Steak dinner, Shame, and a Walk to the Cross

Sometimes I practice what I preach...often I don't......

Two weeks ago I gathered with the youth of the Diocese of Kentucky. We explored what it meant to be created in the image of God, and possibly even more importantly, we explored and tried to own that despite our flaws we are indeed created in God's image and that we are God's beloved with whom God is well pleased. (Luke 3:22) 

It truly broke my heart listening to these young people deny there was anything redeemable about themselves. So many of them carry such deep regret and shame--and they have yet to even carry a driver's license. Some of the shame is about things done to them or around them, but very often it is about things they have done--things they believe are not redeemable. The range of "severity" of these memories is broad--the feelings are the same.

Brene Brown defines shame as, "the most powerful, master emotion. It’s the fear that we’re not good enough." I was surrounded by youth who carry that fear like a second skin. We had much dialogue. We walked through prayer stations; and we loved. I believe many left with their burdens a little lighter. While my heart was still broken, I also felt some relief; I had some hope they had shed some of the shame and would be moving on.

And then today happened.....

I was texting with a colleague--it was both lighthearted and deep. I was affirmed in my ministry, and I felt good. Dare I even say  I felt a little proud? And then I did something, something so minor, but my colleague "called" me on it. Even though I was alone in my house, my face heated up flushed with shame and tears sprang into my eyes. I immediately apologized and was told the apology wasn't necessary. The other truth is the word "called" is too strong for what really happened but it's the word my emotions felt.

Suddenly other experiences came flooding back as they always do when shame envelopes me--the time in fourth grade when I went to dinner with my best friend's family. I loved this family and they loved me. I called them Mama Lynne and Daddy Jim--they were kind and loving. We were at a steak house; a steak house you can see right off 285 just beyond the Ashford Dunwoody exit (wonder if it's still there). I was wearing a striped sweater and bell bottom jeans. My friend had two barrettes on each side of her middle part. The details are as vivid today as though they happened this morning. We ordered and decided to split a plate (steak and shrimp). My friend's father said, "I think it will be plenty for you both." I looked up and said, "And if it's not, we'll just order something else." My friend's mother said, "No, we can get something else at home."

She did not speak unkindly; she smiled as she was saying it and her eyes had the same twinkle they always did, but I was humiliated. It took all my will power not to burst into tears. I was suddenly sure they thought I was ungrateful, impolite, and I knew without a doubt I would never be included again. (note--I later went on numerous beach and ski trips with them--proof that facts don't erase memories....)

Fast forward 16 years...I was at my cousin's bridesmaid luncheon. We were seated at a long table; I was nervous. I was the youngest and I absolutely adore and idolize both my sister and my cousin. I was laughing, and probably trying to get attention. My sister looked at me and quietly said, "Shh; you're being too loud." I can tell you she said it quietly and discreetly, but I went to the bathroom and sobbed. In my mind she had broadcasted to the world, "You are loud and obnoxious and I'm embarrassed to know you."

There are several other incidents that play a part in this movie of shame in my head. It's a movie I get to watch over and over--sometimes it goes years (well not really) but perhaps months between viewings, but then something happens and I'm back sitting alone in the theater of my mind with no popcorn--a movie that wants to convince me I'm not enough.

I am fairly well adjusted; I have worked through (and continue to work through) my insecurities with the help of a therapist and spiritual director. I can talk myself down from the panic that threatens to paralyze me within seconds, but it still exists and I still have to live with it. 

Brown also says,  "Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light." and "If we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can’t survive." 

I believe our stories when shared become part of the larger story--the story of God and God's infinite love for us despite our insecurities and regrets. I believe my story has become part of Peter's story who must have felt deep shame and regret after denying Christ and yet he is the rock upon which the church has been built. (Matthew 16:18) 

It is the beginning of Holy Week. As I walk this journey this week, I pledge to share every story that bubbles up bringing with it shame with someone else, and I pledge to be available to hear others' stories. On Friday I am going to leave them at the foot of the cross, and I invite everyone to do the same. It may be we have to leave them again next year and the next and the next. But I believe we all are truly God's beloved and with us God is well pleased.

Walk with me....

