children to march around the room, helping them understand the concept of being God's feet in the world. Then another woman came in to tell me the stories of her granddaughter. A man shared with me the stories he was learning about his family through genealogy. A woman shared the story of her son who gave her his kidney.

Whether Harry Potter or Aunt Virginia, whether Abraham or Jesus, stories become OUR stories as we engage them and write them on our hearts. Thanks for reading another day in my story as the crickets sing their hot summer sun song in the tall grass in the stagnant FL humidity because this is the news from Arbuckle Creek, where all the women drive golf carts, the men are blatant carnivores (EAT MORE BEEF) and the children cautiously play in the backyard, assuming there are no alligators.