The Power of Voice

During a youth retreat when I was in 8th grade I became very emotional. No, I wasn’t having a mountaintop experience—that’s why I became emotional—because I wasn’t and everyone else seemed to be. I thought there was something wrong with me; being totally honest, I was sure there was something wrong with me. 

Things were really complicated. I went to church ALL. THE. TIME. Daddy was and is Roman Catholic; Mother was United Methodist; we were required to go to both churches every Sunday, Sunday School, CCD, youth group, and I went to Catholic school. So why wasn’t I feeling anything? Why wasn’t I experiencing anything? Why didn’t I feel close to God? What was wrong with me?

My minister approached me, put her arm around me, and asked what was wrong. I told her I didn’t feel close to God and I wasn’t sure why. I told her I didn’t know if I was living a Christian life. She told me to read Romans, confess my sins, and I would find the answers.

So I did.

I read it and nothing happened. So I re-read it, and then I read it in another translation. Still nothing. I was missing something. It didn’t give me a set of rules; I didn’t feel closer to God; but it impacted the way I viewed the BIble and faith well into my adult years.

I believed there was an answer—one specific way to understand the Bible and only one way to think about faithful living. Why did I believe that? Because a minister told me—clearly she would know—she was an authority. She also never asked me another question; she never again mentioned our conversation, and I never brought it up either. I was left feeling like I was on the outside of the group. I wasn’t good enough, holy enough, smart enough—I wasn’t enough.

I wonder how that experience would have changed me if my minister had said let’s read Romans together and talk about it. (Okay, still not really sure about the whole read Romans thing.) I wonder how it would have been different if she had asked me what I thought faithful living looked like. I wonder what would have happened if she said, “Let’s talk about this as a group.” But she didn’t, the conversation was closed, and I felt forgotten and alone.

I have never forgotten that day, her words, and my feelings. It shaped me, and it is a large part of the reason I believe so strongly in the ministry of all people. It is a large part of the reason I don’t believe a collar around my neck and The Reverend before my name means I have all the answers. And it also reminds me that the collar around my neck and The Reverend before my name has power, whether I want it to or not, to bring others closer into relationship with God or to push them away. That experience has helped to shape my voice and instilled within me a deep desire to never silence anyone else’s.

I have a strong and deep faith. I try to live my life from the core of that faith—specifically, I believe God loves everyone no exceptions. I believe God commands us to do the same. And I believe that means standing up for and standing with those on the margins—the poor, the oppressed, the hungry, the homeless—anyone who is on the outside. I believe injustice must be called out AND I believe the words we use are important. And I also believe it doesn’t help to silence other’s voices. 

I was called to ordination. I was called to preach the Gospel—to bring good news, “to declare God’s forgiveness to penitent sinners, to pronounce God’s blessing.” (BCP, p. 531) I was not called to separate people from knowing God’s love, to turn people away from faith, to leave others feeling less than.

Perhaps there are times my voice, my words, are not as strong as others believe it should be. I understand that, but it’s my voice. And others’ have their voices. I do believe whether the power of one’s voice comes from a title or familiarity or fame, it comes with responsibility. The power of voice can lift up or tear down; it can open conversation or shut the door, and it can bring healing or hurt.

I believe every voice deserves to be heard.

That Girl and Belonging

Usually after writing a post I can let something go (usually as in 1 out of 3 times and then only for awhile), but this time I keep thinking about belonging--describing belonging, defining belonging, feeling belonging.  Yesterday's post continues to race through my head like a Derby winner (Belonging--What Does That Mean?).  As I took a short nap yesterday I fell asleep trying to think about times I felt I belonged, and I woke up to this...

I have been blessed in my life with some very good friends.  I have been further blessed with

They are trying to knock each other off

maintaining some of these friendships over many decades (even before facebook), but this story belongs to one.  We've been friends since her eldest son threw sand in my eldest daughter's face when
they were 2.  They've had an interesting competitive relationship ever since. She is one of those friends who you are doubly lucky to have because your families become friends. (Read your husbands put up with you talking on the phone for endless hours and yes they even like each other)

Yesterday as I was thinking about our friendship, I was very tempted to turn it into the perfect friendship and turn my friend into a saint.  But I realized that wouldn't be fair to us--to the work we put into the friendship and while she's pretty darn close, she's not a saint (yet).  We had times in our friendship that were hard, times we hurt each other, but one of the things I love remembering about our friendship, is it was probably one of my first adult ones--meaning, instead of running away, instead of gossiping about one another, instead of just letting the friendship die, we sat and worked through it, we actually talked about what was wrong--sometimes we didn't talk about certain things for years, but eventually we did. (Thank you J--I still remember that wonderful bottle of wine.)

She's Caroline's Godmother--blame her

So we met early in our married lives and went through the birth of five more children between us--this is the friend that when I broke my arm while pregnant with Caroline and Chris worked until 9 pm would come over and bathe the children every night; this is the friend who with another friend cleaned my house the night before I got home with Caroline from Philadelphia after being in the ICU with skull fractures; this is the friend who stopped by my house to drop something off when her children were out of town for the day and a 1 year old William reached out his arms to her and she took

him home--she gave up her free afternoon to give me a break; this is the friend who puts up with my months of silence only to answer and hear about my latest drama--but none of that is the story.

In the summer of 2007 we were living in England.  The children had six weeks off from school so I flew home with them for what we lovingly called our Grisdoyle summer vacation.  We drove through six states trying to see all our friends and ultimately met Chris in Kentucky.  (That's what happens when you move a lot--you collect friends in different states.)

