A Mammal Views the City from on High

Up on the 27^th floor of the apartment building

Across the way, in the corner window stands a dog.

She is perched atop a couch, attentive, gazing intently

At Chicago’s winter streets so far beneath her wet nose.

What does she see? What can a dog know of a world

So distant, composed almost entirely of made things?

And yet the lights of the cars and buses streak like blood

Through the city’s arteries, like water through streams,

Like sap feeding the trees that here are skyscrapers—

Larger than life oaks and willows, ramrod pines, barest

Burches iced and lit up, windows twinkling like fireflies.

As far as we have come from nature, here from this high place,

It seems that the city imitates the natural world despite itself.

Here from this high place, where airplanes circle like hawks

And trains rumble like bears, a dog stands at attention and regards,

Just beyond all these things, the frozen stillness of the lake.

Minister as Educator

Throughout most of my ministerial formation process to date, I have been thinking of the minister as Pastor, Prophet and Priest, and I have felt myself growing into each of those roles. This week, in Mark Hicks' "Religious Education for a Changing World" class, I was given the opportunity to think of the minister as Educator.

In some ways, it seems obvious that ministers are called to work as educators, but it is important to make sure that we are aware of the ways in which function as educators. It's not just in teaching religious education classes, but in everything we do that we are functioning as educators.

And when I talk about being an educator, I'm not thinking of someone who is a static transmitter of information, but rather one who creates an environment in which people can learn. If our congregations do not function as communities of learners, then I believe that we are not being very effective in our work.

For me this week reinforced the idea that everything we do teaches some lesson or another. Or, even if it doesn't teach a lesson, that fact in itself is instructive.

I really want to bring to any congregation I serve the notion that we are hear to learn from one another--and that, as ministers, we are both teachers and learners engaged in a process of change that is, as a matter of faith, rooted in education at every step along the way.

Chicago Skyline at Night

It was a blustery night for a walk last night, but we were rewarded by a breathtaking view of the city:

UU Polity in Snowy Chicago

When I returned to Chicago a few days ago, I found that some snow had fallen. So it seems that winter has returned to the Windy City of Big Shoulders, my kind of town. The view from my window:

And I got to spend two days studying UU polity with the Rev. John Morehouse. My short take on polity?

On one hand, what’s not to like about congregational polity? Essentially, it is a structure that empowers people to love one another in committed communities that value real democracy and believe that each of us has something to give and to receive from one another. Congregational polity gives shape and structure to the idea that empowered individuals in empowered communities can thrive and resist the corruption, apathy and cynicism that are inherent in larger, hierarchal systems. So, my overall view of congregational polity is that it is great, and I can’t imagine seriously wanting to affiliate with any other system. On the other hand, I do think that we need to be mindful of two pitfalls of congregational polity: polity as a way of maintaining dysfunction and polity as means of losing our significance in the larger culture.

Most UUs do, I believe, understand that real love for one another does not mean putting up with the tyranny of the few who will have their way only because others will not challenge them (for fear of not having every voice heard). But this danger is present in every congregation and in every meeting where democratic principles are held as dear. Also, the love of endless debate (in the service of this same democratic ideal) can also become normative within our congregations. In other words, sometimes the idea of congregational polity itself can become idolatrous and prop up an endless cycle of dysfunction.

And, in relationship to the dominant culture, those of us who are in covenantal communities can sometimes view ourselves as separate from the larger systems of injustice and oppression, without seeing the ways in which our sense of separateness serves to perpetuate these larger systems. For congregational polity to make sense in the larger world, I believe we need to remember that the covenant that calls us together is one that is larger than our congregations, larger than our faith tradition, larger than our nation.

At the same time, if our congregational polity serves as a stumbling block to reconciliation—which I see as central to any larger covenant—then if does not serve us well. As faith communities, we need to be more than microcosms of the ideal that we hold up to the rest of the world. We need to be arteries that supply the blood that nourishes the world’s muscle and the world’s heart. The extent to which congregational polity helps us become open channels for this lifeblood determines how relevant and vital we will be to the rest of the world.  

Between Trips

Chicago was beautiful when I was there last week for Meadville's January Convocation. Temperatures in the 50s (in January!) will give way to something rather chillier by the time I return to Chicago at the end of this week, but it was fun to see people strolling by the lake in their shirtsleeves at this time of year. It was also fun and comfortingly familiar to see my classmates again. I look forward to seeing many of them when I return in a few days.

It is odd to be headquartered in downtown Chicago (smack-dab in the middle of the Loop) rather than in Hyde Park. The larger scale of everything is difficult for me to get used to. And, while the city is beautiful, it lacks the charm of some of the little neighborhoods surrounding the University of Chicago.