I Am a Modern Day Doubting Thomas

It had been a wonderful Easter weekend; I woke up to a bright sunny Easter Monday; sat down and opened my computer to read the readings for the upcoming Sunday.  I started, as I always do, with the Gospel.  Dear G--why do I have to have routine. Doubting Thomas!  Seriously?!?!?  I may have screamed it aloud, "I DO NOT WANT TO PREACH ON DOUBTING THOMAS!"  I'm not exaggerating when I say my body began to shake.

Why in the world did I agree to preach on Easter 2?  That was the stupidest thing I've ever done.  I have to leave the beach a day early just to preach on Doubting Thomas?  I must have had a momentary complete lapse of judgment when I agreed to that; now how to get out of it?

Dangnabit!  I can't get out of it.  Now I remembered.  The reason I agreed was because it was for my dear friend and colleague.  Why did I have to like him so much?  Why did I want to help him?  Then a lightbulb went on.  I'll use one of the other readings--okay it was a dim lightbulb--who doesn't preach on the Gospel this Sunday?  The lightbulb brightened; I can use my sermon from last year--

same text (John 20:19-31) different church. And if I remembered correctly, it was fairly well received.  Problem solved--now to head out for a run.

I began my run not yet turning on the book I was listening to and heard a voice in my head--the more reasonable voice in my head--"You cannot preach the same sermon.  Different community, different context, different time.  If you preach that same sermon you are in essence (see it was a different voice, who in the world says, 'in essence' to themselves?) saying that nothing has changed since last year.  You have not changed; the world has not changed; there has been no transformation.  If you preach that sermon you are saying that one Easter--one Holy Week--one journey into death and resurrection is all we have, and in essence (stupid words again) the powers of the world have won--will always win."

I began to cry.  I seem to be doing that a lot lately.  I began to cry because I realized that this Lent for the first time in my entire life I did journey into that deep dark place of pain and death--into doubt.  I cried because for the first time  in my life I did question the existence of God.  How in the world could I, a priest--a woman ordained in the Episcopal Church,  proclaim the Gospel when I in fact was Doubting Thomas in the flesh?

People were beginning to stare at me so I turned on my book hoping that would make me forget.  I was listening to Marcus Borg's and John Crossan's book, The Last Week: What the Gospels Really Teach About Jesus' Final Days in Jerusalem. (Harper One; January 2007)  Whatever anyone thinks about these two men as theologians, scholars, liberals or conservatives, I highly recommend this book.  (At least I do now...)

First sentence, seriously very first sentence I heard was, "Growing up the only thing worse than being called a Doubting Thomas was being called Judas."  That did NOT help stop the tears.  But I was crossing the road so I couldn't look down and turn off the book without being hit by a car--the next sentence was something to the effect of, "Just because Thomas doubted doesn't mean he didn't have faith.  But Jesus wanted Thomas to believe and in the Gospel of John believing is about relationship. Jesus wanted to be in relationship with Thomas." And, I thought, Thomas desperately wanted to be in relationship with Jesus.

Perhaps, and possibly worth exploring, I have also been Judas; however, what mattered to me in that moment is that I felt the deep deep pain of Thomas.  I suppose he felt left out and alone.  He hadn't been there with the others--the others believed, had a relationship, and Thomas desperately wanted to believe--to still be in relationship.  I realized that was exactly what happened to me; I was feeling left out and alone--abandoned.  And it struck me hard--what Thomas needed to believe--to be in relationship, to feel relationship--was to touch the wounds of Jesus.  Last year I preached, "Jesus
meets us where we are and in the way we need to be met." I remembered; I had been met where I needed to be met--in and through my wonderful community of teachers and friends--God had not abandoned me; I experienced God through these people. Through them God's existence was again clear--okay not crystal clear but becoming more clear and definitely real and good.  Through my friends I re-believed that God was working to end my pain and was still clearly working in the world to end pain.  My friends and many others are participating with God.

I have to admit, I wasn't entirely convinced I could preach this sermon.  Words of my preaching professors floated in and out of my mind--"do not make the sermon about you.  Make certain your sermon is about proclaiming the Gospel and not a self help talk."  This was going to be a struggle.  I am still hurting; how do I hide that so that I don't make it about me?

