Welcome Home!

“Welcome Home”. So much is conveyed by these two simple words. I’ve been thinking about home a lot recently, particularly as I am coming to terms with elements of my past, reconciling the truth with the ways I have chosen to remember them. In so doing, I have needed to delineate my definitions of home - - and there are several - - exorcise a few demons and wipe away the remaining debris. Herein lie a few random thoughts about home, as I have been pondering the subject.

In thinking of home as a physical address, well, I’ve had many. I counted it once, and I have lived at 18 different addresses in my life, with the longest at any one in particular being my current one in Virginia - - eighteen years and almost four months. I moved here when I got married. When I was single, I moved every chance I got at college in the dorms or the Wesley Foundation, and then at the ends of leases after I had embarked on my career. I guess I was restless and searching for something to ease the boredom. When I did manage to remain in one house, apartment or flat for more than the one year, I had to rearrange the furniture so that it felt as if I had moved. When someone asked me back in those days, “where is home,” I would answer that home was where my stuff was located. There were times that it felt as if home were a hotel room or an airplane.

My mother refers to me visiting her, my dad, my brother and his family as “coming home”, and there’s something to that. Home can be where one’s family is, and my nuclear family is there in Florida - - hundreds of miles away from our original home in Tennessee, and even well away from the homes I had in Orlando and Tampa back in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s. To some extent, visiting Florida is a “been there, done that” experience because I resided in the state all those years ago for a period of about five years. On those occasions that I have been to Nashville over the years, it feels less and less like home, and yet, it’s where I was born and was home to the families of both of my parents for generations. As I write this, I am preparing to embark on a pilgrimage of sorts to Wales, birthplace of a number of distant ancestors on both sides of my family tree. Make no mistake, I’m about as American as one can be without having Native American in my heritage! And yet, I feel an indisputable tug when experiencing the music and culture of the Celtic countries.

Home may well be less of a place than a feeling of belonging. Home is safe and it is a situation, perhaps, where, or in which, I am at peace. Home is being in the company - - physical or virtual - - of those who know me the best, have my best interests at heart and accept me for the person I am, and not the one I would necessarily want others to think I am. For some, home may be a marriage, a deeply held conviction or faith, a long-standing or perhaps recently rekindled friendship, and it is often a prayer. For me, home has taken on some interesting meanings and situations: the Presbyterian Church USA, the Shenandoah Presbytery and the Warrenton Presbyterian Church congregation are home for me; my marriage to the man I love is another; my friendships with people I have known only a few months to those I met some 45 or 46 years ago, with whom I am once again in contact; all these constitute situations where I feel at home, no matter where I happen to be physically located.

I’m something of a Josh Groban fan, and on one of his more recent recordings, was a song written by Randy Newman entitled, Feels Like Home. I’ve never cared much for Newman’s compositions, but this one is absolutely beautiful, both musically and lyrically. It is undoubtedly written about a romantic relationship, but love is love. Whether agape or eros, love is that indefinable something that attracts people to one another and then binds them together forever. Similarly, home can be that inexplicable connection that people have when they are truly “mates of the soul”, whether mates in a biological or erotic sense or not. It’s that property that allows people who have not been in contact for years to meet again and pick up the relationship at the point where it was set down previously. There are a few people in my life about whom I can make the claim that they are “mates of my soul”, and the love I have for them is similar, yet still different than what I feel for my family in general and my husband in particular. Each of them “feels like home” for me every time we’re in contact. So perhaps home can be considered to be love in some sense. I’ll come back to this point.

Sometimes home lies in memories. Perhaps in vacation trips with loved ones, or in recalling those who have passed from this life. I became acquainted with grief at an early age, with the loss of my lone maternal uncle when I was still only two years old. Other relatives would follow soon thereafter in my childhood - - my paternal grandmother when I was eight and my maternal grandfather when I was twelve. My grandfather was my favorite person when I was little, and memories of spending time with him are warm and inviting, as well as comforting. This is true of others of my relatives and friends who have passed from this life, but I’ll leave them for another discussion. There are wonderful memories associated with all of them. So home can be warm and fuzzy memories.

Home is where one is known. I don’t mean that the face and name can be connected consciously, but rather, there is a deep knowledge of who this person is, his or her history, his or her opinions, and thought processes. Home is when and where one can pour out one’s very soul, trusting that the one on whom this torrent of words and emotions is being placed will honor it and respond to it with compassion and an equal sharing. Home is when and where one is the trusted recipient of such thoughts and emotions, too. It goes back to that “mate of the soul” concept for me. I have several friends with whom reestablished contact can just pick up the relationship where it was left off, even if years have elapsed in the interim.

