18 Hello, Goodbye

Kate and Jessica say that there are two simultaneous truths (p 104): 

1. When something changes, a world we love ends 
   
   
2. Change happens every day. 

And so we set about trying "to solve the sorrow inherent in change by giving it up entirely. Routines become a bulwark against the threat of pain" (p 104). 

I suppose we all sank a little deeper into our routines in the last couple of years during the pandemic. We probably found even more security and safety in routines when everything else felt so uncertain and uncontrollable. Routines we can manage. Routines make us feel like we're in control. 

And while that may be appropriate for certain seasons of our lives, holding closely to our routines so as to avoid suffering ("the order of nature") will ultimately squeeze out life itself (p. 104). 

Maybe this is part of the COVID-19 hangover/sluggishness a lot of us are feeling these days. Maybe the routines that served us well before are no longer serving us in the same way. Maybe it's time to find a new routine. But we're not sure how. And that makes us afraid. 

Using what we've been learning about in this book, maybe it's time to exchange our old routines to create a routine regula we can live with hands wide open and that allows space and room for the Spirit to move in a wild and uncontainable way instead of routines that leave us clenching our fists in fear. 

But there's something else we should consider too, Kate and Jessica say. 

Not every change is a bad thing; it's just a thing that happened. What made it good or bad depends on how we responded. 

How did you respond during the pandemic? How did you respond the last time you got bad news from the doctor? When the relationship with you loved one was broken? When you lost your job? 

"Did we become better or worse? Holier or crustier? Softer or quicker on the draw?" (p 105) 

We may have had to say goodbye to a lot of things in the last couple of years; but what have we said hello to in their place? 

"May you, dear one, find comfort from places and people you don't anticipate who remind you that you are not alone. You may be saying goodbye to something - someone dear ... but something new will be born. 

I cannot promise it will replace what was there, and I won't try to tell you it will always be better. But, I do believe that we can find beauty, meaning, and truth right where we stand" (pp 106-107). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Are you one of those people who gets stuck in their routines as a way to avoid the pain that sometimes comes from changing? How has this entry made you re-think that way of living? Might you be ready to CHANGE something - maybe something small - just to see how you might surprise yourself with your response? 

In their "A Good Enough Step" on page 108, they suggest finding a tiny notebook and creating a list of things you're saying goodbye to - honoring each thing for its importance to you and your life. Where is the "beauty, meaning, and truth" right where you're standing, even as you're saying goodbye? 

"Truth makes love possible; love makes truth bearable."  (Rowan Williams, A Ray of Darkness) 

17 Hopping Off the Treadmill

I'm reading a book called, This Here Flesh by Cole Arther Riley with two of my favorite people in the world. 

We started a Lenten discipline of reading a chapter of a book together and Zooming on Thursday afternoons to discuss it, and then we decided to keep going, post-Lent. This Here Flesh is our second book. 

In the first chapter called "Dignity," Riley writes: "Our dignity may involve our doing, but it is foremost in our very being - our tears and emotions, our bodies lying in the grass, our scabs healing. I try to remember that Eve and Adam bore the image of God before they did anything at all. This is very mysterious to me, and it must be protected" (pp 11-12). 

I've been marveling over those last two sentences, especially the "very mysterious to me, and it must be protected" part. 

In our do-ing oriented world, it's hard to imagine the mystery of being beloved because we are human be-ings, not human do-ings. 

She also writes, "We cannot help but entwine our concept of dignity with how much a person can do. The sick, the elderly, the disabled, the neurodivergent, my sweet cousin on the autism spectrum—we tend to assign a lesser social value to those whose “doing” cannot be enslaved into a given output. We should look to them as sacred guides out of the bondage of productivity. Instead, we withhold social status and capital, and we neglect to acknowledge that theirs is a liberation we can learn from." (p 11) 

And then she summarizes the chapter by saying that the very idea of being valued and given dignity only for what we can do or produce, "I disagree with those who say we bear the image of God only, or even primarily, by living out our faith in our labor. The thought is reductive, and it evidences that we are content to exclude those who will never work, who may never speak, who no longer make or do. Their image-bearing is not dispensable; it is essential." (p 12)

I say all this because I can't think of a better argument to, as Kate and Jessica say, HOP OFF THE TREADMILL. 

