I jumped into my car after my weekly breakfast meeting with a dear friend. And I found myself loving my car. What a brilliant invention! What a terrific ministry resource. What a dependable (if dirty) friend.
My car has helped me think through my sermons, served as sacred space for prayer, calmed my nerves before a funeral or wedding or baptism.
My car has taken me to many hospitals, where I've prayed with people before they undergo surgery, or face chemo or radiation therapies, or slowly recover from another bout with a chronic illness.
I am a nervous pastor; I want to do a good job but worry I won't. My car is the space where I lift my spirits, encourage myself, remind myself that I am a vehicle for the Spirit not the Spirit herself.
My car lives for me in much the same way I live for Christ. Sometimes lights behind the dashboard come on reminding me that the oil needs checking, my fuel is low, my emissions system is out of whack. In my car, warning lights appear on my soul too. "Stop worrying, start trusting!" "You are not alone: 'I am with you always even until the end of time!'" Apology in order! Overdue for a visit with this or that parishioner.
How can I not love my car? Her name is Frodo and she has carried me on many adventures. Like the trips I've taken with a friend to our Spiritual Direction retreats, another sacred space where we speak of our lives--our hurts, fears and confusion and our love of the Holy.
My car loves music. It plays each day I'm in it. Brad Paisley's "5th Gear," or Dan Wilson's "Free Life," or James Taylor's "October Road," everything by The River's Voice and a thousand other songs. I sing in my loudest voice, allowing tension to ooze out my car doors.
In my car, I've heard about great books which I now read on my birthday "Kindle." I've listened to experts speak of world hunger, the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the health care bills in the house and senate, an interview and sing-along with Joan Baez and "Speaking of Faith" with Krista Tippet whose words go directly to my heart--"do not pass go or collect your $200."
Today I appreciated and honored and expressed gratitude for my car. I know the brakes may fail tomorrow or the transmission might go. But for today, I love my car; I really love my car.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Grief and Fear
Tuesday I led the first session of a seven session grief course. My task was to present an overview of the course using as our underlying premise the Christian promise of hope. The course will look at the emotional, physical, spiritual and financial impacts of death as well as a panel discussion about "moving on."
C. S. Lewis, in his book A Grief Observed said he "never knew grief felt so much like fear." Sitting in front of the eight women who came to the first session, I was surprised that three of the eight had lost children. (I was expecting most to have lost elderly spouses.) I was surprised at the multiplicity of feelings I picked up from the attendees. Their experiences--emotional, physical and spiritual--were so intense that, like C.S. Lewis, I felt anxious the whole time we were together.
One participant lost her last sibling, having previously lost her parents and other siblings. She remarked that one person had said, "I guess you're the last left in your family." Ouch.
Much of the discussion that followed my presentation had to do with "insensitive things people say" after the death of another's loved one. One of the women who lost a child said that another member of her church, who had lost her husband three weeks prior, asked her "How are you doing?" She turned to the questioner and said, "How the hell do you think I'm doing?!" Both women were sitting side by side at the class; they had obviously become church friends since that encounter. I thought about the times I've asked my recently widowed parishioners, "How are you doing?" I've expunged that from my list of questions to the bereaved.
Another woman, who lost her husband at a young age, said she appreciated the leaflets sent out by the funeral home--at three, six, nine and twelve months--which gave an approximate list of feelings a widow might experience at each of those intervals. She said it was comforting to know that, for the most part, the feelings were accurate for the interval.
I was shaky when all were gone...anxious. Did I help or hurt? I thank God I don't second guess myself as much as I did when I was a less experienced pastor. In earlier years, I would have interpreted my fear as failure.
On the drive home, I realized that none of us knew who would show up for the class and, having assessed the participants, all the presenters would know better how to develop our future presentations. I also realized I was less interested in talking about "hope" (read "hope in the Lord") in the first session. I didn't know if everyone present was a believer; I didn't know how angry a participant might be at God; I don't feel that "hope" is the first energy to enter one's spirit after the death of a beloved. I reasoned, "If we cant talk about "hopelessness," how can we talk about "hope."
But another of my colleagues felt motivated to say unequivocally that God was with grieving people at every phase of their grief. That God was in control of life and death. I was bothered by that intrusion because I consider myself a spiritually attuned person rather than a religiously attuned person. I wondered if the colleague understood the difference.
I realize I have no control over what the other pastors thought of my presentation. I felt good that all but two of the women felt comfortable speaking in the group setting at least once; this represented to me some modicum of safety. I had given the group permission to speak or not speak at the session; I honored those who chose not to speak.
As I write this, I feel the tension in my body about the experience. I will continue to explore my own reactions to the first session. Have I avoided grief so as not to experience the fear that comes with deep emotion? Am I afraid of the emotions related to grieving? What I know about the Spirit is that I never do anything that is just about other people; it always has much to do about me.