So, if home can mean love, then by definition, home must mean God because God is love. People sometimes refer to death as being “called home” to heaven. God’s kingdom is here and now, and it will continue be home for many incarnate in the world today, as well as for those who have gone ahead of us. I cannot imagine it, but the kingdom is said to be a new heaven and a new earth. I’d like to think that earth will retain its wondrous beauties such as the Grand Canyon, or the mighty rivers such as the Amazon, mountains such as the Alps in Europe and the lush tropical beauty of a South Sea island. I also believe that all the filth and decay from evil and sin would be wiped away from all creation, whether animal, vegetable or mineral, and that we will be restored to our original purpose, which is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.

Prayer, particularly centering prayer, can incorporate many of the definitions of home. With eyes closed, in a quiet room, sitting in a comfortable chair, I can banish for a few moments some of the stresses of life, imagining myself to be enveloped in the loving arms of God - - almost like being held in my grandfather’s lap when I was little - - safe from harm, warm and comforted, resting in his strength. It sure feels like home to me! I hope it will for you as well.

May the Peace of Christ be with you, and Welcome Home!

Confessing our Faith

This morning, March 11, 2012, the worship service at Warrenton Presbyterian Church here in Warrenton, Virginia, was led by our congregation’s Presbyterian Women. The entire service was based on the Bible study being used this year by the Circles, called “Confessing the Beatitudes”. As it happens, our pastor, Carl R. Schmahl, has been preaching a series of sermons this academic year on Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, and this morning’s section had to do with giving to the poor. The entire service was very thought provoking, as the different segments of worship fit together perfectly, and I firmly believe that our Lord was pleased by the experience; I know I felt a renewal of my own commitment as I exited.

When I arrived home this afternoon and logged into my Facebook account, one of my friends from the church had indicated that she wished she had enough room to post the creed that had been written by the Presbyterian Women specifically for this service. I promised that I would share it in this venue. Without further ado from me:

BEATITUDES CREED
Written by the Presbyterian Women of the Warrenton Presbyterian Church
Based on the Bible study “Confessing the Beatitudes”
(Read Responsively)

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to honor the destitute and hopeless.
With Christ’s help, I will seek to work with others in ways that meaningfully honor those who are poor.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to honor the weepers and mourners.
With Christ’s help, I will seek to honor the weepers and mourners by listening to them, standing with them, and telling their truth when they cannot.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to stand with the humbled against the wicked.
With Christ’s help, I will look for ways to honor the humbled through my prayers, my choices, and my uplifted voice.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to honor those who are hungry and thirsty, and those who are famished and parched for justice because they are the particular concern of God.
With Christ’s help, I will seek to honor, with my prayers and my gifts, my voice and my actions, these famished sisters and brothers of mine.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to to show mercy by our emotions, our actions, and the dedication of our lives.
With Christ’s help, I will rededicate myself to the practice of mercy that Jesus calls honorable.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to be pure in heart.
With Christ’s help, I will have a “heart condition” that compels me to live with more integrity as my vision of God gets clearer.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to be peacemakers in the church and in the world.
With Christ’s help, I recommit myself to the joyful work of peacemaking, that all the world may know God’s shalom.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to follow him even in the face of persecution.
With Christ’s help, I trust that in times of trial, the Spirit of God will give us the words to speak.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to the fearless work of discipleship.
With Christ’s help, I will follow the way of Christ, honoring those who are destitute, weeping, humbled, and famished for food and justice; patterning my life after those who do mercy, walk with integrity, and make peace; and living a life marked by the unearned and overwhelming grace of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

May the Peace of Christ be with you!

Here's One for the Birds (and a little fun)

One day last week, I was preparing to exit the parking garage at the pedestrian alley when I heard some rather loud chirping. I watched as four or five sparrows flew down at the foot of the stairs I was descending, with two of the little birds flapping their wings at each other and all of them chirping. Only it wasn’t just chirping; there was an edge to it. As I looked down at it, I couldn’t help but be transported back in time to elementary school, hearing the chants of the little group huddled around two pint-sized combatants in a heated playground dispute. I stopped on the stairs, sort of mesmerized, incredulous that these little guys would need to fight about anything, when an employee of the hotel’s valet parking staff walked right up to this little cluster of avian beings, stood over them and exclaimed, “Stop fighting!” He waved his hands, and the tiny birds flew up as a group, travelled maybe five yards to my right, landed and continued their little rumble, apparently picking up where they left off. (If I understood “Sparrow-ese”, I could speak with more authority on that point.) It would have been amusing to hang around and watch how it all ended, but I had to get to work. Somehow, the specter of being labeled as one who enjoys watching bird fights also propelled me out of that alley and onward to my office! I didn’t notice any birdie bodies when I returned after work, so apparently it was not a fight to the death.

I’ve thought about it off and on since then, especially in light of another “bird” scene I encountered on the way home.

