That old Lenten hymn is in my thoughts as I begin this Holy Week. As I was ready to begin the Palm Sunday worship yesterday, I was hit with a wave of grief -- it's the last time we will do this together. The emotion surprised me, because even though I had made the announcement of my retirement in December, I knew it was coming. I expected to feel some sadness at the end of the Christmas Eve service, but I didn't, so I wasn't expecting it yesterday, either.
Then today I was talking with a friend who is also a colleague and again I was overwhelmed with emotion thinking about the congregation I serve and what a wonderful context it is in which to preach. All of a sudden I'm deeply aware of how much will be changing very soon, how much the structure of my life will be different, how deep ties of affection will have to be altered.
You can't be a decent pastor without loving the congregation you serve. People invite you, as a pastor, into the deepest, most tender, most intimate areas of their lives, and you can't share that with them if you haven't loved them first, nor if you don't honor and respect that vulnerability. And you can't do that from a position of superiority -- you have to be equally vulnerable, equally transparent and honest. And you don't just walk away from those relationships without a sense of loss.
During Holy Week we're thinking about Jesus' sacrifice for the sake of humanity. My sacrifice is pretty puny in comparison. I'm just thinking about how intense the emotions of this week are in a good year, and getting myself prepared to experience and live through what will come.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Requisat in Pace - Libuse Reed
In the midst of an incredibly crazy week, I got word that Libuse "Libby" Reed had died. Of course, none of us ever called her "Libby" to her face. She was always Mrs. Reed. She had the doctorate, but she was always Mrs. Reed, and she always referred to her husband, the Head Librarian of the school, by his full name, John Reed: "I said to John Reed..." She looked like she had developed her hair and dress style in the 1950s and decided to stick with it: a very proper dress or suit with a feminine blouse and a pair of sensible high heels. She always wore lipstick, but it didn't seem like she wore much else in the way of makeup. Someone once whispered that her bright red cheeks were an indication of high blood pressure.
At the time I studied under Mrs. Reed in the 1970's, she was actually younger than I am now. Gee, that hurts. But I would not be who and where I am today without her at that point in my life. I grew up in what I now know was a very sheltered life, in a fairly conservative family. I was a middle class girl who grew up in the late 50s and early 60s, the era where role models were the daughters on Life with Daddy and Father Knows Best. My options for what I would be were first of all, Mom, then possibly a teacher, a nurse, or a movie star. My family did not support the last option. Because we were a religious family, it was possible that I would be a teacher or a nurse as a missionary or the wife or mother of a minister. And that really didn't bother me.
But it did bother me that there were things my younger brother could do that I couldn't because I was a girl. It did bother me that no one was particularly worried about me getting a job because it was assumed that a man would marry me and support me. And I don't blame my parents for those assumptions -- they were the general assumptions of all the families of all the girls I knew.
I took Libby Reed's course Literary Perspectives on Women the fall of my sophomore year. She was already legend on campus having taught for twenty years, a rigorous instructor, a challenging moderator of classroom discussion and debate, a VERY critical grader and editor of tests and papers. And she was a Feminist before the word became a denigrating epithet.
She certainly never looked like a bra burner -- she was neither Gloria Steinam nor Bella Abzug. She looked more like a Mamie Eisenhower wannabe. But her reputation for being a fearless defender of women meant that a lot of males avoided that class out of fear that they would be both in the minority and targets of wrath or discrimination or something along those lines. They never were, of course, and a good many others, Chem and Business majors took her course in Business Writing because word from alumni was that it gave them a major edge in their jobs. She taught them to be concise and clear, to write well.
Literary Perspectives and Libby Reed changed my life. I still thought of myself as a girl that autumn of 1975. I thought of myself as a person, but not as a woman. But one of the first assignments she gave, one which took the place of an entire research paper, was to keep a daily journal on "What it means to be a woman in America today." We were to write for 15 minutes a day on what we saw in news and entertainment and advertising about the images and expectations and experiences of women in America. It was remarkable. It forced me to pay attention to all those things and to examine them through that lens. I began to ask, "Why?" and "Why not?"
