Pray for Me

Pray for Me 

Today my boyfriend was out in front of the house, trimming back a pesky Brazilian pepper tree that was growing into the road. A man happened by on a bicycle, stopped and began chatting with Bernie.  He mentioned that he had once been friends with Alma (our neighbor’s mother) and was sad to hear that she had died some years back. The man talked about his lifetime in the area, his earliest job as postmaster, his ownership now of a fire and burglar alarm company. He added, offhandedly, that he is also a minister and does work at the prison and the local hospital. It was a pleasant enough conversation. Then as the man was riding away on his bike, he stopped, came back, and asked Bernie if he could pray with him. Bernie thanked the man but said, “No. That’s okay.” The minister/fire alarm salesman was genuinely offended. “Why not?” Bernie explained that his spiritual life is very interior and he’s most comfortable keeping it that way, praying within himself. The visitor became quite agitated at this point. Didn’t Bernie want all the help he could get? Surely the minister’s prayers would bring Bernie the good fortune he needed. Didn’t he care about that? Didn’t he want God’s blessings? When Bernie continued to stand his ground, the man angrily got on his bicycle and rode away.

Bernie’s an agnostic. The man on the bicycle—and thousands just like him—is the reason why. In point of fact, Bernie attends church with me on most Sunday mornings. He even “gets it,” he says, the peace and sense of community found in this weekly ritual. What he doesn’t get and will not tolerate is the arrogance and disrespect of so many Christians, demanding that the laws of the land be shaped to reflect their own outdated ideas and insisting that we sit still for their magical prayers.

What good is prayer anyhow? I’ll tell you—it’s good for the pray-er. I pray deeply at times for people I love and for people I don’t even know. I pray when life overwhelms me, when I’m fearful and confused, and when in my helplessness I understand that there is nothing else I can do. Maybe that cosmic energy somehow makes its way back to the person for whom I am praying. Maybe my prayers make God change his mind and come down from heaven and intercede in the world, though that has not been my personal experience. So what changes? Me.  The storm in my soul begins to calm. I slowly come to understand that while I cannot shape or control many of the circumstances before me, I can ride it out, whatever “it” is. I suspect that is the way of the Spirit, entering where it is invited to either stir us up (for action, for justice) or calm us down (in times of stress and distress).

When I was growing up in the panhandle of Texas, there was an old crusty farmer in the community who would often find himself the target of some good Christian intentions. It seemed that members of the local Baptist church were all the time stopping by to pray for ol’ Jack. He was good-natured about it. He’d slap the would-be evangelist on the back, saying, “You go right ahead, now. I could use the prayers and God knows you need the practice!” I’m not sure any of those folks ever caught the back-handed meaning to Jack’s words.

As for me, I think I’ll join Bernie in turning down the invasive prayers and arrogant theology of those seeking to add another notch to their Bible belt. As for my family and friends and the compassionate strangers who ask for wisdom and strength on this journey we share, pray on! I am always grateful for those who offer partnership and community rather than patronage.

Why Not Trickle-Up?

Why NOT Trickle-Up?

As usual, the comedians among us speak the most sensible words. I’m told that it has always been so, that only the jesters in the king’s court were able to speak the truth to power, under the protective wings of “comedy.”

What is so ridiculous about Jon Stewart’s idea, offered in his January 27th interview of Gwen Ifill: that our government use bailout money to pay off the debt of all Americans? GIVE the money to the banks, to AIG, to those bastions of wealth and corruption. But let it settle then the debts of the people. Require these financial institutions to wipe clean the slates. Two parties are then placed in a position to thrive once again—the creditor and the debtor. This is a win-win and a true stimulus for the entire country.

Earlier this week, a man in Los Angeles killed his five children, his wife, and then himself in order to spare them all the misery that was lurking after both he and his wife lost their jobs at a hospital. That is horrific enough. Worse is that this is becoming commonplace. This is the fifth mass family murder/suicide in California in the past year. Authorities urge families to “get help” when economic disaster strikes. Really? From where? The banks? The government?

The only ones eligible for financial rescue are those who already have money. Consider men like the ex-CEO of Merrill Lynch, John Thain, who a few months ago completed a $1.2 million renovation of his office and then in December disbursed $4 billion in bonus money to his colleagues. Four-frickin’ billion dollars! All of this while the company was being “rescued” with tax dollars.

Where can the disappearing middle-class turn: the unemployed father and mother who cannot tomorrow feed their children; the college student burdened with thousands of dollars in loans; the “new poor,” strapped by credit card debt? Who will speak for these?