I have mentioned before that I live in a very rural area. The directions to my house include the words, “turn off the paved road”, which I think, in Jeff Foxworthy’s terminology, could mean that I am a redneck. But I digress! One afternoon, also last week, perhaps even the same day, I came around a curve to see the carcass of some unfortunate creature that had not managed to subdue the motor vehicle with which it came in contact, and had not made it across the road. I noticed that the bird picking at it was pretty large, and moreover, not too impressed with my Forester as it approached. As I drew a little closer to the scene, I realized the bird was a vulture. Almost immediately, my gaze arose and I saw that two additional vultures occupied the tops of two fence-posts demarking the boundary of a farm or horse boarding facility on that road. The vulture on the road looked once more at my vehicle, and slowly turned away from the dead prey and sort of nonchalantly meandered back toward the opposite edge of the road; and simultaneously, as if on cue, the other two also turned their backs! I don’t think I’ve ever been so disrespected before; especially not by a bird!

Even my beautiful parakeet back in Orlando never deliberately turned her back on me; even the first year I had her, before I discovered the handsome and wizardly looking creature I called Gandalf was actually a female, she never did that. She pecked at and nibbled on my fingers when I tried to get her to perch on them. Eventually, she grew so tame that she would ride on my shoulder or on my belt. She used to let herself out of her cage when I got home, and she would fly to the tops of the drapes. All I had to do was hold my hand up and she would fly to it. She forgave me for bringing home the German Shepherd puppy, although she stopped coming out of her cage after being chased around the apartment and losing a tail feather one afternoon when I was in the shower. She even forgave me for never finding a suitable female name for her, and became known after that simply as Bird. But she didn’t live long after we moved to Tampa. I found her lifeless body in the bottom of her cage one afternoon; I was so upset, a friend had to bury her for me.

No, this disrespect is probably payback from a childhood indiscretion. My brother and I were probably nine and six, respectively, when our grandmother was placed in a nursing home. This place had been a house at some point in its history, and was old even then - - and it is close to fifty years ago now that this occurred- - but the point of the elapsed time is that he and I were little kids. We did not realize that our grandmother did not have all that much longer to live. For a lot of the time, she was in a room at the front of the house, so we had permission to play on the front porch or in the front yard, as long as we did not make a lot of noise, and we stayed where Mom and/or Dad could see us from the window. We would say “hi” and “bye” almost in the same breath, and then run outside. Looking back, I hope that hearing us playing might have brought some enjoyment to the residents of the home, not the least of whom would have been our grandmother. But given the constraints of the front porch and front yard, we had to find creative ways to amuse ourselves. Once, we “tracked” a faint crying noise and found a tiny, tiny kitten - - a calico- - in the shrubbery. I wanted to take it home, but Mom said “no. Put it back where you found it.” I cried all the way home. I just knew it would die without me to take care of it. Another time, we discovered these large, green pimply looking things called “hedge apples”. Due to their size, we tried to play softball with them, using fairly thick sticks we found as bats. The hedge apples were more durable than the pears in our other grandmother’s back yard, but even so, only made it through an inning or so before we would have to go looking for another “ball”. As at home, we finally resorted to playing a game requiring few, if any, implements; something dredged up from my brother’s overactive imagination. (Yes, he has always been good at making stuff up!) That’s how “Bird Prison” came into being. It should probably be noted that often, if other kids accompanied their parents to this place and they were outside for any length of time, we included them in our games; they usually did not hang around for “Bird Prison”. They would actually go back inside the home! So, folks, don’t just suspend your disbelief here; go ahead and expel it completely!

The premise behind “Bird Prison” was simple and formulaic; it wasn’t “ripped from the headlines” or well written like any given episode of “Law and Order”. One of us would be the bird prison inmate on a chain gang, using an imaginary pickax to break up rock. (My brother would supply the sound effects) The other of us would be the guard. When the guard’s attention was diverted, the ax would be dropped (appropriate clanging noise inserted here) and the prisoner would “escape and fly” (jump off the porch and run). The game was to see how far the “prisoner” would get before being recaptured by the guard. If the prisoner managed to get as far as the concrete steps up to the sidewalk beside the highway, the prisoner was said to have made good his/her escape. The roles would then switch. The game would end for the evening when Mom and Dad emerged from the home. Of course, when our grandmother passed away, we stopped going there and "Bird Prison" was closed permanently. I never won this game; he was older, taller, had longer legs and could run faster than I could.

So there you have it. From the Sparrow Rumble to the Disrespectful Raptors, I am certain I am being paid back for “Bird Prison”. Bro, I think you'd better watch out for the furtive flamingos that may be lurking around! The Avian population is out for karmic retribution!

LESSONS FROM THE EASTERN REDBUD TREE

It is springtime in Virginia! The past few weeks have brought a fairly rapid warming, punctuated by cool snaps and violent thunderstorms; rushing, swollen rivers and the explosion of color everywhere in the dogwood trees, azaleas and my personal favorites, lilac bushes, wisteria and the Eastern Redbud trees.

