Caught in the Spinning Mirror Ball

In The Message translation of the Gospel passage for the fourth Sunday of Advent this year (Luke 1:47-55), Eugene Peterson has Mary tell Elizabeth:

"I'm bursting with God-news;

I'm dancing the song of my Savior God."

I will never cease to be amazed at how God works to focus my attention.  Weeks ago when I posted the cover picture on my Facebook page (which I've also put below) of my Christmas parade debut as a dancer, I had no way of knowing that in the last week I'd be reading Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life by Richard Rohr.  I bought the book last summer, hoping to read it before starting my new job.  That didn't happen, and the book, along with 4-5 others I had ordered, sat on the bookshelf until last week.

In the early pages, I was struck by a quote that Rohr uses from author and psychologist, Bill Plotkin:  "...many of us learn to do our survival dance, but we never get to our sacred dance." Later as Rohr talks about the spiritual journey of the second half of our lives, he notes that as we age the dance "has a seriousness to it, but also an unself-conscious freedom of form that makes it bright and shining."  I'm beginning to embrace the "unself-conscious freedom," and liking it.

I moved from tap and ballet lessons as a 6 year old to dancing behind the closed door of my bedroom along with vinyl records turning on the portable record player to somehow emerging on the disco floor as a late teenager.  This week's addition to the Advent altar is a scarf that reminds me of the ones I wore as Donna Summer blared through the speakers.  It also represents how my dance has changed.  In the late 1970s, the scarf was a decorative accessory meant only to flow with the movements of the music, shimmering in the light of the disco ball.  Now, the scarves I wear have a purpose - to keep my neck warm, my ears covered from the wind, and my nose from turning bright red.  Oh, the mystery of life that continues to unfold with growing older: That life's ultimate meaning does not come in youth or defined by our culture, but through a difficult, yet amazing walk of faith, recounting God's presence on the journey and discovering new ways to draw closer to the Sacred.

So why is it that churches hesitate (or just plain fail) to challenge adult faith?  We're too often content to focus our energies on supporting and nurturing "adults" where they are right now in their faith. Yet God isn't calling us to do that.  God is urging us to realize that the 50 year old ballerina costumes don't fit any longer, that we're dancing to different music - much less that the record player has all but disappeared, and that the years have brought new purpose and meaning to life. 

We need to transform how the church is in ministry with maturing adults before the scarf gets caught in the spinning mirror ball and chokes us.... 

Confession is Good for the Soul (Especially on Sleepless Nights)

This third weekend of Advent has been quite a musical one.  It started with a somewhat private concert at the Christmas Gala at The Hermitage in Richmond on Friday night and ended with rousing choruses of “Because He Lives” with all those gathered in the living room at the Lydia Roper House in Norfolk. In between, there were three offerings of the Christmas cantata at Shady Grove UMC.  Now, here it is 3:30 AM on Monday morning as I sit with a cup of chamomile tea trying to make myself go back to sleep. It’s not working, and a few minutes ago I realized why.

As I reflect on this Advent Sunday that is supposed to remind us of joy as we move closer to Christmas, I must confess that I haven’t been there when it comes to my own faith life for quite a while now. This is the first cantata that I have sung in four years, and I’ve offered a lot of excuses when people have asked me why.  The joy of singing – well, no…if I am really being honest and confessing my sins…the act of public worship – had become a “job.” It wasn’t until I was reading a book by Jane Marie Thibault recently that I suddenly was slapped in the face with where I have been spiritually.  In A Deepening Love Affair: The Gift of God in Later Life, Thibault wrote that there are many who go through life “doing church” when their inner spirit is stagnated.  I read her description and wept because that’s where I’ve been for a long time now.  I’ve known it…. I’ve talked to Spiritual Directors, Pastors, friends, lay leaders, and strangers about it and how it impacts the church…. I’ve attempted to cast it aside or cover it up…. I’ve tried to help others with it but never confessed it for myself.

So in reflecting on this Gaudete Sunday weekend, there were many joy-filled moments, and most of them had to do with music. 

·    “Little St. Nick” sung by a barbershop quartet of amazing 60+ year old men just has to make you smile.  As they talked about channeling the Beach Boys, Steve and I sat with new friends that a year ago we could never have imagined being in our lives, in a place that I never saw as a part of my faith journey at this point in my life.

·     I pondered the experience of the cantata in a special way with all those who had multiple generations of their families singing, playing instruments, and representing the characters of the Christmas story together. I was 13 when I finally got to sing in the Adult Choir.  I could hardly wait for the day that I could join my father in that choir.  We got to sing one cantata together in 1974 before he died the next February.  So thank you to all those in the Shady Grove choir who let me relive that experience this weekend with you and your children.   You had no way of knowing that you were helping me experience that joy once again.