The unlikely answer seems to be Jon Stewart. It’s a sad day, indeed, when only the jester speaks a word of sense.

American Pride

On a long drive home, I turned the radio dial to the public radio station, as usual. By late Sunday afternoon, I am accustomed to programming that only fills the silence along the boring stretch of highway. That means classical music from Orlando, or jazz if I am nearest my home station. If I manage my time well, I’m able to catch some of the fun of “From the Top.” Otherwise, it’s just the music, and I often grow weary of it and choose the silence.

Today I was surprised. The music was not the usual old recordings but rather a live concert from Washington, D.C., a pre-inaugural celebration called “We Are One.” After the first couple of pieces, I slowed down on I-95, almost to the posted limit. I wanted to hear every last minute of this HBO/NPR Music-sponsored event.

It was just…well, crazy. I was singing along at the top of my lungs to “American Pie” and “O Beautiful for Spacious Skies.” I got goosebumps listening to the Washington Gay Men’s Choir and the Naval Academy Glee Club and the Washington Youth Chorus. If it had been possible, I would have been up on my feet, dancing with abandon. It was partly the music that moved me, but more especially the infectious enthusiasm of the crowd. We are America, and once again, for the first time in almost a decade, I was so proud to be a part of this great land.

When Barack Obama was introduced, I took my hands from the steering wheel of my car and clapped along with the tens of thousands of people gathered far away in our nation’s capital. Swept into the moment, I listened as the president-elect spoke, not about himself, but about us—our fortitude under stress. There was a paucity of platitudes. Every sentence met its mark. He made me proud again: proud of myself; proud of America.

When Barack Obama is inaugurated on Tuesday, history will be made. I know that matters. I know that matters to some Americans even more than it does to me. I have not had to watch history progress from under the master’s whip or from the back of the bus. I know this day will be like no other.

For me, though, it is about something even more. It is about having a leader I want to follow. It’s about having a thoughtful, bright, generous person in charge. It really is about having hope. I didn’t realize how potent that can be, how very deep the despair had reached.

On Tuesday, I will watch the inauguration of our new president with bated breath, thankful that I have the good fortune to be an American. It is so good to feel pride once again.

Part Two

In a recent conversation with another minister, I mentioned a friend who asserted that she was closer to God before she went into ministry. My colleague responded, “that’s her problem; her responsibility. I have no sympathy for someone who is not nurturing their own spirituality.” On the surface, his answer made perfect sense, but it continued to nag at me. I’ve finally learned to pay attention to such gnawing and have decided I disagree wholeheartedly with my friend, who is currently not in the “plum” position of serving a congregation.

I realized I don’t know anyone—clergy or layperson—who has drawn closer to God as a result of experience in the church. Church tends to test faith rather than nurture it. Church is the place where we practice being very human, beset as we are by all kinds of conflict and power-plays. Church is a place for learning patience. It is a place where we can use or develop a variety of skills—communication, organization, fundraising, and money-management. All of that is lovely and does indeed build character. It is not what necessarily deepens our walk with God.

Most people I know who are bumping up against a certain level of spirituality find they must leave the church, at least for some time. They must leave the noise, the impossible demands and trite activity. They must learn how to live with God, be in God’s space rather than in their own. This can be a most trying circumstance, coming generally later in life, often during crisis. It generally requires a momentary release from “the race.”

Is this counter-intuitive, even an escape? The opposite is true: church life is the escape. There parishioners gather to discuss, argue, and recite theology—talk about God—effectively shutting God out. Ask any active church member about their life and conversation with God. You will likely receive a puzzled look. At best you may get a recitation about prayer life that is lifted from a devotional book—what talking to God is supposed to be like. Those who are really talking to God have no words for it; no easy description. The church, in contrast, is all about words, all about the busy-ness of faith.

Take these two holiday stories: First Baptist Church of Orlando recently had a televised production of their “human singing Christmas trees,” the latest in a line of holy Christian traditions. Because the people stand for so very long to achieve this sentimental menagerie, they have “tree monkeys,” people who go along unseen, massaging the legs of the singers during the show. This is the same church who hollers long and hard about homosexuality being unnatural. Does anyone else find this bizarre?

The second story is less amusing, but very much to-the-point. A music director told me he had to punch up the ending of “Joy to the World” for his church’s Christmas Eve worship service. It lacked a certain…something, which he achieved by adding, in his words, “a Disney-esque” finale. Perfect. Ready for worship. God will be even more pleased and the congregation will get goosebumps. I, however, am holding out for the inclusion of a big laser show.