I had never seen, or at least had never noticed, an Eastern Redbud tree until I visited Virginia back in 1993, not long before my husband and I were married. Everywhere along all the sides of the highways, one could see these lovely trees and shrubs, with their buds of a vibrant purplish-pink color providing a pop of color against the clean, fresh green of the emerging leaves of other trees. Bradford Pear trees with their white blossoms and almost perfect shapes and the different colors of dogwood trees join in the color concert, with the final glory being grabbed by the white, blue and lavender wisteria trees and vines and the delicate lilac flowers on spindly little bushes at the end of the drive into our property. My favorite, even though it is a tough choice, is still the Eastern Redbud.

These trees have demanded my attention - - almost as if they were yelling at me to look at them, or make note of their presence along my beaten path - - and I have cheerfully complied this year. I mentally greeted and checked off each one, with this morning’s trip into Fredericksburg being no exception.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

Oh, the trees are still there. The dogwoods continue to bloom, the azaleas are still flourishing and the wisteria flowers still hang in all their periwinkle blue and lavender lushness. But almost as if God flipped a switch during the hours I spent at work today, the Eastern Redbud’s “red buds” were replaced by fresh little green leaves this afternoon! The new clean shade of green is cool, soothing, and refreshing, and after all, green is my favorite color. But I already missed the purple-pinkness of the buds as I began my trek home this afternoon, with my non-driving focus becoming one of seeking out even one tree that still bore these little purple-pink buds. It was not until I left Warrenton heading west this evening that I finally saw a couple of them in mid-transition on the highway out of town! The abrupt changeover of so many trees at once is somehow jarring this year, and it is has left me a little wounded, a little sad, or perhaps nostalgic that another spring seems to be passing by just a little too rapidly.

The emergence of the leaves from within the redbuds marks the passing of another season of my life; indeed, Sunday will mark another anniversary of my birth. It always seemed that the redbuds were here for my birthday, and I’ll continue to miss them this year, even as I have enjoyed them for the past several weeks. The ornamental Bradford Pear trees turned from white to green somewhat abruptly a week or two ago, but not this quickly. The weather has turned suddenly hot from somewhat chilly (for us), with few of the perfect, idyllic seventy degree days to which I have grown fond in my advancing years since moving back east from California. April showers have been in the form of violent thunderstorms for the most part, with the odd tornado here and there; I have to wonder about the probability of May flowers, as the old saying goes.

The heat and humidity are making their presence felt all too quickly; we need a few more weeks of temperatures in the mid seventies, with little humidity. We need more days with a warm sun and a cool breeze; gentle afternoons with nothing to do but laze in the porch swing and dream of another time when the first loves of our adult lives were new, fresh and innocent, and the responsibilities of life still seemed far, far away. The present moment was all there was; we didn’t have pasts to forget or sins to be forgiven, and the future was a still a few nightmares off. We didn’t have wrinkles or sagging skin, gray hair or extra stress-fueled belly fat, and we didn’t need reading glasses to see the print at the end of our arms’ ever shortening reaches.

Summer will be here before long, bringing with it the reality of the sun’s harsh, unforgiving light and heat of responsibility and I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready for the newly grown grass to wither and die, or the red clay soil of our yard to crack, just as my hair continues its slow graying or thinning and my face its wrinkling and sagging. I’m not ready to pull up a rocking chair and my knitting that I’ve recently once again taken up.

Not this year.

This year, I want to enjoy a good “beach read”, whatever that is, although I think I’ll do it without the sand in my toes and the inevitable sunburn. This is the year I’ve sent away to get a new passport and I’m finally going to plan that trip to Wales, and possibly Scotland or Ireland. I’m going to finally clean out that loft room and set up the easel, canvasses and see if those paints I have are still good enough to mix and smear on with a brush. And if they are, I’ll see if I have sufficient creative talent to make something recognizable and beautiful with them!

I’m continuing with my exercise program and newly formed eschewing of gluten, overly processed foods and all but the rarely occasioned bit of chocolate, while embracing healthy proteins, fruits and vegetables. I’m trying to reorient my night-owl persona to one more amenable to quiet early mornings. I’m paying attention to sunrises and sunsets, often commemorating them in photographs.

Most of all, I want to reestablish my personal centering prayer life, in the meditative posture that brings me into the presence of God in the same figurative way as sitting silently with the loves of my life, watching the river flowing by on seventy degree days with that warm sun and cool soothing breeze, while enjoying the vantage point of a bank replete with blooming lilac, wisteria and - - you got it - - Eastern Redbud trees.

May our Lord richly bless you in this and every season!