I'm not sure....what I did realize on that run was that God was and is transforming the world.  God was and is transforming both personal lives and communities--even when we as individuals, me as an individual don't see it.   As the book says, "Jesus passion was the Kingdom of God and the Kingdom of God is about compassion."  The book continues by saying if we are to follow "the way" we are to enter into personal and political transformation--dying to egoism defined as centering in the anxious and fearful self; its concerns and desires and further compassion and love is central to the life of Jesus and justice is the social form of compassion.

God invites us to participate in the continuing transformation of the world, and I have seen that this year.  I have seen people, communities become passionate about God's passion.  I have seen people and communities come together to love and to strive for justice--people whose only common bond is belief in equality.  As Bishop White says, "God loves everyone no exceptions."  I have seen people living out this truth.

Borg and Crossan write (I'm remembering this and tried to write it down as I was listening so this is not directly quoting) that love is the soul of justice and justice is the flesh--the body of love.  Good Friday is about how powerful the forces of the world are but Easter affirms the Jesus is Lord--the power of the world is not.

I've procrastinated working on this sermon although it's been in floating in the recesses of my mind all week.  I have never been able to totally get away from it.  Yesterday I was touring the College of Charleston with William (a whole other blog--seriously I have a third child getting ready for college?) and as we were standing in front of the library we saw and heard a group of protestors--all

ages, all races, approaching, "Show me what democracy looks like?  This is what democracy looks like." they shouted over and over.  I heard, "Show me what the Kingdom of God looks like?  This is what the Kingdom looks like."  (yes, it's true I teared up).

I know I have to preach on this--from the depths of my soul, from my personal pain and from the hope I have seen in the world.  I have 10 hours in the car today to think about it--I have no idea what the sermon will be but I believe what Borg and Crossan say, "Easter mean's God's great clean up of the world has begun."

It IS a Good Friday

Last week I realized that the drive from my mother's to our beach house would take me right past the home of The Rev. Alan Houghton--a man I love and admire and whom I have not seen since 2009.  I really wanted to stop and see him but didn't know if it would be a good idea.  He has some dementia and is weak.  I texted his daughter and asked.  I was thrilled when the reply came back, "Yes but he might not remember you and it has to be short like 15 minutes short.  I'll let the caregivers know."

This morning I set off full of anticipation; I wanted to thank him for all he'd done for me, for all he'd been to me, and if I'm totally honest, I really wanted him to remember me.  I tried to convince myself it wasn't important--I failed.

I arrived and went into his room.  "Hello," I said, "I'm Katherine Doyle, Chris Doyle's wife.  Hope and Carter's friend.  I wanted to come see you."  He smiled.  "I'm a priest now."  He smiled again and whispered, "In Louisville."  My heart leapt--he remembered me!!! "Which church?" he whispered.  I told him I'd been a priest at Calvary.  "Married there." he whispered again.  I asked him if I could say a prayer with him, he nodded yes and held my hand.  I prayed and then he prayed.  His eyes stayed shut so I began to back out of the room thinking he had fallen asleep.  His caregiver stopped me and pointed at him.  "He's pointing at the chair; he wants you to stay."

I sat down and held his hand.  I told him how I still had the email he had sent me with the four questions I should use with any discernment.  I thanked him for believing in me long before any Diocese had.  I told him I still used the devotional book he had written and sent me a copy of, and I asked if his children have copies.  He nodded yes.  (I need to check that because they need to have them...) I told him that Sarah Katherine, the baby he had played with, was now a first year at UVA and I thought might consider the seminary at some point.  I told him I loved having his green stole because it is the color we wear most throughout the liturgical year.  That stole means the world to me as I've written before (The Stole); I wear it both humbly and proudly.   (I hope he knows his children gave it to me; he smiled so if he didn't know I choose to believe he's okay with it.)

It had been 10 minutes and I knew I needed to honor my promise to Hope.  I remembered a Good Friday sermon I had read that morning.  It was The Rev. Anne Vouga's sermon from last year.  It's worth reading (Good Friday Reflection), but what I instantly remembered was she wrote, "The important Good Friday question for us is this:  Like the Psalmist's, will our lives speak what God has accomplished, to generations yet to be born?  Will our lives be signs of God's grace and love?"