One of the areas we considered was the image of women in religion, from the writings of Thomas Aquinas to the teachings of 20th century fundamentalists. We studied women who had led religious movements, and I began to learn things I had never known, and to think about things I had believed without question my whole life. Mrs. Reed was always available to answer questions about what we had read and later on that year she became my academic advisor, so she was one of the people who wrote a recommendation for me when I applied to go to graduate school at seminary, not for an "Mrs." but an "M.Div."
I am fortunate that in my denomination I was not in the vanguard of women seeking ordination -- women had been ordained locally to pastoral ministries in small rural congregations for nearly a century at that time and single women had long been commissioned as missionaries in the US and abroad. Our denomination was the first to elect a woman as its president back in the 1930s. But it was still rare for a woman to be ordained in a way recognized by the national organization, to lead sizeable congregations on their own. I was the first "regularly" ordained woman to serve in the state where I began my ministry. And it was all possible because I began asking the questions, "Why?" and "Why not?"
I kept in touch with Libby Reed over the years. She always included a personal note in a Christmas card, sometimes brief, sometimes quite newsy. She celebrated my career and choices in ministry and my time teaching collegians. And I continue to journal, even after 40 years, about what it means to be who I am as a woman in my life and my times.
This past Sunday our opening hymn was sung to the tune of Lancashire: if you grew up in a church you might recognize it as the tune to Lead On, O King Eternal or The Day of Resurrection. But because I had been preaching on the story of the Exodus and Covenant, I used words that I had saved from a worship service in which I had participated in seminary. I include them here with apologies to the author because I saved them from a time when we didn't worry about copywriting "new" words for hymns and they weren't acknowledged at the time. But I have cherished them a long time.
When Israel camped in Sinai, then Moses heard the Lord,
"This message tell the people, and give them this my word.
From Egypt I was with you and carried on my wing
The whole of your great nation from slavery I did bring.
Just as a mother eagle who helps her young to fly
I am a mother to you, your needs I will supply.
And you are as my children, my own who hear my voice,
I am a mother to you, the people of my choice.
If God is like an eagle who helps her young to fly
And God is also father, than what of you and I?
We have no fear of labels, we have no fear of roles
If God's own being bind them, we seek the self-same goals.
Our God is not a woman, our God is not a man.
Our God is both and neither, our God is I WHO AM!
From all the roles that bind us our God has set us free.
What freedom does God give us? The freedom just to be.*
Libby Reed was a faithful Methodist. I don't know if she ever heard those words sung to that familiar tune, but as I sang them Sunday morning, I could see her face, smiling with approval, and I felt a rush of gladness, of gratitude and of grief.
Thank you, Mrs. Reed. May you and John Reed rejoice together in eternity.
*If anyone knows the original source of these words I would love to give credit where it is due.
At the time I studied under Mrs. Reed in the 1970's, she was actually younger than I am now. Gee, that hurts. But I would not be who and where I am today without her at that point in my life. I grew up in what I now know was a very sheltered life, in a fairly conservative family. I was a middle class girl who grew up in the late 50s and early 60s, the era where role models were the daughters on Life with Daddy and Father Knows Best. My options for what I would be were first of all, Mom, then possibly a teacher, a nurse, or a movie star. My family did not support the last option. Because we were a religious family, it was possible that I would be a teacher or a nurse as a missionary or the wife or mother of a minister. And that really didn't bother me.
But it did bother me that there were things my younger brother could do that I couldn't because I was a girl. It did bother me that no one was particularly worried about me getting a job because it was assumed that a man would marry me and support me. And I don't blame my parents for those assumptions -- they were the general assumptions of all the families of all the girls I knew.
I took Libby Reed's course Literary Perspectives on Women the fall of my sophomore year. She was already legend on campus having taught for twenty years, a rigorous instructor, a challenging moderator of classroom discussion and debate, a VERY critical grader and editor of tests and papers. And she was a Feminist before the word became a denigrating epithet.
She certainly never looked like a bra burner -- she was neither Gloria Steinam nor Bella Abzug. She looked more like a Mamie Eisenhower wannabe. But her reputation for being a fearless defender of women meant that a lot of males avoided that class out of fear that they would be both in the minority and targets of wrath or discrimination or something along those lines. They never were, of course, and a good many others, Chem and Business majors took her course in Business Writing because word from alumni was that it gave them a major edge in their jobs. She taught them to be concise and clear, to write well.