And a River Spills Over It

Greetings to the four or five of you that actually read this blog! It has been a long time since I have written anything, but it has not been due to any lack of willingness. Life has been busy and interesting to say the least. I’ve been in something of a nostalgic mood recently, and have touched base again with some of my past experiences. In going through some things I had stored away, I ran across a book of poetry I wrote back in the late 1980’s when I was single and living in San Francisco. I thought I’d share one or two that aren’t just really dumb with you. The muse did not stay with me for long, so hang on every word; these are collectors’ items!

Musings

Darkness falls, meeting the rising mist.
Out at sea a ship heads for port.
The seals are splashing the jagged rocks,
Oblivious to all but their sport.
A pensive ghost melody haunts the cool air,
Steamlike wisps are borne on the breeze;
As if the sun had just dropped from the sky
And submerged in the cold silver sea.

Beneath where I stand on the dark craggy shore
Lies a structure succumbed and unnamed.
Beside it are skeletal remains of a tree
Which the forces of nature have claimed.
This stark silhouette to the twilight sky
Reminds me of love long since past.
A great gardened mansion, it fell being built;
And I fled from its gables aghast.

I walk down alone to the cold windy beach;
Second guessing decisions I’ve made.
Pulling my cloak close around me, I shudder inside
And a quivering confusion pervades.

When I embarked on my quest for Fulfillment and light
Did I relinquish my claim on romance?
Did I really believe that the search for my Self
Meant I could no longer join in the Dance?
Why doesn’t God answer my prayers anymore?
Were my dreams just some fanciful flights?
If they were only imaginings of an unworthy mind
Why were they sent to me night after night?

I’m loath to believe I’m to stay all alone;
There’s so much within me to share.
Yet it seems that my destiny is found in between
Little breaks in my dark solitaire.

The breeze has combined with the thickening mist,
Covering me in a light weeping rain.
The seals are still playing and splashing the rocks,
Oblivious to me and my pain.
As I hear them, I smile and chuckle inside;
They don’t question the lives that they lead!
They just swim in the sea and dive from the rocks;
Trusting God to provide what they need!

I return to my ship and head back to port,
Strangely calm from the voyage tonight.
In a few quiet hours the sun will ascend;
Somehow things will again be all right.


SEPARATING

“Why do you not love me now?”
She asked to no reply.
“Did you ever love me, then?
And if you didn’t, why?”

The question hung as if ‘twere limp
And lifeless in the air.
His facial muscles still and calm;
His eyes just blankly stared.

When he finally moved to speak,
She inhaled a breath of knives.
He told her, “I won’t make a move
Which will ruin both our lives.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” she cried.
“Don’t put me on a shelf!”
To this he turned and whispered soft,
“You did that to yourself.”


SAFETY’S NIGHTMARE

Running down the darkened hall
Behind a bouncing dot of light,
My mind shrieks as it recalls
Other runs on other nights.

On either side are many doors
Some stand open; others locked.
A pool of light spreads on the floor
‘Neath the one on which I knocked.

It opens slowly on its own
“Do come in,” a voice invites.
“You’ll find in here a safety zone.”
From the bait I take the bite.

The room seems warm and is furnished well
Richly dressed in fine brocade.
It has a faint magnolia smell
And old Southern lemonade.

While I admire a doily made of lace
And a Swiss-made cuckoo clock,
In the mirror I see a fleeting face
And the bolt turns in the lock.

“Please wait!” I cry and rush to find
There is no doorknob there.
But I shrug and think, “Oh, never mind;
I’ll relax here in my chair.”

But I discover as I turn that I
Am now in another room.
A bed of stone now greets my eye;
Like one found inside a tomb.

From somewhere far beyond the door
I hear a wicked laugh.
It pierces deeply to my core;
Have I met my darker half?

I hear my voice scream, “Let me out!”
And feel a wind both cold and brisk.
It seems safety doesn’t banish doubt
And it carries its own risk.


SAN FRANCISCO SKY GAZING

I’m a hopeless fan of sunsets
They’re so beautiful to see
I’ve not encountered e’en one yet
That failed to humble me.

They’re stunning when high-cloudy skies
Make purple and orange hues.
Rivaled only by the next sunrise
With its shades of rust and blues.

For me, the mountains are the best
For viewing our Father’s show
When the sky’s reflected on the crest
Of a soft, new-fallen snow.

There’s a quiet, calm serenity
As it sinks behind the ridge
And gold magic clothes the City
As it silhouettes the Bridge.

Somehow deep within my soul
There’s a wistfulness it seems
As the sun’s now just a glowing coal
And I’m lost inside my dreams.

------------------------

And as the rain softly falls outside, making the rivers that much more swollen, I’ll retreat to sleep and get lost inside my dreams. Wherever you are tonight, stay safe and warm and dry! Next time, I promise to post something relevant!

Belfast or PCUSA

Deep inside, my soul fights a war I can’t explain, I can’t cross over anymore. All I see are dirty faces, rain and wire, and common sense in pieces. But I try to see through Irish eyes. Belfast.