Having said all that, I am pleased that Meadville has found a home for the next little while. And, while the physical surroundings are very different, the heart of the seminary is still there, beating strong. To be sure, there is a great deal of turbulence surrounding this move and the many other changes that have taken place, but I still can't think of any other school where I'd rather be.

One of the highlights of convocation for me was being in conversation with so many teaching pastors--those ministers who are serving as our mentors and internship hosts. What a terrific bunch of people they are. Our conversations are definitely enriched and expanded as a result of their presence among us. Meadville's practitioner-oriented program really depends on the wisdom and patience of the teaching pastors, and they seem very much up to the task.

Blessing for a Dearly Departed Mouse

Written on the occasion of the death of Sarah, my daughter's pet mouse:

Spirit of all that is and ever will be, we are grateful for the life of this mouse Sarah, who brought us joy and laughter. While she was not with us for very long, she was a cherished member of our family and one that we will miss very much. She helped remind us that even the littlest and least of earth’s creatures is important and worthy of our respect. We will carry her memory with us always, and when we remember her, we will know that we are blessed to have known and loved her. Blessed be the life of Sarah. Blessed be all those who live and die. Blessed be those who mourn. Blessed be.

Why Every Seminarian Needs a Child

Not long ago, I overheard a conversation between two prospective seminarians who were wavering about taking the plunge into the madness that is divinity school. As they were both parents of young children, one of their concerns was how they would manage doing all the necessary work to get through school while still managing their parental duties.

What I told them--and what I'll tell you--is that I don't think I could get through seminary without my child. My daughter keeps things real, keeps things light and keeps things moving. Having a young child gives me the opportunity to live my faith in intimate, meaningful ways even while I am in the midst of the ministerial formation process. At the end of the day, it's good to have a reminder of what is truly most important--otherwise, the liminal nature of the seminary experience can seem dizzyingly disorienting.

And, more than anything else, I find myself in need of constant invitations and opportunities to play, to explore and to create. I'd like to think I'd be able to come up with these opportunities on my own, but, without a child to lead the way, I'm pretty sure I'd just be bearing down harder and harder, with little thought about the importance of play.

At the same time, my daughter is being given the opportunity to witness me pursuing a heartfelt calling and working really hard to realize my vision. In other words I am, at my best, modeling what I believe are some of our most important human characterstics: perseverance, curiosity and risk-taking.

While I'm not seriously advocating the idea that everyone in divinity school should have a child, I do believe that my experience of seminary is greatly enhanced by being a parent, and my experience of being a parent is great enhanced by being a seminarian.

Today my daughter Ella turns seven, an auspicious occasion and a good time for me to remember that, without her presence in my life, I probably would not be doing what I am doing. For all these gifts, I am grateful beyond words.

"I Can't Believe We're Actually Doing This" (again)

Since I began seminary last year, I have been having these "I-can't-believe-I'm-actually-doing-this" moments on a fairly regular basis. It happened when I was working at the homeless shelter last year, and when I was working as a hospital chaplain last summer, and it happened again this past Sunday as I stood before my internship congregation.

I was excited because my teaching pastor (the senior minister who is supervising me) Deb had given me the responsibility of writing and reciting a short chalice lighting for the start of the service. Deb welcomed everyone, I sounded the bell, Deb read a beautiful Rilke poem. And then I pulled from my pocket my painstakingly written . . . to-do list for the weekend. I had grabbed the wrong piece of paper from the table as I dashed out of the house that morning.

"This is it," I thought to myself. "Here you are, and there they are. Let's see what happens now."

So, rather than say to the congregation: "Fold laundry; buy salad stuff; change cover on couch . . .", I recited the chalice lighting text from memory -- which, as it turns out, was not all that difficult to do as it was very short and based upon a poem I had written just a few weeks ago.

And later I started thinking that this experience is what congregational life is really like. You work on something, you become a part of a community, you lovingly prepare something to share with others, you practice -- and then, when things go wrong (as they so often do), you improvise. And, almost always, things turn out alright.

What's most exciting to me as I have begun this two-year period of learning in an real-life congregation is the fact that it's actually happening. My seminary classmates and I have taken yet another leap into the unknown, trusting that, while the world may be dangerous, it is also a place that calls us to act in faith.

And, as much as we might prepare for something -- even agonize over it sometimes -- I have a feeling that it is this faith that, in the end, will be of most importance to us.

In his beautiful novel "The Fifth Mountain," Paulo Coelho writes, "Fear reaches only to the point where the unavoidable begins; from there on, it loses its meaning." I believe that each moment, as it presents itself to us, offers us that encounter with the unavoidable. I pray that we may face it faithfully and with whatever grace might be given to us.

(And, just in case you're wondering: Yes, the laundry did get folded, the salad stuff was purchased, and the couch cover was changed . . .)