C. S. Lewis, in his book A Grief Observed said he "never knew grief felt so much like fear." Sitting in front of the eight women who came to the first session, I was surprised that three of the eight had lost children. (I was expecting most to have lost elderly spouses.) I was surprised at the multiplicity of feelings I picked up from the attendees. Their experiences--emotional, physical and spiritual--were so intense that, like C.S. Lewis, I felt anxious the whole time we were together.
One participant lost her last sibling, having previously lost her parents and other siblings. She remarked that one person had said, "I guess you're the last left in your family." Ouch.
Much of the discussion that followed my presentation had to do with "insensitive things people say" after the death of another's loved one. One of the women who lost a child said that another member of her church, who had lost her husband three weeks prior, asked her "How are you doing?" She turned to the questioner and said, "How the hell do you think I'm doing?!" Both women were sitting side by side at the class; they had obviously become church friends since that encounter. I thought about the times I've asked my recently widowed parishioners, "How are you doing?" I've expunged that from my list of questions to the bereaved.
Another woman, who lost her husband at a young age, said she appreciated the leaflets sent out by the funeral home--at three, six, nine and twelve months--which gave an approximate list of feelings a widow might experience at each of those intervals. She said it was comforting to know that, for the most part, the feelings were accurate for the interval.
I was shaky when all were gone...anxious. Did I help or hurt? I thank God I don't second guess myself as much as I did when I was a less experienced pastor. In earlier years, I would have interpreted my fear as failure.
On the drive home, I realized that none of us knew who would show up for the class and, having assessed the participants, all the presenters would know better how to develop our future presentations. I also realized I was less interested in talking about "hope" (read "hope in the Lord") in the first session. I didn't know if everyone present was a believer; I didn't know how angry a participant might be at God; I don't feel that "hope" is the first energy to enter one's spirit after the death of a beloved. I reasoned, "If we cant talk about "hopelessness," how can we talk about "hope."
But another of my colleagues felt motivated to say unequivocally that God was with grieving people at every phase of their grief. That God was in control of life and death. I was bothered by that intrusion because I consider myself a spiritually attuned person rather than a religiously attuned person. I wondered if the colleague understood the difference.
I realize I have no control over what the other pastors thought of my presentation. I felt good that all but two of the women felt comfortable speaking in the group setting at least once; this represented to me some modicum of safety. I had given the group permission to speak or not speak at the session; I honored those who chose not to speak.
As I write this, I feel the tension in my body about the experience. I will continue to explore my own reactions to the first session. Have I avoided grief so as not to experience the fear that comes with deep emotion? Am I afraid of the emotions related to grieving? What I know about the Spirit is that I never do anything that is just about other people; it always has much to do about me.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Hope in the Context of Grief
I'm preparing to participate in a 7 session course on grief to be offered in the community where I serve as a pastor. It begins Tuesday and I am expected to present an overview of grief using the topics we intend to cover through the course.
I am acquainted with grief. When I was 33, my mother died of injuries sustained in an automobile accident; my father was driving. Only 14 months later, my dad died of heart disease. I know the last year of his life was lonely and, perhaps, guilt ridden. I know he drank too much alcohol the last year of his life. In the fall of 2007, the first of my six siblings died. Jim was a professor at Northern Illinois University, beloved by many students as we learned at his memorial service and thereafter.
My task for the grief course is to discover where hope resides in the midst of grief. I have been reading about hope and death. As a pastor, I have watched people travel the path of grief and have witnessed some of their trials. But grief is largely an inward laceration, one of those deep fissures few but the griefsticken can touch.
I am acquanted with grief, but I don't know if I know how to grieve. When my mother died, I learned of her death while I was in the hospital preparing for major intestinal surgery. The surgeon came in with my husband on the day after her death; my husband told me and when I began to cry, the surgeon said sternly: "You don't need to grieve about your mother; she is in a better place." (I know he was worried about my own health at the time.)
I stopped grieving instantly. Stopped and never intentionally re-started, though during my life, grief has found its way out of me in a thousand ways. Empathy enables one to grieve.
Often, I've thought about what it would be like to learn that my adult son is dying (those are excruciating thoughts). It is impossible to imagine a life without my husband--the loneliness, the emptiness that would ensue.
But would I be as one without hope? I don't think so, certainly not for long. I see hope in an acorn, in the trees outside my window, in the smiles on the faces of my friends and relations. My hope rises to heights when I am alone. Inside my heart, the presence of God grows like a zucchini patch in mid-summer.
Maybe there is a difference between the pain of loss and the presence of hope. It is possible to feel deep physical, emotional and spiritual pain, and grieve in those moments, aware that hope is fluttering inside like the earliest movements of a growing fetus.