As I held his hand I told him the world is a better place because he has been in it--the world is a better place because he has been a priest in it.  I told him the world is a better place because of his children and grandchildren.  I told him I hoped I'd be 1/2 the priest he is and that I was a better person for having known him.

I stood to go not letting go of his hand,  and I remembered how in July of 2009 he had laid his hands upon my head and blessed me.  I asked him if I could bless him. (To be clear--this was not the Ministration at the Time of Death--it's not yet time and someone else will have that honor, but I wanted to bless him as he had blessed me.) He nodded yes.  I leaned over kissed his head and blessed him.  When I stood up he had a smile on his face and a tear in the corner of his eye.  I squeezed his hand and left.

As I walked out the front door tears slid down my face and I said to myself, "It IS a Good Friday."

Let Me Serve You

I am so tired and I really don't want to write, but as I've said before, when the urge to write comes it's like an uncontrollable bladder, (and after 4 children you know I have one), plus it's the 2 posts in one day sacrilege my children warn me about--but this is important, at least to me--

I had no part in the Maundy Thursday service tonight other than being a congregant.  How easily we forget how important that role, that place is.  How easily we forget as we are preparing perfect liturgies that what matters really matters is whether our liturgies, perfect or not, reach the people we are serving.  Tonight's liturgy reached me; it reached out its long arms and embraced me, brought me in and then held me at arm's length and unearthed a vulnerability I have had buried for many years.

Mother Betty gave a warm, challenging, provoking sermon.  Two lines, however, are sticking to me like flies to honey on a mason jar in July.  The first, "Jesus paid close attention to the voices of those whose voices were muffled." I love that and will probably use it--giving credit of course.  But that's not the line that has me sitting up in bed late  (I'm old 10 pm is late!) writing.  She also said, "Jesus came to serve--to serve us all." And she may or may not have said, "Why won't you let him serve you?  Why are you trying so hard to keep him at arms length in the name of holiness?"  Okay, she didn't say exactly that, but it's what I heard.

I'm a total control freak and I love ministry.  You would think those two things might work well together, but right now they absolutely do not.  I want to know today what the plan is for me tomorrow and so I work and work to figure it out.  I look for signs; I grasp at any and everything set before me turning it over and over and inspecting it for all it's perfections and imperfections.  I keep crying out during my sleepless pain filled nights, "I don't understand--God I just want to serve you."

Tonight I heard through Mother Betty's voice--"Katherine, I want to serve you.  Will you let me serve you?"  And like Peter I shook my head and said, "No, no, no.  You are my Lord, I am here to serve you."  I sat in the pews and kept hearing Jesus' voice, "I want to serve you and until you allow me to serve you, serve you, not just comfort you, not just help you through a crisis but totally serve you, you will not be able to serve anyone else."

Most Maundy Thursday sermons I have heard and/or given focus on how we are to learn to serve as Christ served.  There is no mistaken that is clearly what Jesus has called us to do--it's what he told his disciples to do. (John 13:17)  But first he served them; first he cared for them; first he forced them to expose themselves and their vulnerabilities and he gently cared for them as he washed their feet and loved them.

I leave tomorrow and won't hear Mother Betty's continued sermon through this Triduum--I wish I could, but I do know tonight I heard Jesus and somehow, someway I need to respond.


PS--Best part of tonight after the service--learning Mother Betty knows two of the people I love best in the world and they know me and still love me!  I LOVE THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH!!  (Candyce, I felt your love through Betty--it's been a long 24 hours...)

How We Welcome; How We Worship--It Matters

For the first time in a decade I'm not involved in helping to lead liturgy during Holy Week.  It's an odd time and a weird sensation.  It has given me a lot of time to think--

Last Thursday two things happened that really have me thinking. First I read this blog, The Breadth of Traditional Worship.  The author of the blog Jonathan serves as the Director of Music for a United Methodist congregation in Texas.  I love reading him and his perspectives, some of which I agree with some I don't--all make me think.  I am so fortunate to have served with two of the finest musicians I have ever known--Mac Fogle and Eugene Lavery.  Not only are they incredible organist and director's of music, but they also have deep faith and are amazing liturgists (and they both happen to be very close personal friends).  I learn so much from them about music, worship and liturgy. Anyway,  I read this blog and then not two hours later I had a conversation.