Literary Perspectives and Libby Reed changed my life. I still thought of myself as a girl that autumn of 1975. I thought of myself as a person, but not as a woman. But one of the first assignments she gave, one which took the place of an entire research paper, was to keep a daily journal on "What it means to be a woman in America today." We were to write for 15 minutes a day on what we saw in news and entertainment and advertising about the images and expectations and experiences of women in America. It was remarkable. It forced me to pay attention to all those things and to examine them through that lens. I began to ask, "Why?" and "Why not?"
One of the areas we considered was the image of women in religion, from the writings of Thomas Aquinas to the teachings of 20th century fundamentalists. We studied women who had led religious movements, and I began to learn things I had never known, and to think about things I had believed without question my whole life. Mrs. Reed was always available to answer questions about what we had read and later on that year she became my academic advisor, so she was one of the people who wrote a recommendation for me when I applied to go to graduate school at seminary, not for an "Mrs." but an "M.Div."
I am fortunate that in my denomination I was not in the vanguard of women seeking ordination -- women had been ordained locally to pastoral ministries in small rural congregations for nearly a century at that time and single women had long been commissioned as missionaries in the US and abroad. Our denomination was the first to elect a woman as its president back in the 1930s. But it was still rare for a woman to be ordained in a way recognized by the national organization, to lead sizeable congregations on their own. I was the first "regularly" ordained woman to serve in the state where I began my ministry. And it was all possible because I began asking the questions, "Why?" and "Why not?"
I kept in touch with Libby Reed over the years. She always included a personal note in a Christmas card, sometimes brief, sometimes quite newsy. She celebrated my career and choices in ministry and my time teaching collegians. And I continue to journal, even after 40 years, about what it means to be who I am as a woman in my life and my times.
This past Sunday our opening hymn was sung to the tune of Lancashire: if you grew up in a church you might recognize it as the tune to Lead On, O King Eternal or The Day of Resurrection. But because I had been preaching on the story of the Exodus and Covenant, I used words that I had saved from a worship service in which I had participated in seminary. I include them here with apologies to the author because I saved them from a time when we didn't worry about copywriting "new" words for hymns and they weren't acknowledged at the time. But I have cherished them a long time.
When Israel camped in Sinai, then Moses heard the Lord,
"This message tell the people, and give them this my word.
From Egypt I was with you and carried on my wing
The whole of your great nation from slavery I did bring.
Just as a mother eagle who helps her young to fly
I am a mother to you, your needs I will supply.
And you are as my children, my own who hear my voice,
I am a mother to you, the people of my choice.
If God is like an eagle who helps her young to fly
And God is also father, than what of you and I?
We have no fear of labels, we have no fear of roles
If God's own being bind them, we seek the self-same goals.
Our God is not a woman, our God is not a man.
Our God is both and neither, our God is I WHO AM!
From all the roles that bind us our God has set us free.
What freedom does God give us? The freedom just to be.*
Libby Reed was a faithful Methodist. I don't know if she ever heard those words sung to that familiar tune, but as I sang them Sunday morning, I could see her face, smiling with approval, and I felt a rush of gladness, of gratitude and of grief.
Thank you, Mrs. Reed. May you and John Reed rejoice together in eternity.
*If anyone knows the original source of these words I would love to give credit where it is due.
Monday, March 2, 2015
More than Just Stuff
I came to an epiphany the other night. I was answering the nightly 3 a.m. wake-up call from my squirrel brain, and I was thinking about more stuff I could be getting rid of, because I'm feeling like no matter what I do, it's not enough. It's like the multiplier curse on the Lestrange vault in Gringott's...I touch one thing and it seems like there are suddenly four more as well.
Anyway, I was thinking about the basket of sheet music that I stumbled over on my way back from the bathroom, and I thought," I should get rid of that." I gave away the piano that we had lugged to the last eight residences several years ago. (I was never a real pianist...once we had kids I never had a real chance to practice when the kids were awake, and I was afraid to play while they were sleeping, for fear of waking them. Plus, I was only able to play decently when no one could hear me. But when I thought about giving away the sheet music, I realized that I wouldn't just be getting rid of stuff -- I would be giving up part of my identity.
