Am I Magic?

A parishioner who regularly asks me to pray for him just popped into my office with the same request. When I smiled (because I was thinking "what, am I magic or something?"), he said, "No, PJ. This is real." Oh, okay; oops. I said I would pray for him, and he left only to return a few moments later and ask if he could come in.

He sat down on the plastic chair across from me and said how was looking for this other staff person (who does advocacy and is well-connected to various resources in the community). Then he took a long pause to compose himself... he could barely speak for what seemed like minutes. He again asked me to pray for him because he's "falling apart on the inside." Sweet Jesus. And he said "Do it right." Yes, I will, I promise, okay. I am deeply sobered by this usually brusque man who was so near to tears.

Then he stood up and put on a fun act about how I always kick him out of my office and ha ha ha. Such a contrast to the person who was just speaking; gotta have a little humour to lighten the mood, eh?

But, still, I genuinely wonder (still) why people ask me to pray for them-- like I have a "special" connection or something??? Do I know something or Someone they don't? Am I magic? My hunch is that they just need to feel connected to the Big and reach out to a pastor because she is supposed to be some holy person, or at the very least spiritual. Perhaps they feel small and are falling apart on the inside and only God can keep them together.

I wonder if I should've told him that his asking me to pray was the prayer itself.

small update

The smallest person in my life is a girl. Just so you all know. She is alive and active and sleepy and does all the things that in utero little ones do; quite a joy. And as much as I long to hold her and snuggle her and kiss her little cheeks, I do so love holding her inside.

Of course, since it has been weeks and weeks, much in my life is, well, going on. Hmm, what to say about all that?

I'm actively looking for a Call; I have an interview next month with a large, urban church for an associate position. My thoughts and feelings about it all are quite jumbled and change from day to day.

And I'll clarify that I'm looking for a Call in the sister churches to my denomination because, as far as I can tell: 1) my denomination is mostly just kidding about hiring women 2) one cannot find a job in the more progressive pockets of the church unless one went to the other seminary and has a clique mentality 3) my denomination has something like 65 open listings 4) my denomination is more committed to infighting than urban ministry and social justice and 5) one can only take so much of banging one's head against closed minds and doors.

I feel considerably more free and relaxed about the search process this time around; maybe because I know that I have more options as an ordained minister than as a recently graduated student.

Life at the ministry continues to be messy and mixed; I feel that I have already begun to withdraw and am reaching a point in my grieving that permits me to be okay with withdrawing. I don't need to judge myself as "unavailable" or "cynical" because the loss of innocence isn't that simple to address; these new aspects of my pastor self are petals on the blossom, not anything to be feared or criticized.

With the exec director on sabbatical, the other pastor on vacation, and the sem intern on vacation, I'm the only pastor here this week. Ooo. Had a call even this morning asking for the pastor and intern to come visit this guy in the hospital-- nope, only me available. Part of me thinks that I could actually go visit him and bring communion after the service... but how to negotiate my boundaries when that's not in my job description nor do I get paid to do so. See what I mean about withdrawing? I have many rational pro/con arguments about whether to go.

And outside my door I hear the voice of the woman who came to me a month ago asking for help with her abusive husband; she never did follow up on that visit. They're fighting out in the community room. Should go.

out

Yes, it’s been a while. A long while. A necessary while.

There has been much movement in my self and life since the last post.

The fetus I’m carrying around has grown big and strong—enough for me and my beloved to feel the delightful bumps and jabs and spins s/he is making. At 16 weeks people still tell me, “You don’t look pregnant.” Well, I sure FEEL pregnant and indeed look it but do not invite others to oogle my belly and breasts. Over the weekend my mother-in-law said something about “when the baby’s here,” and I said, “the baby is here; you just can’t see it.” We’ve affectionately been referring to the fetus as Fetie. As in, “how’s Fetie today?” and “Fetie’s awake.” I like being curvy.

Many shifts have taken place at the ministry. For confidentiality, I will not speak about the circumstances or details but will only make vague references to my emotional pain. I am in the midst of a process flippantly called “dealing with things;” I’m learning to appreciate the process. Have a wonderful group of supportive people in my life who are sympathetic and don’t let me get away with BS.

I’ve quit my job at the bookstore. There was too much up with which I will not put. My sister-in-law gave me a prenatal yoga DVD on which the yoga instructor urged the viewer to “be gentle with yourself.” I heard it like the gospel. Be gentle with myself. Never occurred to me before. And if I can’t be gentle for my own benefit then the love I have for Fetie will cause me to act and be more gentle.