The conversation went like this.  "______, didn't even have much of a faith.  Sometimes he didn't even go to church on Christmas and Easter.  Speaking of which--I'm glad I'm an usher on Easter. I'll already be there early and won't have to fight for a seat with all those people who only show up on Easter."  Truth is I didn't respond; I was kind of stunned.  Who are we to judge anyone's faith and don't we want our churches to be full; don't we want people to show up on Easter and any other time? I guess since I was speechless (something that doesn't often happen but that I'm learning is a good practice) I was actually treated to a monologue.

This week there will be a great many people attending church who aren't "regulars."  Will they be welcomed in our churches or more importantly will they feel they are welcome and even more importantly what will our worship say about what we believe--about our theology?  Jonathan writes, "Traditional worship is inclusive" and then goes onto to describe why.  (Seriously y'all read the blog; it's good.) He further writes, "Traditional worship is determined by our theology.  Everything we do in corporate worship should be dictated by what we believe about God and God's mighty acts in Jesus Christ."  (He is writing predominately about music so he continues, "Bluntly, music's job is to serve the liturgy and nothing else."  Yeah Eugene and Mac!)  EVERYTHING we do--break it down--it takes time, but it's so important.

Two great points that I'll try to separate although I think they are intrinsically connected.  First, do people feel welcome?  I truly believe we have to think about whether they feel welcome and not whether we consider ourselves welcoming communities.  Sometimes in an effort not to offend people, I know we do nothing.  I've heard people say, "What if I speak to someone as if they're a visitor and really I just don't know them and they've been members for a long time?"  So?  Chances are if you don't know them, they don't know you.  What a great time to meet one another.

Or, "what if I speak to someone and they are members but just don't come regularly; it just highlights they aren't here often." Here's the thing--if they are members who don't come regularly THEY KNOW THEY DON'T!!!!  You're not telling them something that's news to them, AND if no one speaks to them why would they come back?  "What if I embarrass them by speaking to them and they start apologizing for not being here more?"  How about try this, "I'm glad you're here when you are. Welcome back."  (Because wouldn't you rather them be a tad bit embarrassed than totally offended? Not speaking to them says, "We don't care if you're here."  Back to the monoluge--"plus when you're not here I get a better seat.")

"Some people like to be left alone to worship."  Yep, I've heard that too.  I am not saying interrogate someone or even give them your life history, just speak--introduce yourself--and if if that's too uncomfortable smile and wave, less than 30 seconds doesn't offend even the most introverted of introverts.

And finally, make sure they know what's going on--coffee hour, Easter egg hunts etc.  Don't assume they read the bulletin and when announcements are made just invite all--I personally like "All are invited to join us in the _____________ which is located ________________."  If we're really trying not to highlight who is a visitor, a lapsed attendee and a regular, then don't--just invite ALL.

Equally and possibly arguably more important is what our worship says about our theology.  We all have a theology and there are differences--differences between denominations and differences within denominations.  Our worship says something about our theology--not about our budget or our ability to hire the best musicians or to have the most impressive flowers but about what we believe about Jesus Christ.  All too often we as leaders in liturgy get so caught up in getting it right, in outdoing another congregation, or in wanting to stand apart from another congregation that we forget to sit back and ask the questions, "What does this say about who we are as a Christians, about what we believe?  What does this say about who we are as a congregation?"  I can guarantee that even though some of our regulars may take these things for granted, many of our lapsed members or guests don't.  (And that is not a slam on our regulars--I'm one of them--it's just easy to forget that every movement of liturgy can and does mean something. It's easy to allow the liturgy to be so soothing that we forget it is also supposed to challenge us--to shake us up--to get our attention.  If we don't deliberately pay attention to and give liturgy meaning, people will do it for us.)

An aside, when I was serving as an intern in a large parish I asked the rector, "Why does everyone place their hands on the altar when receiving Eucharist?"  He responded, "I have no idea but it's breaking my back; why don't you find out?"  So I did, and people thought it was the proper way, that it indicated humility, that it was penitential among other answers.  Most likely someone did it once and people over time followed suit. Meaning came from it--the rector was able to use it as a teaching moment in his next sermon. People certainly were more than welcome to continue the practice as their own personal piety (or comfort) but those who didn't now understood this was not a liturgical act required to receive.