So begins a hauntingly beautiful, very sad, yet simultaneously uplifting tribute simply entitled Belfast, penned by Bernie Taupin, and magnificently set to music and sung by Sir Elton John, on his recording from the 1990’s, Made in England. The piece details an Englishman’s attempt to understand and chronicle the turmoil in that embattled city, and does so with an unmistakable sense of admiration. This is a song about a city that is torn apart by a politically motivated struggle played out along religious lines, yet determined to survive and prosper. This is a fight born of patriotic nationalism on one hand, people who want to retain home rule as a unified, predominantly Roman Catholic country; and descendents of the protestant, likely predominantly Presbyterian, immigrants from the United Kingdom who have remained loyal to the crown and who have asserted their power on a small portion of the island. While not a split specifically involving religion, the battle lines have traditionally been drawn along these denominational lines - - all within Christianity.

The analogy could be drawn between the situation in Northern Ireland and that of our beloved denomination in the brouhaha over the ordination of homosexuals to the leadership or ministry of the church. The division is every bit as political, with definite religious overtones and includes those whose positions are every bit as intractable as one has historically found the two factions in Northern Ireland. To follow is a comparison drawn in my mind with Belfast representing the PC(USA).

The battle is one waged in the souls of those of us who do not, and in fact, cannot, live in the world of strict dichotomies of black and white, right and wrong, sin and righteousness. Everything’s a little grey, the lines a bit blurred. We are the segment of the population that sees both sides of the dispute, or at least cannot find a comfort level with one viewpoint to the complete exclusion of the other. Most of us probably would prefer to leave the language contained in the Book of Order intact. But, prior to the 219th General Assembly in Minneapolis, it seemed to us that neither side was actually listening to the other in our dispute; the rhetoric has been harsh, and the tactics unworthy of a Christian organization. It is based upon the worldly political battle lines of liberal versus conservative instead of along the guidelines of the peace, unity and purity that we seek. Our opposing forces struggle for control of the denomination by figuratively blowing it up, burning it down, and shooting the combatants with heated accusations of intolerance or abominations. Both are right and both are wrong, and I can only imagine our Lord weeping as the arguing continues.

Look outside; summer’s lost and gone; it’s a long walk on a street of right and wrong. And every inch of sadness, rocks and tanks, go hand in hand with madness. But I’ve never seen a braver place than Belfast.

The long walk on the street of right and wrong; it’s a daily stroll for each of us, isn’t it? At the far end of the road for all of us is our Lord and Savior. The distance in between us and the triune God is sin. We Presbyterians do not rank sin; we do not accept that God does either. We are taught that all sin is abhorrent to God; that he cannot look upon any of it. He reaches out to us, he calls to us. We get confused in our humanness and head in the wrong direction; and we do it every day. Each of us. Everyday. In different ways.

The gift of grace is just that; God’s gift to us. None of us deserve it and none of us can earn it. God even provides the gift of the impetus to seek after his Word and his example. We hear the Word, and if it is God’s will, we believe. We still sin, but we believe, and we are mindful of our shortcomings. We try to minimize the intrusion of worldly matters on our relationship with God. But we all fail. Thanks be to God that He continues to pick us up. But, if we all are sinners, why is it we can only hear the Word of God being preached, or can only tolerate the idea that it is being lived out, by persons whose sins are similar to ours? And on the other end of the argument, why is it that we cannot see that in our stubborn resolve to live our own lives, we may be ignoring the possibility that our behavior might actually be sinful? Why has the expression of human sexuality outside of traditional marriage become an abomination while other sins are simply sins? If God, through his Son Jesus Christ, can cause a murderer and terrorist to become a great apostle, if He can awaken the faith in this example of a admittedly heinous sinner, why is it so hard to believe that He could awaken faith in someone whose predominant sin lies in the way he or she expresses love and devotion for another human being? How many of us, when listening to a sermon, obsess over how the speaker expresses his or her personal sexuality? And on the flip side, for those among the denomination’s population who are fighting to change the Book of Order’s ordination criteria, why can we not understand that our insistence on getting our way on this subject can be a serious stumbling block for other Christians? Most seriously of all, while we are embroiled in this battle, which of Christ’s flock are going unfed and untended? Is that not the primary task set before us in this life on earth? Did Jesus not tell Peter to “feed my sheep”?

And it’s sad when they sing, and hollow ears listen to the smoking black roses on the streets of Belfast; and so say your lovers from under the flowers: every foot of this world needs an inch of Belfast.

Who’s to say on whom heaven smiles; our different ways we try hard to reconcile. No more enchanted evenings; the pubs are closed, and all the ghosts are leaving. But you’ll never let them shut you down, Belfast.

