Ok, Tripp's started another trend: playing with the Belief-O-Matic. Susie's posted her results, so I thought I'd do the same with my top 10. Hey, Julie-- who knew?
1. Orthodox Quaker (100%)
2. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (98%)
3. Liberal Quakers (80%)
4. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (80%)
5. Seventh Day Adventist (80%)
6. Unitarian Universalism (70%)
7. Eastern Orthodox (65%)
8. Roman Catholic (65%)
9. Baha'i Faith (54%)
10. Reform Judaism (54%)
Jenni is indignant, and I don't blame her. Apparently, a few folks appearing at General Convention (including classmate Alex), recruited to give a presentation about the Young Adult Service Corps, have not been housed in a manner similar to other invited presenters. Instead, someone has decided for them that, since they are young (read, I assume, under 30), providing them space on mattresses on the floor is sufficient.
I realize that it's been a while since I qualified as a "Young Adult," but I can still remember quite clearly the frustration I felt at stunts like this-- being considered an adult when older folks wanted to offload undesirable tasks, and dismissed as some sort of post-teen kid otherwise.
I'm sure if he had been faced with the choice between his taking the substandard sleeping arrangements, or some arthritic Senior delegate having to do so, that "Anglo-boy" would have graciously acted the Southern Gentleman. However, that does not appear to be the case. Instead, some supposedly mature person has made the unwarranted assumption that "Young Adults" do not need to be offered the same consideration as the rest of the convention visitors.
You know, we need to do more than give lip service to the notion of recognizing and honoring the ministry of all the baptized. I find the idea of someone being typecast and set apart because of age no more acceptable than any other form of discrimination-- and absolutely unconscionable behavior for persons trying to live as disciples in the Body of Christ, together.
Yes, it's been yet another week where I'm behind in everything, including my blogging. Too much going on, and then I come home and fall asleep. It amazes me how sitting to chat and pray with folks can be so physically draining.
I was on call Tuesday night. Prayer and support for patients and families: one death, the end of a long life, well-lived; one multiple stabbing victim, recovering nicely; and one early morning surgery to repair the feet of a scalded toddler, so they will pitter-patter again soon.
On Thursday I drove north to Evanston; Dropped off Robert, had a nice chat with Alex, and then trotted over to St. Mark's to drink in some Theology on Tap. Brother Tripp was the presenter that night, and was wonderful; you can preach in my pulpit anytime, my friend. Check his blog for details.
Speaking of exhausting, I'm headed out shopping with my daughter this morning. I love spending the time with her, but... the shopping gene bypassed me entirely. If any of you want to join in our browsing adventures, come on down. If you're a shopper, you can run the racks with Carolyn. If not, you can keep me company on the bench outside the dressing room.
I've had several opportunities to preach this summer; mostly at my home parish, but once at a friend's church in South Bend, bless her generous heart. In the midst of CPE and all, it's sometimes felt stressful, trying to find several hours to pray through the scriptures, and put together some sort of coherent message. I've learned three things through the process: (1) It's much nicer to have lots of time to prepare, but I can craft a sermon under a deadline; (2) I really like preaching; and (3) I need a lot more practice.
I'm glad that we have our first preaching class is in the fall-- and Micah, when you start taking students for tutoring, you let me know.
Last week, I had the opportunity to hear a talk given by a woman named Hideko Tamura Snider. Tammi, as I understand it, is a psychiatrist, who many years ago moved from private practice into the area of psychiatric social work, in the radiation oncology department. She is retiring from the U of C, and a reception was given in her honor.
Right now, some of you may be thinking, “That’s nice, Jane, but-- So What?” People retire every day, and their coworkers have parties for them-- to honor their years of service, and contribution to the business or community-- or sometimes to simply to celebrate their leaving! And Tammi’s not a particularly impressive figure, at first glance. She’s a tiny woman, barely reaching my shoulder; it would be easy to miss her in a crowd.
But Tammi has a story to share. She is a survivor of the 1945 atomic bombing of Hiroshima, Japan. At 11 years old, she lived through the destruction that took her mother’s life, and countless friends and neighbors; and then she was witness to the ongoing pain of the aftermath: the reality of radiation poisoning, and its ugly effects on the human body. A terrifying spectre for a sheltered young girl.
And yet, when she grew up, look what happened. She emigrated to America, to the country that inflicted this damage. And she eventually became a psychiatric social worker, in the field of radiation oncology.