How do we avoid this?  Here's a possible suggestion--have some lay congregants who do not serve on the altar on the worship committee to review services and ask the questions, "Why do we do this and not that?" It's a great time to teach as well as to hold ourselves accountable.  It's a great time for us to really think about what we are saying and doing and what we believe. Our guests, our non-regulars, they're paying attention; they may not know what we intend to mean, but they are probably asking the questions, and how they answer them may determine whether they come back.

It's hard work; it takes time; it takes extra effort, but I believe as liturgist as well as the priesthood of all believers we are all responsible for our collective message.  I understand this Holy Week I have a lot of time to think about this because I'm not having to put together numerous services; I'm not totally sleep deprived; I'm not completely frazzled (well not beyond what any mother of four teenagers plus an exchange student is). My hope, my prayer is that I can remember this, that this time this period of what I call my "fallow time" will help me to bear fruit in my next call.

In a priest's ordination the Bishop addresses the ordinand and says,
"As a priest, it will be your task to proclaim by word and deed 
the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and to fashion your life in 
accordance with its precepts. You are to love and serve the 
people among whom you work, caring alike for young and 
old, strong and weak, rich and poor. You are to preach, to 
declare God's forgiveness to penitent sinners, to pronounce 
God's blessing, to share in the administration of Holy 
Baptism and in the celebration of the mysteries of Christ's 
Body and Blood, and to perform the other ministrations 
entrusted to you.

In all that you do, you are to nourish Christ's people from the 
riches of his grace, and strengthen them to glorify God in this 
life and in the life to come."

He also asks,

Bishop	Will you endeavor so to minister the Word of God and the sacraments of the New Covenant, that the reconciling love of Christ may be known and received?
Answer	I will. (BCP, 531-532)
	To nourish Christ's people--I believe that means all people no exceptions--regulars, lapsed attendees, and guests.  The reconciling love of Christ is known in how we welcome and in how we worship.  The ordained made these vows; the ministry of all believers promised to seek and serve Christ in all--regulars, lapsed attendees and guests.  Dare I go so far and say even those who don't attend even on Christmas and Easter?  It matters.

Palm Sunday at Big Boy

I'd say this post is a confession except that Merriam-Webster defines confession as:

1. a written or spoken statement in which you say that you have done something wrong or committed a crime 
2. the act of telling people something that makes you embarrassed, ashamed, etc.
3. the act of telling your sins to God or to a priest

I committed no crime; I perhaps should be embarrassed and there is a slight tinge of it but not enough for the full definition, I don't believe I committed a sin even though I am a priest.  But here it is, our family didn't go to church today--we had Palm Sunday at Big Boy.

Truth is, we planned to go to church.  But this morning when I got up and started waking the children, it wasn't going well.  Caroline really couldn't go because of the stimulation (concussion regulations), Boss has been working so hard and late and has to work again today--he was beat, and William, well he's just tired from long days of lacrosse and late nights studying.  Perhaps those aren't good reasons.  They are certainly not reasons I ever thought I would allow to be used in our home, but I did.  

Chris has been traveling non-stop; Boss has been working non-stop; and I'm leaving tomorrow to visit my sister and then my mother (where I am looking forward to going to Tenebrae and Maundy Thursday service) before being joined at the beach by Chris and only 2 of our children for Easter. (Boss is going to the beach with his girlfriend's family--developmentally appropriate but heartbreaking for a Mama; and Caroline is going to New York with a friend--again appropriate but sad.)  We haven't all been together as a family for weeks, and it won't happen again for weeks.  (Don't remind me SK wasn't here, I try to forget that and just live in Katherineland during these memories when all four children are around the table preferably in matching smocked jon-jon's and bishop dresses--instead we were all in sweatpants, sweat shirts and baseball caps.)