·     Bill and Gloria Gaither came up several times this weekend – from a conversation in our living room on Saturday afternoon with a friend who was recalling how his mother loved to listen to their music to those rousing choruses Sunday afternoon led by Group Therapy from Messiah UMC in Chesapeake – otherwise known as “The Roper House Band.”  Oh, the power of spontaneously singing together - strangers and friends. It amazes me how many times God can work in a short period of time to try to get a point across!

So today’s addition to the Advent altar is a Methodist Hymnal, 1964 edition, given by neighbors of my grandparents to Fieldale Methodist Church in memory of my great grandmother, Martha Lovell.  With it comes tremendous gratitude to all those who have instilled in me a love of church music and been so instrumental in my discipleship – even those of you who forced me to wear those little white choir poncho-type things with big red bows under my chin!

 

"Celebrate God all day, every day. I mean, revel in him! Make it as clear as you can to all you meet that you’re on their side, working with them and not against them. Help them see that the Master is about to arrive. He could show up any minute!”

Philippians 4:4-5 (The Message)

 

Halos Made of a Gold Strand of Tinsel

I received my first angel ornament as a Christmas present in 1982.  Then, the ornament was just a wonderful way to remember 4 years as a Meredith Angel.  The person who gave the gift had no way of knowing that it would start a 32 year tradition of asking for and purchasing angel ornaments as memories of people and places.  The original is hanging near the top of our tree. With it are angels from Bermuda and Hawaii, homemade and expensive, stained glass to straw.  The list could go on and on since almost every ornament on the tree is an angel.  Each holds special memories.  Two things always top our tree:  an angel with head and hands of porcelain that was my first real purchase for my own Christmas tree (and still put away each year in the original box with a price tag from Globman's Department Store in Martinsville) and a halo made of a gold strand of tinsel with hanging stars.

 

There have been so many people who have entered my life and guided me on my faith journey - some for a short time, others for a lifetime.  Each has left a lasting impression on my heart and soul.  Some have taught me what true faith should be.  Others have shown me what it shouldn't be.  When I moved into the first apartment on my own in Richmond, I started searching for a United Methodist Church to make my church home.  I visited a number of churches in the West End of Henrico and have interesting stories I could share about those experiences.  Honestly, I visited Shady Grove a couple of times early in that journey, but it didn't feel right at the time.  I was still searching when I went back in December of 1992.  That afternoon, I put on my most ragged, comfortable clothes and pulled out all the craft stuff I was going to use to make Christmas presents.  Things were spread out all across the living and dining area of my little condo.  Soon there was a knock at the door, and before me stood two women who introduced themselves, said they were from Shady Grove, and handed me an African violet.  While I desperately tried to apologize for how I looked and the state of my home, Diana Atkins showed me nothing but the most unconditional acceptance.  It wouldn't be long before Diana had me cooking dinners for the Short Pump Ruritans, chairing the UMW bazaar, and joining her in all kinds of antics at church - one of which was an Advent drama about angels.  Our angels wore white sweatshirts, poster board angel wings, and halos made of a gold strand of tinsel with hanging stars.

 

Diana was one of the most authentic people I have ever known.  She battled cancer, dealt with a multitude of family issues, struggled as we all do, but through it all you knew Diana loved you and loved Jesus.  She would give all she had to please God - with no pretense or pride.  A hair stylist by trade, Diana had to do my hair for the first family portrait that Steve, Ashley, and I had taken.  And even though our wedding was an intimate gathering of family and friends, Diana was insistent on doing my hair again - with the same professionalism that she would have given to a bride having the most lavish of weddings. Only a few years would pass before Diana's health would take a turn for the worse, and soon she would be gone.

 

The day after I received word that Diana had died, I pulled a small, thick envelope from our mailbox.  I recognized the address, and was floored to find a tiny book about friendship inside from Diana.  She had written short notes on a few pages, placed stars by quotes she liked, and underlined words and phrases.  She was continuing to offer me her unconditional love even in death.

 

Diana always reminds me of what church should be: a place where you are loved no matter what the first impression may be, a place where others take the time to recognize your gifts and help you find ways to use them to serve others, a place where no matter what your backgrounds or circumstances in life you can laugh, learn, and love together.  The Rev. Dr. Russell Levenson, Jr., rector of St. Martin's Episcopal Church in Houston, TX, wrote in his sermon for the 2nd Sunday in Advent in 2011 that the lectionary reading about John the Baptist calls us "to be beside one another - building paths for each other and all the while, allowing Christ to increase."  That was Diana's lesson for me. As I put the tiny little book and halo made of a gold strand of tinsel on my Advent altar this year, I pray that my life may have the same impact on others.

Diana - angel on the right.