The Last Post (for now)

For three years we wandered through the desert. Often alone, sometimes together, always with our eyes turned toward something that we could not quite see. But that unseen something was our goal; it was what kept us going.

We used various names at different times to describe it — our calling, our formation, our deepening knowledge, our developing authority, our burgeoning leadership. But it was always something “out there,” something just out of reach and slightly out of focus.

In the midst of all the trials and travails of the journey, we doubted the thing that we followed. We did not believe that we would reach it or understand it or become it. We started to think that the unseen thing was actually just something we had made up, something that was now standing in the way of the work that was before us.

And then the work became the thing. So much work. Painful, back-breaking loads of work. Working till we thought we could not go on and then working some more. And writing and reflecting and reflecting and writing. Turning inward. Turning inward again. Turning inward even more till we tired of ourselves.

Somehow we supported each other. We wept together, laughed together, were homesick together and then missed each other when we had returned home. We learned to love each other at the same time we drove one another crazy.

But one day while working, while preaching, while listening, while encouraging, while enduring, we discovered that we knew things we had not known before. We discovered that the thing that was so distant at the beginning of our journey was no longer so far away.

In fact, we never did quite see that unseen thing. But we felt it. We experienced it. We shared it. What we once carried in the sacred ark of somewhere else now dwelt within us. And it was in this way that we became vessels of the holy, carriers of untold blessings, containers, if not masters, of divinity.

Here is where the beginning ends. Here is where opening up begins to move us in the infinite spiral dance out beyond the known and unknown, with something like a song in our hearts.

Walking through O'Hare

Finished up my last Meadville intensive course a few days ago. And made my last school-related trip to Chicago--except for graduation in May. I will not miss the traveling very much, but I will miss a lot of other things about these trips: classmates, Lake Michigan, the Chicago skyline, bracing winds, learning and laughter. And everywhere inspiration for poetry and song.

Walking Through O’Hare

Walking through O’Hare airport I start
Silently blessing each person I see: “May you
Be happy. May you have all that you need.”
Thousands of people flowing by — may you be happy —
Face after face — may you have all that you need.

After a while, I start to notice the light
Around people’s bodies, the light
We rarely see until the moment
We die, a moment when all is light,
When bodies stop mattering, and all
We are left with is a glowing hum.

Awaken!

Formation

Sometime this spring I became a minister. I can't put my finger on a precise moment, but something shifted subtly and has led to a clear change in the way I perceive myself.

Last fall, as I was starting the second year of seminary--and the first year of my two-year internship--my classmates and I talked and read and wrote a lot about the topics of "ministerial formation" and "ministerial authority." Most of it, frankly, seemed way too speculative and theoretical to be of much interest to me. What I believed then--as I believe now--is that one starts to gain ministerial authority and form as a result of doing actual ministry.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that my identifying as a minister came about as a result of the work that I have been doing in my internship congregation, which has been a wonderful place to learn and to serve. To be sure, I was quite comfortable with many aspects of the role of minister before I set foot in this congregation. But the work itself has led beyond comfort to a basic change in my self-identity.

I do remember the first time this change really came home to me. I was offering a pastoral prayer during a worship service when I looked out and realized that I loved these people. It wasn't that I felt I'd won some kind of wrestling match and, as a result, had been awarded ministerial authority or ministerial identity. It was all about the fact that I had come to love these people.

I've known for some time that I have many of the skills to do the work of a minister, but it's only very recently that I've come to realize that I have the ability to feel like a minister, too. Although it happened in a natural and understated this way, this change is an important one for me.

And of course it's about love. This journey has been about love from day one. Ministry is my answer (or at least part of my answer) to Mary Oliver's question of "how to love this world."

There is so much for which I am grateful. There are blessings within blessings, and more yet to be discovered.

A Prayer for May

As we take this moment to enter into stillness together,

We sense how very difficult it is to be here in this moment,

Just as we are, just as the world is, just as everything is.

All that is real and alive exists in this moment alone,

All that is possible and beautiful is present only now.

Each slender thing that slouches and each big thing that booms

Can only be felt and seen and heard and held in the container

Of this fleeting moment that soon ends but somehow never ceases.

As the church year winds down, as the school year comes to a close,

We don’t quite know how, but things have gotten ahead of us:

It’s not yet summer, but already we have begun to plan for fall,

It’s not yet summer, but we have felt the sweltering heat of the sun,

It’s not yet summer, but we have known the chill of death in our midst.

Let us hold one another as this moment holds us—securely, tenderly,

With great care and great affection, with profound regard for what is.

And let us hold this moment, let us heed this moment and praise it.

Let us offer ourselves up to this moment, knowing that all we have is now

And each other and the love that is shared through us and around us.

May it be so now. And now. And now again. Amen!

An Open Letter To the Meadville Lombard Class of 2012 TouchPoint™ Students

Dear Friends:

First and last, I want you to know how much I love and respect you. I have greatly appreciated the opportunity to be a fellow student with each of you and to have shared so many meaningful, harrowing, humorous, moving, strange and wonderful experiences with you over the past couple of years.

You have achieved a lot in relatively little time. You have been pioneers—the first group of students to graduate from Meaville’s TouchPoint™ program! As such, you have smoothed the way (sort of) for those of us who are following closely in your footsteps. You have navigated an often messy, sometimes chaotic and confusing path and have done so with something resembling real grace.

Although I know there was a certain amount of private moaning, groaning, kvetching and complaining about the challenges you faced at Meadville (and beyond), I was aware that you, as a group, chose not to get lost in bitterness or despair. Instead, you chose to make the best of it, to keep moving forward, and to help each other and the rest of us along the way. Thank you!

This January and March, while sitting in classes that included many of you, I found that it was always easy to spot the 3^rd-year students as you were the ones who were asking the questions that made the most sense—the questions that had the most to do with real life and how to apply our learning. You were the ones who were moving from theory to practice.

I am grateful for your leadership and for the hand of collegiality that you have extended to those of us following you. I look forward to working with you as fellow ministers in the years to come.

Love and respect to you all!

Jim

Next January, we'll be missing those of you who are graduating!

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.