I’m looking for a Call. Again. At first I felt very stuck and like it’s just too soon since I stopped looking—it’s only been 8 months after all. I was extremely frustrated, pissed off, angry, and felt helpless. Now I feel more open to the process, to the possibility, to the questions. Women in my life are telling me that I might really enjoy staying home and being a Mom full-time. I might. I might also enjoy being a pastor full-time (after maternity leave of course); I might really love being a professional in a stable and secure position; I might be thrilled to be at a church where I’m appreciated and respected (a bit idealistic, I know). My point is: just because I’m having a baby does not automatically mean I have given up my professional hopes. I have been called and gifted by God to be a pastor; I know that. And if you asked I would tell you that I believe I’ve been called and gifted by God to be a mother. How long has this career vs. motherhood feminist debate been around? Perhaps it’s time for us to stop debating and let well enough alone and respect women’s choices—whether or not one personally agrees with the choice. I’m sure I’ll have much to say about this whole topic as life goes on.

Reading again for the first time in too long. “Grit and Grace” by Ken Wilber. It’s lunch time or I’d prattle on about How This Book Is Changing My Self and Life.

So, until next time.

O, Good Friday, I love you so!

Just emerged from the basement Good Friday service here at the ministry. Oh, how I love it. Every year we gather down there in the dark room and read the passion story. There’s just something about descending to the service; it’s out of the ordinary, not on the main floor, the hallway was lit by candles and the room with candles and four of my low lit lamps. This was the first year that I participated as a pastor, and it was lovely—moving, deep, something mysterious was going on. We sat in a large oval around the room; ten readers at the table, my neighbours, people I know and love.

And as we waited to begin the service, we were just sort of talking; some laughing, some reading over their parts in the story, some people just chit chatting, some sitting quietly. I asked the person next to me if he thought it was like this at the last supper—people just sitting around waiting and doing what we usually do. He didn’t think so. I do; because I felt such a feeling of warmth and togetherness, and I imagine that Jesus and the disciples (all of them—the women and the men and the twelve) were feeling such things and experiencing the fullness of gathering for a sacred event and a dinner party.

And that feeling persisted as we began the story. I didn’t realize until I started getting into it that as the Narrator I would be saying the words of institution for communion. It was unlike any other time I’ve said the words because one pastor was breaking the bread and lifting the cup and the other was saying the part of Jesus; it was a little trinity of the Trinity, us three dramatizing this cosmic drama that the Trinity is always playing. After communion we sang “Ah, Holy Jesus”—one of my favourite hymns ever—and once again I was filled with this bubbling warmth as people sang off tune, on tune, near tune, and some not at all. I just love our singing here!

The story ended—the tragic sadness of it renewed for me yet again. And we sat in silence, in the dark, each person leaving at their own pace. I stayed. I just wanted to stay down there in that dark room and feel my emotions—welling up from I don’t know where—and wonder all my wonderings about this day. After everyone left, it felt lonely in such a contrast to the full feeling of the beginning of the service.

I walked to each of the candles and bent down to blow it out, a motion which felt very much like dipping down to give someone a kiss.

Such precious beauty here with these folks. Such a gift to be here present among these disciples, to be counted among these blessed.

Off Kilter

I’m feeling a bit off kilter as I have just returned from coffee with Roy. The strangest thing happened—well, strange for me to witness, not so unusual for him unfortunately.

We ordered our drinks and sat down, talked for about one minute and all of a sudden he’s looking off behind me. Just stopped talking in the middle of a sentence. I said his name, asked if something was wrong. And he was just gone—I mean, off somewhere I don’t know; and I couldn’t really reach him there. He kept staring off and not looking at me. I asked if I did something wrong. Then he came back a bit and said “nevermind.” Nevermind what? What the heck is going on? It took a couple of minutes—minutes spent with him looking away and out of it and me just sitting there completely confused—but then he said, “I think they’re talking about me.”

My first reaction is: they have better things to do than talk about you.
Second reaction is: no, they’re not.
Third: Oh, that must feel bad.

The rest of the 20 minutes of being out was mostly him paranoid and delusional and me lost, questioning, trying to get him to focus on talking with me. I actually said, “I feel frustrated because it doesn’t seem like we’re have a conversation here,” just trying to take responsibility for my own feelings and communicate them honestly. We did sort of talk for a few minutes before he had to go; but as we were leaving he was saying that he must’ve said or done something to the woman behind the counter and that’s why she was talking about him. I, completely annoyed and mystified, said: No you didn’t; I was there with you the whole time and you didn’t do or say anything.