And remember that yes, the world will keep spinning without us. 

And that we are "loved, loved, loved. Not for what we do, but for who we are" (Bowler, p 101). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

In the "A Good Enough Step" section, Kate and Jessica write: "Take a moment to be curious. What are the non-negotiables of your day?" 

So, what ARE the non-negotiables of your day - the things you can't live without, that day isn't complete without? 

Here's a chance, they say, to hop off the treadmill ("the myth of hyper-productivity or of bottomless energy or need-to-say-yes-to-every-request-that-comes-your-way may not be serving you like you once thought" p 102) and re-define the non-negotiables and to make room for them in the jar of your life.  

16 The Bad Thing

I'm guessing we've all felt like "the bad thing" at one point or another. 

We've been through something awful, unbearable. And we start to share about it with others. So we start to talk about it. And then suddenly we can't stop. 

And then we feel even worse, like it's too much, like we are too much. Does anyone else really want to heard about this? Maybe this is too much. Maybe I'm too much. (p 92) 

Perhaps our instinct to pull ourselves out of this rut is to think positive, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, look on the bright side. 

But maybe there's more to it than that. 

Kate and Jessica write, "Our faith is the promise that we will learn something about a great mystery, how we can be loved and saved and changed by a God who shows us what it means to be human. It is beautiful and terrible, but it is not 'positive'" (p 93).  

In fact, "Seeing pain up close [your pain or someone else's] can give you an incredible experience of awe. It's like seeing a garment turned inside out and all the rough seams are showing. You see someone's absolute humanity shine through all the pain, and that vulnerability makes them more - not less - beloved" (pp 93-94). 

These are words to cling to when life snaps, grief surprises us, when we start to feel like we're the bad thing. 

But we are not the bad thing - "we are simply living our beautiful, terrible days" (p 94). There's nothing shame full or embarrassing about that. 

There are times when I, with my seizures, feel like "the bad thing." I suspect that people pity me when I ask for a ride somewhere because I haven't been seizure-free for six months yet and can't drive according to Ohio state law. Or seeing me makes them think, "Wow, if it could happen to her, it could happen to me." Or worst of all, being pitied by people. 

And so I am grateful for the first part of "A Blessing for When You Feel Like the Bad Thing" -- maybe these words will be a balm to your heart like they are to mine: 

Blessed are you who feel like the bad thing. You are everyone's reminder of their frailty, of life's cruelty. Your chronic pain or depression or regular scans remind those around you that life isn't as fair or easy as they had hoped. 

...

But, dear one, blessed are you because you are not the bad thing. Your illness or grief or despair or addiction is not too much. It's just your humanity showing" (p 95). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Check out the "A Good Enough Step" on page 97: 

Do you know someone with a chronic illness or an autoimmune disease like fibromyalgia or lupus? Someone going through cancer treatments? Someone weighed down by the burden of depression? 

How can you practically remind them they are not "the bad thing?" Write them a note? Pray for them? Offer to do something concrete for them that is simple for you but a burden for them? Do something that will remind them they are not alone - that they are seen and loved even in the midst of the struggle. 

15 The Tragedy Olympics

I was talking to a colleague the other day who was inquiring about my health, specifically about my seizures. I gave a quick update (I'm going on 4 months seizure-free!) and offhandedly mentioned that as I continue to learn more about Epilepsy, I realize that for many people it causes a much greater disruption in their lives than it does in mine. 

And my colleague was quick to respond that she doesn't believe in comparative suffering. Since I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that, I decided I would make some acquiescing noises and move on to the reason for the phone call. 

I didn't think about that conversation after it was over UNTIL reading today's Good Enough devotional about "The Tragedy Olympics." Then I started Googling "comparative suffering." 