So we decided to go to Big Boy.  I will admit I pouted for a few minutes and said I wasn't going. Truth, yes I missed Palm Sunday.  I love the liturgy, and I love our community of faith.  I miss sitting with my family in the pew something we cannot often do anymore; we could have today.  But I also believe that while churches everywhere were re-enacting Jesus riding into Jerusalem, waving palms and chanting "Hosanna", Jesus was also present around our table at Big Boy.  This was one of those times spending time in relationship was more important than the "rule" of going to church.  Chris and I will spend many Palm Sundays over the next decades going to church, more Sundays than we will spend sitting around a breakfast table with our children sharing our lives, laughing and loving.

So, no, this isn't a confession.  This is just the truth of how we spent our day.  I suspect this will become one of those stories our family tells for years to come, probably every time we are getting ready for Palm Sunday services (and perhaps one our children will swear us to secrecy about so their children don't use it against them) "Remember that Palm Sunday Mama and Daddy let us skip church and just go to Big Boy?" We'll all smile remembering that day and the love around the table.  

Sometimes I Make Grammar Mistakes

Yesterday morning Boss stood in the doorway sharing with me a personal story about a good friend.  He was asking about having the friend over and explaining to me, "Him and I have been talking.." I interrupted, "You mean he and I," Boss's eyes glazed over his face fell.   "Never mind," he said as he began to walk away. "I'm sorry," I quickly said hoping I hadn't ruined the moment but recognizing there was a good chance I had, "please finish telling me."  I guess he took my apology because he did finish, but when he left for school my heart hurt.  I had just done to him exactly what had recently been done to me, and the pain and anger that had pulsated through my veins the night before resurfaced, but this time shame was added to the mix.

I had written a post, very emotional hard to write post (Who Cares if You're in a Sorority? ).  It was a post that stirred up deep pain for me on many levels and for many reasons.  I also wasn't sure it wouldn't also stir up pain for SK, and I would rather drive across a bridge with the windows rolled up and the car full of birds (two of my huge phobias) than cause my children pain. And, I made a typo--"Your" instead of "You're".

Not long after posting the blog I received a text from a good friend.  She was outraged someone had called me out on my grammar on facebook instead of sending me a private message.  I went back and looked and yep, it was there.  I admit, at first I wasn't hurt or angry--just numb.  I wish that had lasted, but the emotion that writing had created could not be contained and this pain mixed with that and hit me with an intensity I didn't understand. Added to the already potent concoction of pain was embarrassment and worse shame.  I did know the difference; I had made a mistake; and I was publicly called our for that mistake.  Was correcting my grammar really more important than what I had to say?  I understand that just because I think what I had to say was important doesn't mean it was to others, but what happened to saying nothing? Was correcting my grammar really more important than me?

I was an English major from one of the top English departments in the country.  I know my grammar--I have been accused of being a grammar natzi.  My daughter, who's in the same English department and ten times the student I was, still sends me her papers to edit.  I spend good hard earned money having William tutored in grammar--I get it's important.  But...sometimes I make mistakes. Sometimes those mistakes are made in a moment of passionate writing or story telling and sometimes they are made because my typing is not as good as my grammar. Sometimes they might even be made because I don't know.

I do believe the comment to me was in some way meant to be funny--or maybe not.  I deleted it (per the advice of my therapist--yep I was so upset  I texted her).  I can't, however, stop thinking. What if I really didn't know the difference between "you're" and "your"?  What if Boss really didn't know he should say "he and I" instead of "him and I"?  There are people, good people who don't.  I know some of these people, and some are the wisest and the kindest people I have ever met.  Would I really want to correct their grammar?

I believe there is a time and place to correct grammar.  I believe there is a time and place to correct a lot of things.  I believe in rules and following them.  But I also believe in loving people despite their mistakes.  I believe that sometimes our choice of times for corrections seems to glorify rules over relationships.  And I don't believe public humiliation for mistakes is ever the right way to make corrections.  (I also recognize that sometimes disagreement can be interpreted as humiliation and that is not what I am referring to here. Disagreement can be transformative.)

As we head into Holy Week I am reminded that Jesus always placed relationship over rules.  Yes Jesus made corrections (John 8:1-11), but never causing embarrassment or using shame. He also did not say rules weren't important or should be completely ignored (Matthew 5:17), but caring for others, loving others--loving those people others saw as less than, not as smart as, or weak--that is what he did--regardless of the rules.   (Mark 3:1-6; Matthew 12:10)