Late Summer Light

Late summer light on the lake

reminds me of the thinness

between seasons, between

bodies in motion and at rest.

Lying on the ground, I feel

the stillness of the water,

the heat of the sun and the

great fullness of the earth.

Falling now more like particles

than waves, the light weighs

heavily on the yellow-tinged

leaves. With them, I breathe,

yearning to burst into flame.

Meadville Convocation 2011: Congregational Studies

I am very grateful to be back in Chicago, where I re-connected with classmates and faculty for a 2-1/2 day convocation to kick off our congregational studies sequence. What a joy to see these folks after an absence of more than 5 months! And what a pleasure it was to meet some of the first-year students and to interact again with the third-year students--really an outstanding assembly of caring, committed people.

One of the greatest pleasures of convocation was being able to share our clinical pastoral education experiences with each other, both formally and informally. Some had better experiences than others, but it was for all a summer of great transformation and deepening and broadening of our understanding of what it means to be a minister.

This year will be a challenging one, but I am excited about the possibilities that it holds for me and for my classmates. The world has already been changed by us in ways, large and small, and I believe that we will begin living even more fully into our potential during this year. If we love and nurture our congregations in the same way we do each other, all will be well.

CPE: I found God . . .

For our closing worship service, my CPE intern group led an exercise in which all the chaplains who were gathered reflected on where they had found the sacred in the hospital. People were encouraged to write and draw where they had found God in their work there. I loved all the responses people came up with. Mine was as follows:

I have found God
in the hands of
the nurse who rubbed
the back of a grieving
mother for hours in
the middle of a long
night in the ICU.

I remember that night as I sat and stood in the room with a large group of family members who were watching their beloved 18-year-old son/brother/cousin die and saying their goodbyes. The mother was inconsolable, and I'm pretty sure that almost nothing I said (which was very little to begin with) made it through to her. It seemed as if the only thing that kept her from dying of grief in that moment, the only thing that kept her anchored in the room was the nurse who stayed right there with her and, for maybe 2-3 hours, never let go of her.

After the young man died and the family had gone, I walked back across the hospital and chanted quietly, "Om, shanti, shanti, shanti . . ."

CPE: So Little and Yet So Much

When I was beginning my summer of clinical pastoral education (CPE), I was somewhat intimidated by those who had already been through CPE and said that it taught them how very little anyone can do in these acute care situations, how anything and everything we might do falls well short of what is needed, and how CPE dispels any notion that we as pastors might actually be able to make much of a difference to people who are suffering.

While I do agree that the CPE experience is humbling in many ways, I have come away feeling amazed at just how much we can do in these challenging situations and how much difference even the slightest bit of pastoral care can make. While I have not cured or healed a single person this summer, I do believe my presence has been meaningful to many of the people I have seen at my hospital.


Maybe it was less traumatic for me than it has been for others because I had fewer unrealistic notions about my abilities going into CPE. At age 50, I don't have a whole lot of youthful fantasies or delusions about what I can and cannot do, and I have never held myself in such high esteem that I thought I could single-handedly turn someone's sorrow into joy -- nor have I ever believed that I might make the lame walk or cause the blind see.


And, without a doubt, I was blessed to have a CPE supervisor who follows a collegial educational model, rather than believing that CPE students should be treated rather like soup ingredients that must be thoroughly chopped into small pieces before they can be of any use. While I did feel challenged, I did not feel belittled or disrespected at any time during the summer.


And, when all else is said and done, I am left with a number of crystalline moments that I am not likely to forget. Over the last 10 weeks I have been present at more than 20 deaths, a couple of dozen severe traumas, and more heart-wrenching moments of suffering and painful decisions than I can name.


What amazes me more than anything else is that people have welcomed me into these most intimate of moments in their lives, have allowed me to be part of this experience that they might share only with close family members or, in some cases, with no one else at all. What a great gift that is!


Pastoral care is exhausting and difficult work, but I believe that, as a result of this experience, I have begun to see how compassion works in situations that are difficult almost beyond imagining. And I am reminded of the difference between mere empathy and compassion. As Matthieu Ricard has written:


"A way to deal with this challenge effectively is to cultivate unconditional love and compassion toward the suffering person. This is much more than merely resonating emotionally with the suffering person. . . Compassion is nothing else than love applied to suffering. Such love and compassion can override the feelings of distress and powerlessness that empathy alone generates and lead to constructive states of mind such as compassionate courage.”


Compassionate courage is a great gift of pastoral care work. It may not look like much from the outside, but I believe it is one of the most powerful forces in the world. I pray that we all might be courageous bearers of compassion in the face of suffering, that we all might be witnesses and bringers of the love that will not let us go.