Want to find God? Get out of the church.

Religious but not Spiritual

As a newly-single woman, I’ve had occasion to check out some of the computer dating sites: eharmony, match.com. It’s a fascinating world where people put forth a personal resume, hoping to attract the perfect mate.

Match.com doesn’t mess around, inviting clients to choose from a list of physical and personality attributes and writing some short descriptive essays. It depends totally on the person revealing the truth. I wonder if anyone marks themselves, for instance, as “overweight.” There are more prudent choices, such as “carrying a few extra pounds.” Why not? Check.

Eharmony has its own process, which includes an in-depth personality test. While clients have some room for brief essays, “matches” are chosen according to the survey questions. One would expect this to be an excellent tool, but the results are mixed at best, causing us to bend our heads around some rather curious prospective dates. Most of mine seem to enjoy mountain climbing, scuba diving, and traveling to new and adventurous places. It must be the up-and-coming trend. Brevard County is also apparently full of middle-aged surfers searching for “surfer girls.” Among the attributes described as “turn-ons” are body piercings and erotica.

This is all very interesting, but one profile question has especially caught my eye: a multiple choice selection about religion. One can choose Christian, Jewish, Agnostic, Atheist, Other, or my personal favorite, Spiritual but not Religious. This seems to be very popular, right up there with “traveling to new and adventurous places.” One problem is that the “Christian” designation draws a whole lot of the Jesus Freaks, for which there is no box, more’s the pity. My personal guideline is to discard anyone who mentions Jesus/God more than once in the brief essay answers. I expect some thought of God, some spiritual depth in most anyone. The person who has to harp on it in a dating site is suspect.

Which brings me to this question: why is there no box for “Religious but not Spiritual”? I know some will argue that there’s no such thing: we are all spiritual beings. Still, the more unorthodox designation would encompass most of the people I know, especially those who go to church. The institution seems a place to keep so busy that one’s spiritual life has little opportunity to intrude. I remember one Lenten season when we offered a series on spiritual practices. Despite the fact that dinner was also served, we only drew a half a dozen people out of a congregation of 300. Our leadership, the most involved folks, were nowhere in sight.

It’s not just the church laity but also the pastorate who fall victim. As clergy, we become burdened by budgets and Bible studies, Sunday school programs and stewardship drives. We only think of God once a week as we write our next dissertation about the Holy One. This serves to remove the Almighty to the distance of intellectual exercise.

Being spiritual, I would argue, is rarer than people would like to believe. Being religious, conversely, is easy. There are rules: show up, say the words, pay the tithe. Easy. Being spiritual is the real trick, requiring a vulnerability few wish to engage. There are no rules. It is the soul’s true answer to “traveling to new and adventurous places.”

As for me, being a 48 year-old woman “carrying a few extra pounds” and unencumbered by provocative piercings has left me on the margins of the internet dating scene. That’s okay for now. I have a lot of catching up to do with God.

The Up Side of the Downslide

This is my first economic depression, and I must admit to finding a little secret joy in it. My 93 year-old granny has been here before and remembers the bad days with a bit of fondness: people working together, folks showing generosity with what little they had, a free market that was really about creating new jobs and financially secure employees. In my almost-half-a-decade, I have seldom witnessed such things. My generation has been mostly devoted to the almighty “me”-- to an individualistic spirit of competition for a rich reward and out-of-control spending as a form of worship.

We weren’t going to change for any altruistic reasons, though there are plenty to choose: our country has the second-highest infant mortality rate in the industrialized world, 47 million of our workers are uninsured, and our country’s children are threatened not only with poor educations but also poor physical and emotional health. The growing number of homeless families was not enough to move us until our own homes were threatened by foreclosure. And there’s the rub: now we are becoming a growing part of the statistics we hear bantered on CNN. Now those sorrowful numbers are devouring us and our proud families.

The upside is that when pushed to the brink of poverty, we do change. We revolt. We refuse to purchase gasoline at $4/gallon. We are done with CEO’s who maneuver around the country on private jets. We are sick of bailing out the rich. What may be around the corner, then, is a return of the middle class. The pendulum swings, and if you’ve been living high on the hog, you may be about to suck hind tit. At least that’s my little dream. I’m fine living through this depression, as long as we share the consequences with our brothers and sisters up in the big house.