Throughout my life I've suffered with depression. I've been on medication to lessen its symptoms for almost 20 years. When depression creeps steathily over the horizon seeking to enter my soul, it is no respector of medication. It will have its say. Underneath the most insidious depression, still there is that fluttering. I know the heaviness is temporary because, though I may not easily quell depression, neither can I quell its sister, hope.
But I have not as yet been awash with grief. If I ever am, I may find these words ring hollow in the face of a pricey loss. God help me then as She has helped so many others before me.
I am acquainted with grief. When I was 33, my mother died of injuries sustained in an automobile accident; my father was driving. Only 14 months later, my dad died of heart disease. I know the last year of his life was lonely and, perhaps, guilt ridden. I know he drank too much alcohol the last year of his life. In the fall of 2007, the first of my six siblings died. Jim was a professor at Northern Illinois University, beloved by many students as we learned at his memorial service and thereafter.
My task for the grief course is to discover where hope resides in the midst of grief. I have been reading about hope and death. As a pastor, I have watched people travel the path of grief and have witnessed some of their trials. But grief is largely an inward laceration, one of those deep fissures few but the griefsticken can touch.
I am acquanted with grief, but I don't know if I know how to grieve. When my mother died, I learned of her death while I was in the hospital preparing for major intestinal surgery. The surgeon came in with my husband on the day after her death; my husband told me and when I began to cry, the surgeon said sternly: "You don't need to grieve about your mother; she is in a better place." (I know he was worried about my own health at the time.)
I stopped grieving instantly. Stopped and never intentionally re-started, though during my life, grief has found its way out of me in a thousand ways. Empathy enables one to grieve.
Often, I've thought about what it would be like to learn that my adult son is dying (those are excruciating thoughts). It is impossible to imagine a life without my husband--the loneliness, the emptiness that would ensue.
But would I be as one without hope? I don't think so, certainly not for long. I see hope in an acorn, in the trees outside my window, in the smiles on the faces of my friends and relations. My hope rises to heights when I am alone. Inside my heart, the presence of God grows like a zucchini patch in mid-summer.
Maybe there is a difference between the pain of loss and the presence of hope. It is possible to feel deep physical, emotional and spiritual pain, and grieve in those moments, aware that hope is fluttering inside like the earliest movements of a growing fetus.
Throughout my life I've suffered with depression. I've been on medication to lessen its symptoms for almost 20 years. When depression creeps steathily over the horizon seeking to enter my soul, it is no respector of medication. It will have its say. Underneath the most insidious depression, still there is that fluttering. I know the heaviness is temporary because, though I may not easily quell depression, neither can I quell its sister, hope.
But I have not as yet been awash with grief. If I ever am, I may find these words ring hollow in the face of a pricey loss. God help me then as She has helped so many others before me.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Good Soil
On Birthdays
Yesterday I celebrated my "will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64" birthday. I'm old now. My medical records regard me as "an elderly Caucasian female." Some days I do feel old--my body aches or my head hurts or my knee gives out while I'm exercising--but my spirit is infinitely young.
Perhaps "spirit" becomes more important when we get older. It is the part that doesn't age; it is the part that I believe will live forever, though in what form, I cannot say. It is difficult to speak of that which is transcendant; it is presumtuous to speak with any authority about the transcendant.
As a pastor, I am expected to speak of the transcendant, that which is beyond understanding. That is a task beyond me. All I can do is tell my story and the stories of others who have been to the "thin places," those places we enter where the air between earth and heaven becomes so thin that we know God's presence and exalt in it.
I've been watching the PBS series about our national parks, produced and directed by Ken Burns. The series says so much about creation as a means of transcending ordinary time to find the thin places. This summer we enjoyed a train trip to Glacier National Park and found ourselves in tears as we drove the Going-to-the-Sun Road. We were lifted above every care we face in our everday world, lifted--or so it seemed--to heaven.
In my sermon last week, I spoke of the word "salt" meaning "fertilizer," an idea I found in an article written by Alan Kreider. At the sermon's end I sang to my congregants the chorus called "Good Soil." As I sow seeds in the good soil with which God is recreating my heart, I am able to see the "good soil" in others; in that space we can allow ourselves to minister to one another in God's name.
As God creates good soil in me, sowing the seeds of love and compassion, I am re-birthed. So Happy Re-Birthday to all who travel the "Going-to-the-Sun Road," or whatever road leads us to our true selves. Namaste!
Yesterday I celebrated my "will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64" birthday. I'm old now. My medical records regard me as "an elderly Caucasian female." Some days I do feel old--my body aches or my head hurts or my knee gives out while I'm exercising--but my spirit is infinitely young.