And from what I can tell (at least from this), the benefit of looking at your suffering in the larger context of the suffering of others is that it can help to provide some perspective. Which is what I think I was doing. 

But there are many dangers inherent with comparing your suffering to the suffering of others, including the fact that comparing yourself with others in any sense generally is a bad idea and especially when it comes to suffering. But also it can lead you to judge the suffering of others or deny the depth of your own suffering when you find yourself surrounded by someone whose suffering is "worse" than yours. 

This is one of the shorter entries in the book, and I appreciate that they don't try to resolve or explain away the compulsion to compare our suffering to others. 

I also appreciate their observation that "When people enter the Tragedy Olympics, they don't always realize that it's not actually a game. It's just life, and we are all, for better or worse, players who need each other more than we need an award" (p 88). 

I also drew a big circle around the first stanza of their "A Blessing for When You Realize Everyone is Struggling" on p 89 ... 

"Blessed are you who have realized that life is hard. And it's hard for everyone. Your awareness came at a cost. You lost something you can't get back. ... Blessed are all of us who struggle, for we are in good company, and we'll never walk alone." 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Do you compare your suffering to that of others? Do you know someone who does? Have you tried to have a conversation like this about how unhelpful it is? Did it, by some miracle, actually work? 

When was it that you discovered that life is hard and that it's hard for everyone? How did that change your attitude, your outlook on life, and/or how you treat other people?

Ponder this: We all want our troubles to mean something, to have stature and be validated - but we gain nothing by pitting our woes against another's. Pain should unite us, as fellow sufferers, as fellow humans. Regardless of who feels worse, we need each other. 

 

14 For the Exiles

Having been Presbyterian since the womb (and hailing from a long line of male Presbyterian pastors on my mom's side of the family), I don't know much about the Saints that my Episcopalian and Catholic friends esteem. 

But I do appreciate Kate and Jessica's story about Saint Rose (from the 13th century) who was rejected by the religious order she so desperately wanted to join and now is remembered each year in her hometown in Italy with a procession that honors "the memory of people who don't fit in. She's known as the saint of exiles. Wanderers. Those refused hospitality by religious communities" (pp 79-80). 

I'm not sure when exactly this started to happen, but I have developed a very tender heart toward those who feel like exiles or outcasts. Especially who feel like exiles and outcasts from the church. 

Which is weird because my experience of church (for the most part) is one of being valued and honored. 

In a lot of ways, I'm a quintessential church person who probably makes some non-church people roll their eyes -- I once had a friend who would call me Luke Skywalker and refer to herself as Darth Vader! She meant it as a joke, but we both knew she felt there was some truth under the joking.   

That's part of who God designed me to be; I can't do much about that.

But what I can do is leverage that part of my identity. I can study what it means to be a trustworthy person because I think exiles and outcasts don't trust the church. (And in many cases, there's very good reason for that.) 

[This is definitely going to be part of my sermon on Sun, May 8, 2022!] 

I can leverage my natural tendencies to care, be sincere, be reliable, and be (semi)competent enough to give folks a reason to give the church another chance. 

I love what Kate and Jessica say on page 80: "Part of our identities as people of faith is found in community. We are not islands, but reliant on one another to remake us, pull us toward God, and be a soft place to land." 

I can be a soft place to land when people feel God calling to them ... even if they never thought they'd be willing to give church a chance again. Or for the first time.

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Do you feel like an exile or an outcast from the church? Are you one who has been hurt by the church and while you're still on speaking terms with God, you don't care for God's children much? What would it take for you to give the Body of Christ another chance? 

On page 83 in "A Prayer for When You Don't Belong," Kate and Jessica write, You loved what the world devalued and demeaned: 'the poor, the sick, foreigners, women, those deemed unclean, the imprisoned'. Does your path regularly cross with someone the world (or the church) devalues and demeans? Is there some small way you can honor and love them without making too much of a fuss?