So we'd been invited to my friend's new lake house for five or six days of our trip.  The first day was wonderful (minus the fact her youngest was mad because they weren't allowed to watch Sponge Bob because I didn't allow it--oh for that to be my biggest problem now--why didn't someone tell me to relax?!?!?! I apologize C--you were right.  You should have thrown a fit, but thank you for not.) After the second day I could feel something was amiss; Chris told me I was probably imagining it.  Late into the afternoon of the third day I knew there was something wrong but didn't know what to do about it.  So I did what I always do when I'm uncomfortable, I went into hyper pleasing mode.

I remember this moment like it was yesterday.  I was scrubbing her already perfectly scrubbed counters (did I mention she is a far better housekeeper than me?).  She walked over to me and said, "You are making me miserable."  I scrubbed harder.  "Stop," she said, "Listen to me.  This is no fun for me--you're trying to do everything; buy all the food; clean all the dishes; buy the gas for the boat; apologize for every single thing including the fact that it rained last night.  I can't take it anymore; I am having no fun."

I think I froze; I can't remember, but I do remember stammering.  "But it's so much to have all of us here.  I don't want you to think we're sponging off you or that we're taking you for granted.  I don't want you to think we're not grateful for you inviting us, but there's so many of us--we eat a lot; we make a lot of messes.  I have four children."

At that she put both hands on my shoulder and said, "Do you not think I remembered you had four children when I invited you?  I was there for most of their births.  I am not your past--I don't think that way."  (See she really did know me) "I WANTED you to come, you my friend and all of your children--all 4 of them.  I WANTED you to be here, but right now you are making me miserable." And in that moment I could breathe; in that moment I could relax and let go--in that moment I could be completely me; in that moment I knew I belonged.

The rest of the trip was wonderful--minus Christopher's 57 stitches (a blog for another day).  I have not yet been back to that house--we've seen each other in other places (Go Dawgs!) but deep in my heart and soul I know I'm always welcome there--deep in my being I know I belong.

As I think about that moment and why it was so powerful, I realize it was about a few things--it was about someone who loved me unconditionally--someone who knew my neurosis, who knew my past pain and while she cared and cares very much about that, she wouldn't and won't let me stay there.  It was about someone who could speak the truth in love so we could return to community. And we did.

Belonging--What Does that Mean?

This week at Trinity Owensboro we are having a Welcoming Rite--between 10 and 15 people will be welcomed into the congregation as new members.  While I think this is a very good thing, and while I also think Trinity is an extremely welcoming church, it's also got me thinking.  (Darn walks on the beach!!?!?!?)  It's got me wondering how are welcoming and belonging connected?  How does someone go from being welcomed into the church to belonging, not new member belonging, but 100% belonging?  How does anyone anywhere know they belong? And I guess then I wonder, what does it mean to belong?  

On page 298 of the Book of Common Prayer in the rubrics (fancy name for rules) concerning the service, it reads, "Holy Baptism is full initiation by water and the Holy Sprit into Christ's body the church."  We talk a lot about that--what does it mean to be a full member and how does that translate in the way we treat our children and youth?  Debating that is for another blog, but it's worth beginning to think about.

During the service of Holy Baptism we as a congregation also make some promises about helping those being baptized to grow in the faith and we are asked, "Will you who witness these vows do all in your power to support these persons in their life in Christ?" (BCP, 303)  One thing I've noticed is there is no time frame given so I can only assume (and I think I'm right) that the promise is infinite which means that we are all--all baptized people are to continue supporting one another in our lives of faith.  I also notice it doesn't say, "Support each other only when you are all in church or actively participating in a church activity."  Their life in Christ--our life in Christ is everywhere and in everything--that I believe with every fiber of my body.

And I keep going back to belonging--how does that translate?  If we've got the "newcomers" separated from the "cradle Episcopalians" and the children separated from the adults--who belongs? (maybe not separated--maybe just labeled--but how does that feel?) I think sometimes we unwittingly set up barriers that say, "yes we welcome you but until you've met these criteria a) age b) been a member this long" we will say you belong but you probably won't feel it.

Last week I preached about God always being present just waiting for us to reach out and be in relationship.  We belong to God; we belong in relationship. I believe that is true; I'm not so sure I believe we as humans extend that same community and grace to one another.  I wonder how many people really feel they belong...and so I continue to struggle with what does it mean?  How do you know you belong?

So as I'm thinking all these thoughts I went for a walk on the beach very early.  I was listening to my Barbara Brown Taylor book and gazing at the sunrise.  Apparently I'm not the only person with a routine because I kept passing people I recognized--people who I see each and every time I am here.

As I was walking a couple flagged me down.  They had their three dogs running around them. "Hey," the woman said, "Where are your dogs?  I bet that black one has gotten bigger since April."  "Yes," I responded, "She has."  And then I went on to explain that Winnie had been hit by a car and she wasn't cleared yet to be able to run, so we left her home with our son.  "All your children aren't here?" the man asked.  "No," I said, "He's started sports and couldn't miss."  "Yes," he continued, "That's what happens as they grow up.  Yours have certainly started reaching that point."  "Well," said the woman, "It's good to see you anyway.  Hopefully next time you'll have the dogs.  Have a good walk." and we parted ways.

I have no idea their name; I know they live here permanently; I know they remember who I am; I know they care about my dogs and my family; I know I belong.  I belong to the community of early morning beach walkers--I belong.

Just to be clear--I think a welcoming rite is wonderful; I think gathering people together is wonderful; I think belonging is wonderful--belonging wherever that may be.