Great Escapes

I just finished reading Barbara Kingsolver’s newest book, The Lacuna. The book is an autobiography of the fictional William Harrison Shepherd, a Mexican-American cook turned writer. The book is masterfully done. I was pulled in immediately by Kingsolver’s sharp prose, engaging characters, and a storyline that twists and dances its way through the history of two countries and leaves you guessing until the very end.

But what captured me most about the book was the title. Though it sounds Spanish, fitting with the setting of the book, lacuna is actually an English word, meaning a gap, an empty space, or a missing part. The lacuna in the story is an underwater cave Shepherd discovers as a boy. When the tide is right, Shepherd can swim all the way through the cave, emerging in a totally new place. This imagery of a secret passageway through time and space becomes the metaphor on which the entire plot turns.

I didn’t do a lot of pleasure reading in seminary, but right around the last couple weeks of the semester, I always found myself picking up a book. Usually Harry Potter or something else light, familiar, and well worn; I am the sort of person who reads books over and over again, delighting at the familiarity. Books were my lacuna, secret passageways out of the end-of-semester stress and into a new world. On internship when everything is so unfamiliar, books offer the same gift, a way to disappear from this life and spend some time with old friends. And so I offer a prayer of thanksgiving for books and the people who write them. Entire worlds that fit in the space of my bookshelf, offering no end of escapes and adventures if only for a few hours.

Thanksgiving Pastoral Care

My uncle is a once a year or a couple of years relative, and I always look forward to his visits, which have always been over Thanksgiving. From the look of it, you may not know it, but my uncle is one of the most thoughtful people in the world. He always knows what everyone does and wants, whether someone needs something in a meal, or inquiring about people’s interests and experiences. He never really sees us, but he seems to know so much about us, or at least seems to ask the questions that make us feel like in the small window of days that we see him, we matter so much. As I went through the week and saw how everyone was reacting to this, whether family, friends, or random strangers, they all seemed to leave with a smile, or at least a peaceful look. I walk away from this past weekend, hoping that I work to have that ability to exist for the person in front of me. I talk about what pastoral care is in classes and I understand it, and I know I have experienced it, but I think this weekend, showed me how amazing it can be, and what a gift it truly is. And since we are family, I can only hope to have this gift as well. What a great Thanksgiving, and time to be refreshed, now it is back to the books for two long and fast paced weeks!

Return.

I went home for the first "real" time, since starting seminary, for Thanksgiving last week.  I say it's the first "real" time, because I did stop at my house for about 45 minutes to drop off my dog on our way to Luther Bowl in Gettysburg.  I slept, ate, shopped, watched crappy television and spent quality time with my family.

The weirdest thing about being home though was knowing what I was coming back to, here in Chicago.  I remember leaving my house to come to seminary.  I packed up my car, put my dog in the front seat, hugged my mom and brother goodbye, then drove down our driveway.  I started to cry a little, realizing that I didn't know what I was getting myself into.  What classes would I take?  What would my professors be like?  Would I be prepared academically for seminary?  What would my apartment and roommate be like?

Yesterday, after I packed my car and put Steve in the front seat, I hugged my mom and said that I'll be home soon.  I also said, "It's fine, Mom.  I know where I'm going now."  It was pretty cool to know what I was returning to this time.

Walls

Three months into my internship and the facade starts to fall. I am not always on time, always together, or always crafting great sermons. I've made mistakes, missed appointments, hidden out when things got a bit scary, and forgotten plenty. People are finding out my flaws, my cracks, and seeing my warts all the way from the pews.

During supervision last week, my supervisor looked at me and said, "It's going to be an uncomfortable year. I'm not saying it won't be good, too, but it will uncomfortable." I couldn't say much after that so I just nodded.

Don't let anyone fool you - seminary is a difficult process. One that breaks down all notions of what ministry is and what being a pastor looks and feels like. It isn't all sunshine and smiles.

The truth is that your carefully crafted notions about life and ministry collapse around you. The good news is that sturdy strong walls of faithful living are coming up layer by layer, too. Some days it seems barely a brick has been laid on this faithful foundation but every time I look, I am more surprised at how strong and tall this wall is.

Seminary and internship are nothing like I thought they'd be. But like the beautiful analogy of the garden in "The Shack," God is creating space for something more amazing than what was there before.

Take heart when you see your walls come down - the Carpenter knows how to build skillfully.

Black Friday Madness

Yesterday, peace on earth reigned as many of us gathered in our homes and gave thanks for the many blessings, our families and friends in our lives.

However, the madness started around midnight as people flocked to malls and stores everywhere attempting to snag the perfect gift, bargin or deal to impress those same family and friends. Why? What has seeped into the human psyche that a materialistic present will pacifiy their children or outshine anyone else's offering in this Advent season?

Although I understand the attraction and the draw of the prospect of Black Friday especially in these hard economic times, what I despise is the false advertising, the chaos and unfortunately in some cases, the death that has occured making this truly a dark time of the year.

During the Thanksgiving celebrations yesterday as I was entertaining a couple of my fellow Seminarian brothers and sisters with dinner that we had prepared, I received a text from a Pastor friend who had attended my childhood home congregation for services yesterday with that started with these words: "Your Mama gave thanks for YOU this morning in church..."

For me, those words of love, of graciousness, of acknowledgement and of humility will carry me through my spiritual journey and it is those simple acts of kindness that our Creator continues to teach us, whether in a new birth or rebirth or whether guiding our own ways to reach out and bless, help or comfort another.

Heavenly Creator, breathing life into our beating human hearts you brought us out of the darkness of chaos and into the Light. Free our spirits and guide our spirits to open our homes, and our homes of worship to those who are forgotten or neglected so that we truly give the gift that is everlasting; through your Son, our Savior and Lord. Amen.

Happy Eucharistia

Family and friends gathering together. Skilled hands preparing food, drink, and festive space. Collective memory recalling old stories – sacred stories. Prayer. Giving thanks. The breaking of bread and the sharing of food. The pouring of good wine. Time spent in joyful community. Mutual service. Connections made with the earth, with one another, and with God.

Thanksgiving, more than just in name, can be a Eucharistic holiday. In many ways it is an extended time of Holy Communion. Holy people gathering together to share food, wine, and communion with one another – sometimes with people you don’t see on a regular basis. And what a lovely time for such a holiday in the liturgical calendar. A giving thanks for God’s abundant faithfulness as our final, worshipful act before beginning a new journey in Advent.

May your Eucharistia be a blessed celebration.

Folklife

Every Friday morning I take the Red Line to Fullerton, transfer to the Brown Line, and step out at Western, where I walk two blocks south to school, my trusty guitar in tow.

I first registered for guitar lessons at the Old Town School of Folk Music in my middler year, at the same time I was learning to preach. I was clueless about either subject, having only heard the thing done before, never having tried it myself. But I wasn’t alone. Most of my classmates in Guitar 1 were just as new as I was to frets and fingerboards.

Sitting in a circle of folding chairs, we began with the simple chords of Woody Guthrie’s “California Stars,” our first uncertain steps into the wonders of frets and fingerboards. Over time, we learned lots of songs, some old, some new. And then, at the end of every session, we’d gather in the concert hall with students from all of the other classes for a great big sing-and-play-along.

It was like church. (I know, I know… such a seminarian.) And so one day in the spring, we took it to church. Several classmates, including one who was honing his banjo skills at the Old Town School, led a bluegrass Service of the Word for morning chapel at LSTC. It was every bit as awesome as you’d imagine.

Since returning to campus for this final year, then, I’ve continued with my group guitar lessons. They continue to be a Sabbath for me, in more ways than one.