Who is right in this dispute? Only God is. God is always right, the Father, along with Christ and the Holy Spirit. Jesus told us that only those without sin have the right to criticize and hurl rocks; and he also told us to go and sin no more. Those instructions pretty much cover all of us, do they not? Like the embattled combatants in the Irish conflict heading out from the pubs, not knowing whether they will make it home or be blown to bits, some are choosing to leave the denomination. Many Irish have immigrated to the United States and other parts of the world over the years; but the yearning for the “auld sod” remains in their souls. They are not whole without Ireland, and most make the trip back home on a nearly annual basis. For those who decide to abandon the denomination, they are similarly not leaving whole. Even if they manage somehow to wrest the church physical property from the presbyteries, part of the heart will stay, as will some members of the congregations whose majorities decide to go. If it’s a sizeable minority, is it fair that those who do wish to stay in the denomination lose access to their place of worship, which, by the Book of Order, is held in trust for the Presbytery for use by Presbyterians in the PCUSA? I don’t think so. Furthermore, the precedent has been set by the PCUSA to maintain a presence in the communities in which these departing congregations are located. Whether they leave with or without the physical property, the congregations who go will be shadows of their former selves. The denomination will go on, wounded, scarred, and with rebuilding to do, but not destroyed.

I personally do not want to see the Book of Order changed, and I will remain with the PCUSA. I pray daily that, regardless of the outcome of the tediously continuing debate over ordination, my particular congregation will also remain; I would find it very painful to not have this group of people as my church home. But I cannot run from my responsibility as an Elder and General Assembly Commissioner to work toward the peace, unity and purity of the denomination. It is the faith of my upbringing; it is much of my identity; it’s my spiritual DNA and a big part of the “auld sod” of my soul. I know there are some, perhaps even many, in the congregation who feel as I do about it, too. I hope we can stand together as the branch of the PCUSA in our community. I hope my colleagues on our Session will pray, re-consider, and then pray a lot more before embarking on such a decision. I likewise hope the congregation will take a similar routine of prayerful consideration. I pray that each of us confronts our own sinfulness, and that we ask ourselves why the “sin” of human sexuality is so much worse than say, the “sin” of judging people on their expression of human sexuality. The denomination has weathered such storms before; it will go through this one, too, and I intend to be right with her, working within the system to keep her on the correct path. We have too much of God’s work to do to spend any more time involved in this battle that will result in no winners.

The enemy is not at home; a jealous green streaks down this faulty diamond. No bloody boots or crucifix can ever hope to split this emerald island. And I never saw a braver place than Belfast.

Within this decade now coming to a close, a new government was installed in Northern Ireland. For the first time in many decades, it is a shared one. The parties representing the Crown sat down with Sein Fein/IRA representatives and posed for photographs with the Prime Ministers of the United Kingdom and Ireland in Belfast at its inception. All were smiling. All were poised to cooperate and work together. Historical statements of intractability were laid aside on both sides. As the Irish and British get about the business of running their countries that co-exist on the same island, we Presbyterians need to take a page from the same book of cooperation. We, like they, will not always agree, and will continue to debate matters of polity and policy for a long time. It is time for us to get about doing God’s business and stop this squabbling amongst ourselves.

And it’s sad when they sing and hollow ears listen to the smoking black roses on the streets of Belfast; and so say your lovers from under the flowers: every foot of this world needs an inch of Belfast.

IN THE PRESENCE OF THE HOLY SPIRIT

It is probably presumptuous of me to think that many people read this blog, but it is serving as an outlet for my thoughts and feelings. It has virtually nothing to do with my employment, or “day job”, as I refer to it. It has everything to do with the rest of my life.

For most of my adulthood, I have sought for the truly spiritual experience, but looked for it in places where the spirits encountered might not necessarily be ones I should have been seeking. Somehow, religion and family were all tied up together, and for too long, I was in a slow process of rebelling against all of it to find my own way. I lived across the country from family, although I went through the motions for a while, and even attended a church. I allowed myself to be elected Deacon of my congregation, but it didn’t take long before I realized I wasn’t ready for that responsibility, hit the eject button and jettisoned myself out into the world of the so-called New Age movement. I spent hours in now closed Shambhala bookstore on Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue, reading about Eastern Christianity, astrology and mysticism. I took meditation “classes” and learned about “out of body experiences”. It was all interesting, even fun sometimes. I kept myself active with places to go, things to do, and people to see, except when I had nowhere to go but the living room couch, never changing out of sweats with the remote and whatever food I was using to try to fill up the huge hole in my soul, and with nothing to do but numb my brain with television or music. Those would be weekends where I said nothing to anyone. Sometimes, on Friday nights, I’d light my candles or even light a log in the fireplace, put Pink Floyd or Moody Blues on the stereo, turn the ringer off on the phone, extinguish the lights, and just stare into the flames while the music carried me away somewhere in my mind.