Somehow I always thought that when the kids were grown, I'd be able to play again. I didn't. Then I thought that when I gave the piano away, I'd buy an electronic key board and get back into practice. I didn't. I had a clench in my solar plexus as I realized that I am not going to be someone who plays the piano. I will never fulfill that fantasy of sitting down and playing so that people can sing. As if anyone actually does that anymore. But, you know, hope springs eternal...
When I was in seminary, I had a friend who had been a classically trained bass violinist. And I do mean classically trained, as in a graduate of the Eastman School of Music. But when she decided to go to seminary, she sold her bass to pay for her tuition. She said that it didn't make sense to keep it when she knew she would be able to practice the way she should in order to play the way she could. And she talked about a sense of grief, a struggle to redefine who she was and who she would be.
It was more than just stuff.
I've also decided that I will get rid of my Blue Willow dishes. Now I have loved the Blue Willow pattern since I read the book The Blue Willow Plate as a young girl. I've had a blue and white kitchen most of the last 20 years, decorating with the odd plate or tea cup that I found at yard sales or Goodwill. Finally, about 12 years ago, our local grocery store started offering them -- you know, the plates are at a special price this week with the coupon and a $20 food purchase, the bowls are on sale next week...and I built up a set for my every day dishes.
But I've also got a set of dishes my grandmother gave me when I got my first apartment in college, and I remember THEM from her house when I was young. And I have a set from when I sold kitchenware at home shows -- a basic white set that goes with everything. I love a clean white plate. I've been rotating the sets seasonally over the last number of years, but really, who needs THREE sets of everyday dishes and a set of good china?
I've decided to get rid of the Blue Willow set. I love the pattern, I love all the associations, but one decorative plate truly will be enough. And I've asked my niece if she wants my grandmother's dishes, and I've yet to hear from her. I don't know what I'll do with them if she says no. But I think I'm going to stick with the white and be done with it.
It's just stuff.
Anyway, I was thinking about the basket of sheet music that I stumbled over on my way back from the bathroom, and I thought," I should get rid of that." I gave away the piano that we had lugged to the last eight residences several years ago. (I was never a real pianist...once we had kids I never had a real chance to practice when the kids were awake, and I was afraid to play while they were sleeping, for fear of waking them. Plus, I was only able to play decently when no one could hear me. But when I thought about giving away the sheet music, I realized that I wouldn't just be getting rid of stuff -- I would be giving up part of my identity.
Somehow I always thought that when the kids were grown, I'd be able to play again. I didn't. Then I thought that when I gave the piano away, I'd buy an electronic key board and get back into practice. I didn't. I had a clench in my solar plexus as I realized that I am not going to be someone who plays the piano. I will never fulfill that fantasy of sitting down and playing so that people can sing. As if anyone actually does that anymore. But, you know, hope springs eternal...
When I was in seminary, I had a friend who had been a classically trained bass violinist. And I do mean classically trained, as in a graduate of the Eastman School of Music. But when she decided to go to seminary, she sold her bass to pay for her tuition. She said that it didn't make sense to keep it when she knew she would be able to practice the way she should in order to play the way she could. And she talked about a sense of grief, a struggle to redefine who she was and who she would be.
It was more than just stuff.
I've also decided that I will get rid of my Blue Willow dishes. Now I have loved the Blue Willow pattern since I read the book The Blue Willow Plate as a young girl. I've had a blue and white kitchen most of the last 20 years, decorating with the odd plate or tea cup that I found at yard sales or Goodwill. Finally, about 12 years ago, our local grocery store started offering them -- you know, the plates are at a special price this week with the coupon and a $20 food purchase, the bowls are on sale next week...and I built up a set for my every day dishes.
But I've also got a set of dishes my grandmother gave me when I got my first apartment in college, and I remember THEM from her house when I was young. And I have a set from when I sold kitchenware at home shows -- a basic white set that goes with everything. I love a clean white plate. I've been rotating the sets seasonally over the last number of years, but really, who needs THREE sets of everyday dishes and a set of good china?
I've decided to get rid of the Blue Willow set. I love the pattern, I love all the associations, but one decorative plate truly will be enough. And I've asked my niece if she wants my grandmother's dishes, and I've yet to hear from her. I don't know what I'll do with them if she says no. But I think I'm going to stick with the white and be done with it.
It's just stuff.
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