What made the difference for Tammi? What was it that not only kept her from being hate-filled, but that enabled her to later accept work in a field that dealt specifically with the very science (nuclear radiation) that had destroyed the life she knew as a child?
Tammi says that the difference, for her, was found in a group who came over to Japan after the war, to help rebuild the country and the people.
Now, many of the people who came to her area were traditional Christian missionaries. They terrified her, waving their Bibles and talking of hellfire and damnation. (the sort of behavior that one friend of mine has in mind when she speaks of her personal efforts “to be more tolerant of Christians.”)
But one woman didn’t talk, she listened. She was intent, not on saving souls (which, we need to remember, is God’s business, not ours), but on healing. It was not what she said, but how she said it, and how she acted. She cared; and her caring was a witness to reconciling love.
This is the sort of thing that Paul is talking about in his letter to the Ephesians. He’s referring to distinctions that followers were making between themselves, between Christians who were Jews, and those who were Gentiles-- who came from other faith traditions. They were setting up very human standards; the term “uncircumcised” was meant as an insult, as a derogatory comment; a sneer at the uncouth. Rednecks.
Paul reminds us that these distinctions are spurious-- that we have no place setting up walls between one another, or between other people and God. Jesus’ death and resurrection happened in order to tear these walls down.
He has abolished the law with its commandments and ordinances, that he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace, and might reconcile both groups to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it... for through him both have access in one Spirit to the Father.
It’s not about separation, or distinction, but community, and reconciliation.
Brothers and sisters, this problem is not one limited to the church in Ephesis, 1900 years ago. It’s something we still struggle with today. It seems to be part of human nature, to allow different to be divisive. We hear it all the time, don’t we? In the political debates that turn personal; in (often justified) accusations of racism and intolerance; in the jokes we tell one another. I have seen it, sometimes, at the hospital, in the guarded reaction from someone of another race or creed, when I’ve walked into a patient’s room.
And it happens in our church, as well. Our General Convention begins in a week or so, but people have been gearing up for a fight for months, over a couple of resolutions dealing with the issue of homosexuality. Bishop Little has already sent out a letter explaining the specifics, and his stance on them; it was included in our parish newsletter, so I won’t bore you with another recitation of the facts (If you missed it, you can pick one up on your way out this morning). Of hundreds of resolutions before the Convention, these will no doubt take center stage, in the news media and in the minds of the delegates. A lot of time and energy will be consumed, and a lot of people will be convinced that they are right and the other side is wrong; and a goodly number of people on both sides of the issue are foreseeing schism-- people leaving the church if the voting does not go “the right way.”
Now, I’m not here to comment on “the right way.” This morning, I’m more concerned about the way we act, and react, toward one another in the midst of this struggle.
Kevin Martin, the nationally recognized teacher and consultant who met with our vestry a few months ago, puts out an online newsletter. In his most recent issue he addresses this. He comments: “the truth is that few people want to join a Christian community that is at war with itself. As one GenXer said, "If I wanted to fight, I would go home to my parents!" If we are mean-spirited, angry, hateful and hurtful toward those who disagree with us, raising cries of “heresy” and threatening to leave, we are serving the cause of Christ very poorly indeed.
Now, this does not mean that, as Christians, we are not allowed to disagree with one another; that we must accept everything blindly in order to maintain some sort of surface unity at all costs. You know me better than that, I think. But how we disagree as Christians is at least as important as the decisions we reach. It’s in how we work through our disagreements and differences that we become formed as disciples. One of my seminary professors puts it this way:
“When God forms us in the womb, God forms each of us differently, consecrating us differently, to serve different nations and to feed different flocks. God even forms us, sometimes, to wrangle against one another in order that our struggles may bring God’s truth more clearly to the light.”
So please, disagree. Feel strongly, and express it clearly. Speak up. Bicker, and tussle, and wrangle. But remember this: in the midst of our differences, we have something very important in common. We are all, as Paul says, “members of the household of God.” We have a purpose-- a commission-- the Great Commission. We have a covenant: our baptismal covenant, promises made before God: to “seek and serve Christ in all persons;” to “strive for justice and peace among all people;” to “respect the dignity of every human being.” We have our diocesan core values, which include “a committment to one another.”
There's still lots of cleanup to do around our place, but we're making progress. Bruce and the kids did a gob of work yesterday, while I was at the hospital. The basement is drained and drying out, and lots of garbage has been disposed of. I got hold of the insurance agent, and we're on the list; but there's so many claims, and so many people in a worse mess than we are, that it'll be a while before everything's back to normal.