Perhaps "spirit" becomes more important when we get older. It is the part that doesn't age; it is the part that I believe will live forever, though in what form, I cannot say. It is difficult to speak of that which is transcendant; it is presumtuous to speak with any authority about the transcendant.
As a pastor, I am expected to speak of the transcendant, that which is beyond understanding. That is a task beyond me. All I can do is tell my story and the stories of others who have been to the "thin places," those places we enter where the air between earth and heaven becomes so thin that we know God's presence and exalt in it.
I've been watching the PBS series about our national parks, produced and directed by Ken Burns. The series says so much about creation as a means of transcending ordinary time to find the thin places. This summer we enjoyed a train trip to Glacier National Park and found ourselves in tears as we drove the Going-to-the-Sun Road. We were lifted above every care we face in our everday world, lifted--or so it seemed--to heaven.
In my sermon last week, I spoke of the word "salt" meaning "fertilizer," an idea I found in an article written by Alan Kreider. At the sermon's end I sang to my congregants the chorus called "Good Soil." As I sow seeds in the good soil with which God is recreating my heart, I am able to see the "good soil" in others; in that space we can allow ourselves to minister to one another in God's name.
As God creates good soil in me, sowing the seeds of love and compassion, I am re-birthed. So Happy Re-Birthday to all who travel the "Going-to-the-Sun Road," or whatever road leads us to our true selves. Namaste!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Emerging Christianity
I was pleased to make contact with www.freshworship.wordpress.com where you will find many suggestions for worship resources that move beyond traditional liturgy. So many Christian leaders are hungry to provide opportunities for deeper mystery in the worship arena. Two years ago I decided something was missing in my spiritual life. I seemed to be in what Frank MacEowen in The Spiral of Memory and Belonging: A Celtic Path of Soul and Kinship calls the "downward spiral." I entered Spirations, a Spiritual Direction program. Spirations uses rituals and liturgies from every faith along with the spiritual practices of indigenous cultures to teach students how to birth the stories of the people who come to them for Spiritual Companionship. I feel I've crossed over into a new world where the Christ Light is brighter, yet doesn't blind; warmer, yet doesn't burn; and fuller, yet without allowing my soul to fall through the cracks in the cosmos. I am reborn. I am eager to hear about your "birthing" stories.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Thanks, President Obama!
I was proud of my president last night! He spoke for me as well as for millions of other Americans who have at one time or another been caught in the insurance trap. We were caught between one insurance coverage ending and one not yet begun when I had a terrible flair of Ulcerative Colitis which sent me by helicopter to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester MN.
All those bills were unpaid. It was a benefit concert put together by friends and the generosity of one of the hospitals which forgave 1/2 of my bill that brought us out of chaos. That was many years ago. The bills for uninsured people have increased beyond imagination. I thank the Holy One for providing "coverage" for me through the gift of beloved friends.
The bill that emerges from the House and Senate must contain a public option. If it doesn't, poor people (including many of our elders) will be left out and they will not be able to afford their medications. No medications equal earlier death. I know of many people who take less medication to stretch out their supply; I have done that myself.
I hope "you lie" turns to "you tried and won." Blessed be.
All those bills were unpaid. It was a benefit concert put together by friends and the generosity of one of the hospitals which forgave 1/2 of my bill that brought us out of chaos. That was many years ago. The bills for uninsured people have increased beyond imagination. I thank the Holy One for providing "coverage" for me through the gift of beloved friends.
The bill that emerges from the House and Senate must contain a public option. If it doesn't, poor people (including many of our elders) will be left out and they will not be able to afford their medications. No medications equal earlier death. I know of many people who take less medication to stretch out their supply; I have done that myself.
I hope "you lie" turns to "you tried and won." Blessed be.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Hey,
I'm Rev. Terry Roos and I'm restarting a failed blog. I am a Presbyterian minister searching for ways to do Christianity in a new world in a new way. I want to involve prayers, hymns and liturgies from all religious paths and find a blend that will satisfy the needs of traditional Christians and speak to those who are trying to do Christianity in a way that doesn't work for them.
I'm not just talking about snappy choruses, pertinent prayers and short sermons that speak to more people. I'm talking about incorporating the best of the Christ Light that shines through the liturgies of all religious traditions.
What do you think about my ideas?
Terry
I'm Rev. Terry Roos and I'm restarting a failed blog. I am a Presbyterian minister searching for ways to do Christianity in a new world in a new way. I want to involve prayers, hymns and liturgies from all religious paths and find a blend that will satisfy the needs of traditional Christians and speak to those who are trying to do Christianity in a way that doesn't work for them.
I'm not just talking about snappy choruses, pertinent prayers and short sermons that speak to more people. I'm talking about incorporating the best of the Christ Light that shines through the liturgies of all religious traditions.
What do you think about my ideas?
Terry
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