The experience was rather surreal, to say the least.

And I shudder to think that’s what Roy experiences every day of his life.

It's not that I have nothing to say

The only days that I sit in front of a computer are Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday; thus, all of my brilliant, inspired posting must be done on those three days. Boring for you, my adoring public. Sorry, I thought that was funny. I've had two people in my office today who wanted to sit and talk with me. Read: they will talk, and I'm supposed to listen without interruption. Both of these people I consider to be people who will forever be where they are emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Dire "diagnosis," I know-- and I'm not even qualified to diagnose. I mean, I feel incredibly helpless as I listen to them go around and around and around. And either I just can't ask the right questions to help open them up and things inside them up or there's something much bigger going one. Perhaps a bit of both, I think.

One of these people I've spoken about before-- the adult five-year old whom I called "Roy." Today Roy-- fresh out of a crisis home (think mental hospital)-- told me that God is responsible for his schizophrenia and is indeed making him go through this. At the same time, however, “Satan” is the one putting all these voices in his head and all the negative thoughts, too. I just kept asking, “Why, why would God do that? For what purpose?” So that Roy will trust God more, naturally. You see, his problem is that he doesn’t trust God enough; he has faith, but he doesn’t trust “in all times and in all places” (Roy didn’t say that; I’m quoting the communion liturgy). Well, how much is enough? And what kind of God gives people schizophrenia so that they’ll learn to trust more?

I just don’t understand. I don’t believe in a God who does that because that God sounds a lot like the one from my childhood and college years—the one who makes us suffer to teach us things. I want to know who poisoned Roy’s mind by telling him that God would do such a thing, that the Holy Spirit would leave him alone so that he would be susceptible to Satan—because I would go smack that person for planting such a horrible idea in his fragile mind that now, 25 years later, he still thinks the same thing and in the same way about his disease and his God.

But as I listened to Roy, I began to wonder all the usual theodicy questions—and I don’t have any answers for those either. Andrew and I watch nature shows sometimes, and I’ve seen countless bugs and animals be eaten by other bugs and animals. This world is cruel and dark and depressing and oppressive. But Roy is part of my little world, part of my own angry questions to God. I just wish I had some insight, some understanding, something to offer. I’ve asked so many times, What do you think would help you trust God more? What could you do to help you trust God? He doesn’t know. And I don’t want to give any suggestions because I think that’s manipulative. He asked me to google “trust” and print him out some things. So I will.

Tomorrow we go for coffee—and another trip around and around and around.

Modern Day Saint and PJ

Reading a review of The Prison Angel in What is Enlightenment and an interview with the woman behind the story has prompted much thought. The gist of the story is about Mother Antonia—former Beverly Hills Wife and Mother—who lives inside the prison La Mesa in Tijuana, Mexico. She describes her life with the prisoners and her love for them. Much of what she says resonates with me, but I’m left wondering: is she right? Let me explain.

I, too, strongly identify Jesus with “the least of these” (sometimes to the exclusion of all others). I, too, have been soar afraid of my calling, yet followed anyhow. I, too, feel much love for this flock and much passion for fighting injustice and oppression. I, too, have decided to live my life here among this population.

But Mother Antonia says, “I don’t just work for them; I am one of them. I live the way they live” and “I wish to be buried with the poor because in my heart I’m one of them.”

I do not believe that I am “one of them.” As much as I desire to identify with these folks, as much as I feel compassion, empathy, and understanding, I cannot change the facts of my life: white, educated, middleclass, woman. I live in my own house five miles from downtown; I can walk into any store anywhere and not be harassed; I can use a public restroom in any store anywhere; I have a steady income. The list of what separates me from the ones I love is long and significant—but there is also a list of similarities which is equally significant. I know shame, guilt, anger, frustration, helplessness, pain, grief….

I struggle with what differentiates me from the folks here at the ministry. But I don’t necessarily feel comfortable with other people of my skin colour, education, economic status—in fact, usually I feel extremely uncomfortable because of the culture of the Status Quo and Living the American Dream and such.

I don’t know if Mother Antonia is “right” about being one of them; I can only look at my own practice and being. And I don’t think that I am one with this community. One through love, maybe, but not in circumstance and experience. Then again, didn’t some wise person say, “love is all you need”?

Still thinking, still struggling.