Today, believe it or not, prior commitments have us playing hooky. Bruce and Kyle are off to a long-awaited Cub Scout Camping weekend. We thought about canceling the trip (there's so much left to do), but Kyle has been looking forward to it for what, in 8-year-old terms, is a very long time. They left this morning, and will be back tomorrow night.
This afternoon Carolyn and I are taking a break, and heading over to Park Forest, to a festival sponsored by the Unitarian Universalist Church. No, I'm not jumping ship; one of the women in my CPE group is a member, and her band is playing at the festival (how is it that I'm lucky enough to find music geeks wherever I go?). Anyway, we're going to listen to Ziffel for a couple of hours.
Climate's what you expect; Weather's what you get.
This has been a week, and last night's adventures topped it off.
We started to go up to see Trish's show, and to join Tripp and Laura as they led what promised to be an interesting discussion afterward. According to Frank's report, it was terrific; but we missed it. Two miles from home, we turned around, because of the storm. By the time we got back to the house, things had gotten really icky.
No one official spotted a funnel cloud, but the neighborhood sure looks like one went through. Downed power lines, trees broken and uprooted. We have a couple of roof leaks and some standing water in the basement from 10 hours without electricity. It would have been lots worse, except for the generator that spent the night rotating throughout the neighborhood, operating sump pumps in shifts (We have wonderful neighbors). Yes, it was a long night.
We are also in mourning for the tulip poplar that used to stand by the driveway. This especially hit home with the kids, who both learned to climb on its branches. Only about a third of it is left; the rest was unceremoniously draped across the asphalt.
I'm really sorry to have missed the evening, folks-- but we were kind of busy, here.
Go to google.com. Enter Weapons of Mass Destruction on the search line, then click on the "I Feel Lucky" button to read the very unique error message. Make sure you click on all the links in the error message.
One of the minor ongoing questions many of us CPE'ers seem to be considering is the issue of wearing clericals on our rounds. Some folks have been apparently told that wearing a collar is expected, almost mandatory. My supervisor has left it entirely optional, although she did encourage us to give it a try at some point, if we are comfortable with that-- just to get a feel for what sort of difference it makes (or not) in our pastoral interactions.
A couple of people in my group have been wearing clerical shirts-- one woman regularly-- but I don't think I'm there yet. it says ordination to me, and feels inauthentic-- that's not who I am at this point. I may give it a shot for a few days, before the summer's over, just for the experience; we'll see.
Actually, we also have these long lab coats that we have the option of wearing, that say "Chaplain" over the breast pocket, and I have been using them. I started because of the comfort factor: long sleeves in the air conditioning, and big pockets for carting stuff around. But I'm discovering that, while it makes no difference to patients, it seems to make a marked difference with the hospital staff. I've had more pastoral encounters with nurses, unit clerks, security guards, etc. since I started wearing it. Bruce says he thinks it's the same sort of dynamic that one sees in the military, or on sports teams: I'm in uniform, part of the team, someone "on the inside" they can confide in. Whatever works.
Do yourself a favor: take the time to check out friend Alex's blog. The latest Seaburian to take up residence in the blogiverse not only has something to say, but he also adds cool pictures and stuff.
I’m spending a lot of time in the hospital this summer-- almost 11 weeks, to be precise. Fortunately, this is not due to health issues. I’m working as a chaplain intern, enrolled in a program called Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE for short). It’s a requirement for my seminary degree-- and not just mine, but for many seminaries in the U.S., of many faith traditions. I’m one of six students doing CPE at the University of Chicago Hospitals, on the city’s south side. Two Episcopalian, two Roman Catholic, and two Unitarian Universalist seminarians, each spending our days (and occasional nights) in Hyde Park.
Part of each day is taken up by work within this group: we share questions and concerns; we listen to presentations on various pastoral issues; and we discuss different approaches to our interactions with patients, family and hospital staff.
That’s how we spend the rest of our time: interacting. We visit patients and their families, sitting and listening to what is on their minds and hearts. We pray with them, if they so desire, and for them as well; and we try to provide a measure of emotional and spiritual support in what is often a hard and stressful time.