I’m probably lucky that each of those following mornings, I found myself back on the couch or lying on the living room floor where I had gone to sleep when the stereo cut off and the log or candles burned out. Of course, then it meant I would have to face another boring Saturday with myself for company. If I did anything at all, it usually meant grocery shopping; or maybe down the block for some bagels, sometimes to the Safeway. Sometimes I dated, but the relationships wouldn’t last long, and I finally decided it would be o.k. if I stayed single, and decided to just be comfortable. I wrote silly poetry about dreams I had, commemorating the deaths of each. My manufactured existence evolved into my thinking I was actually successful, and I even fancied myself to be happy. After all, I WAS living in one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Certainly, there was something about the area keeping millions of people - - myself among them - - resident there when the entire nine-county area is built upon a maze of dozens of seismically active faults! It has taken me a while to realize that it was the city itself that I loved - - the hills, street patterns, landmarks and, of course, the fog - - rather than its people; the “prestige” of having that San Francisco address and actually adoring my flat, rather than feeling particularly great about my job or about the neighborhood, its six Irish pubs in walking distance notwithstanding. I just never envisioned myself leaving; I had become a Californian. It took a 7.1 upheaval to literally shake those realizations into my head; when I became aware that just as easily, I could have been on the Bay Bridge or on the Nimitz Freeway, or out at Candlestick Park, or in the Marina District. Instead, I was safe and sound in my office, listening to the shattering windowpanes, and watching my little knick-knacks falling off the shelves and the lateral file drawers opening and closing. Some fifteen months later, when my plane flew north over the “bay” and I looked out the window to the west, locating Highway 101 in the street light pattern and looking a block and half past it to where “my” flat was located, I sobbed, weeping for a good fifteen minutes before I finally stopped and decided that sleeping would be a better use of the “red eye” flight. I tear up even now just thinking about it. That was nearly twenty years ago, and I haven’t been back. Part of me is still there; whether it is my heart or not is debatable, but it was a little bit of something valuable, I think.

By the time that flight landed in Charleston, South Carolina, I had managed to reapply my happy face, and assured my folks that I was just tired; that they didn’t call them red-eye flights for nothing. Over the next couple of years, my spoiled-brat-kid issues with my family dissolved, and we forged the intense, rock solid bond we now have. Initially to make them happy, but later because I really loved it, I started attending worship services at the Presbyterian church in which my folks were members. Over time, some of the other singles in the congregation and I joined with some from other churches in the area, and attended various and sundry events and activities together. My philosophy by this point was to get a group together to do stuff I liked to do. If I met someone to date, great; if not, at least I got to have a good time. No surprises, I met my husband there and following our wedding, came to Virginia. Our life here has been pretty happy, on balance; we all have good times and not-so-good times.

In all things, God works for good for those who love him and keep his commandments.

During my husband’s very serious illness a few years ago, I had my first real tangible, conscious experience of the Holy Spirit - - I know you were wondering what all this has had to do with the Holy Spirit - - when people and circumstances aligned in such a way as to be absolutely perfect for the situation at hand. These were not those experiences where one looks back at them and says, ‘oh yes, that must have been the Spirit at work’; no, I felt, I KNEW it while it was happening. And yet, I could say nothing; how can one explain it when one cannot perceive something with the five senses? I couldn’t articulate it because it was all too startling, too perfect to simply be the coincidences that other people might argue they were. The Spirit is the only explanation for what is otherwise a mystery.

The same sense of awe surrounds the process we commissioners went through last week at the 219th General Assembly. We disagreed agreeably; we worshipped collectively and prayed in small, table enclaves, usually as presbytery groupings; we frequently sang hymns or stopped for prayer as we moved through the items of business. Questions were simply that, questions. Generally speaking, stands for or against motions were expressed in terms of the ideas’ merits, and never degenerated into personal attacks against those who made the motions in the first place. Even the protest group that briefly interrupted the Assembly on Friday afternoon was peaceful, and was treated with respect. If not by the Holy Spirit, how else were the emotions of the 700-or-so -commissioners kept in check while discussing the “hot button” issues? How else could we disagree with each other in one breath, yet hold hands in prayer the next? In nearly each and every decision made, whether at the committee or plenary level, common ground was vigorously sought. How else could that have happened? We dealt with highly charged, passion-eliciting issues! I’ve tried to explain it in my mind as good planning, as it was; good moderating, as it certainly was; the orderly nature of our polity, well maybe; or was it the unshakeable duty to stay united in spite of, or perhaps even because of, our differences? Sure, and it was all of these, joining in what - - a marvelous set of coincidental occurrences? I know better. Each of them absolutely played an important role, to be sure. But the Holy Spirit is the love binding us to God through Jesus Christ. I know this because I am a Presbyterian, an elder commissioner and a true believer. The 219th General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA) was visited by the Holy Spirit last week in response to our invitation; and out of our hearts the rivers of living water will flow as we glorify the everlasting and all powerful triune God. May the LORD be with you!