Sometimes, this is an easy thing to do, and fun. On weekdays we have specific units to which we’ve been assigned. Mine include the surgical waiting area, a general/surgical floor, the transplant floor, and the ICU burn unit; I make regular rounds through these areas. I was a little nervous about how I would be received, a stranger knocking uninvited on a patient’s door; but I’ve been pleased to find that most people are receptive to an unexpected visit. Folks for whom belief in God is a vital part of their lives are glad to have someone share that-- to talk and pray with them-- and those who are not particularly religious still appreciate a little company.
The other part of my summer work includes taking call. The U of C, like many hospitals, provides for chaplaincy services 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; and we interns all have our turn on the rotation. This means we carry a separate, on-call pager for 24 hours, and stay at the hospital, to respond as needed. In theory, this could be anywhere, any floor. In practice, it’s mostly one of the ICU units, if a patient suddenly arrests, or in the Emergency Room, if an ambulance brings in a critical case. U of C is a Level I Pediatric Trauma Center, so usually these are injured children, and frightened parents.
I’ve been on call three times, so far. My first two were relatively easy-- only a few ER pages, and all for what turned out to be minor injuries: a broken bone, a minor concussion. In each case, I spent time with the family, listening and praying, until they could be sure that things were going to be all right. Between these events and my daily rounds, I was beginning to feel-- well, certainly not expert, but capable-- more sure that I could cope with the demands of the job.
My third on call was Thursday night, and this, my friends, was different. The following article about the events of that night is taken from the Chicago Tribune.
An impaired driver ran a stop sign and crashed into a front stoop of a building, killing three young boys and a woman.
The crash happened Thursday night in the city's Englewood neighborhood. The victims were sitting on the stoop when the car ran the stop sign and crashed into them.
Killed were two 10-year-old boys, an 8-year-old boy and a 52-year-old woman, police said. A 4-year-old female passenger of the car was treated for a broken leg.
Police said they cited the driver with 10 traffic violations, including reckless and impaired driving. He remained in custody Friday as an investigation into other charges continued. His blood-alcohol level was 0.27 percent in a field test, police said-- more than three times the state's 0.08 legal standard for intoxication.
Police did not release the names of the victims.
Some of these unnamed victims were brought into our Emergency Room. I stood next to a mother as she was told her son was dead., and as she sobbed out the news to her husband, who came running in a few minutes later. I escorted them down to view his body -- a 10-year-old boy who had been chasing fireflies only an hour or two before. I was also present when other family members arrived, from other hospitals, and they all realized the magnitude of their loss-- a grandmother, and grandsons from 3 different families-- sons, and nephews, beloved children. They did not need police to release names.
Brothers and sisters, I have never felt so woefully inadequate in my entire life. I was hearing in my own mind the same sorts of questions the villagers in today’s gospel were asking about Jesus, and with far more reason. Who am I to be standing here? A middle-aged suburban housewife, with one year of seminary under her belt, and three weeks spent wandering through this hospital as a rookie intern. What can I possibly have to offer in the face of such overwhelming grief?
The only answer, of course, is: not much. So I did the only thing I could do-- stay with them, and pray, desperately, for God’s grace and guidance.
And I found, as Paul did, the truth in God’s words as we heard them this morning: "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness." Through God's grace and mercy, we were able to cry together, and pray together, and the family began to find the strength to stand up under the tragedy of this night.
That’s the lesson we can take from the scriptures we’ve heard this morning. Paul’s seemingly contradictory statement: “whenever I am weak, then I am strong,” is a lifeline to grasp. If we try to do for ourselves the work of God in this world, we’re going to fail. We can’t help it; as scripture says, “all fall short of the glory of God.” None of us measure up in every way, all the time. It’s only when we let go, when we lean on God’s strength instead of our own, that we are able to stand up and do the work set before us as children of the living God, and disciples of His Son.
Last year, I got an e-mail from Carolyn Jones, that I’ve hung onto, because she expresses this sentiment so well. The note was actually regarding the issue of women in the priesthood, but I think her words are equally applicable to the work and focus of any ministry, lay or ordained.
“The wonderful thing about... ministry is that it is not about me ... or you ... or anyone [else]. It is about God, and what he has done for us in Jesus. My role... is to proclaim that through my words and actions. If I do that faithfully,... then only one vision is present: the vision which God and Jesus bring.
It is this vision of ministry to which we are all called, this Independence Day weekend. Not one of depending on our own strength and power, but one of continual commitment to seeking and sharing with others the power and mercy of our Lord and Savior. For “whenever we are weak, then we are strong.”
