Winn Collier's Blog, page 53

Upon the Birthday of a Most Amazing Woman

Many waters cannot quench love, the wise Solomon said. But, oh how they try. The waters of disappointment and fatigue and loss. The swell of years and arguments and learning that the other is not all we might have imagined. 

The tides rise with kids and careers, homes and travels. And, of course, the tides recede with stretches of time where we've lost our bearings, where we feel like strangers and wonder if we'll ever find our way back. In fact, I'm not sure if Solomon tells the whole story. I've seen more than a few marriages drown in a deluge. It's a sorrowful sight - and when I encounter it, particularly with friends, it's always a punch in the gut.



But I know a most amazing woman, one who has weathered many waves with me. And our love has not been quenched. Far, far from it. Today, I celebrate a woman I admire and adore with my whole heart. The world has been graced with her beauty for thirty-eight years now, and she has left the mark of love wherever she has wandered.



She loves intently, speaks solidly. She's truly one of the most courageous people I know. She's brave enough to own the power of her tears in a world where tears often invite scorn. She has the strength to say no and the grace to oh-so-often say yes. I'm thankful she said yes to me.



Happy birthday, amazing woman. Happy birthday, Miska.

Fascinating Responsibility

When asked why his Kentucky farm - that land, that work and rhythm - was important for him, Wendell Berry replied: "The farm provides me fascination and responsibility." It seems to me that those two words aren't put together often enough.



Fascination speaks of the lure of a thing, the magic it offers. It's a childish word, a word filled to the brim with joy. When you're fascinated with something, you feel a bit lost in it, giddy even. We aren't giddy enough in this oh-so serious world of ours.



But then there's responsibility, an obligation. Being obliged might carry a heavy ring. It's no good, for instance, for the soul to be obliged to another's expectation. However, if our obligation is toward that same thing that fascinates us, that same something we can't let loose and that (wonderful how this happens) same something that won't let us loose, then this responsibility is noble. It's what some people mean when they speak of a call.



We are responsible for something, somewhere - for someone. There are words we can (must) uniquely speak. Truths we must uniquely discover - and tell. There is land only we can love, children only we can father or mother.



It's a holy thing to be fascinated by something. And it's a holy thing to be responsible for something.

Diary of a Plain Pastor: Doubt

Faith is not a thing which one 'loses,' we merely cease to shape our lives by it. That is why old-fashioned confessors are not far wrong in showing a certain amount of skepticism when dealing with 'intellectual crises,' doubtless far more rare than people imagine.

{Diary of a Country Priest}

Wrangling with doubt and questions comes easy for me, too easy perhaps. One of the chapters in my first book opened with this line: "A pastor really ought to believe in God. It works better that way." (it's still true, by the way.) And this was no quick two-week rabbit trail for me. My quandary with doubt popped up again in Holy Curiosity. Doubt has been a companion, weaving it's way in and out of my story for the past 15 years or so. For some, faith comes easy. For others, faith comes through blood, sweat and fears.



Doubt's a tricky thing, though. The old cliche says that faith's a crutch; well, doubt's a crutch too. When doubt keeps me honest, keeps me human, it can be a friend. But when doubt isolates me or encourages my cynical side, whenever doubt diminishes the life I could be busy living, doubt has become my enemy (or "my foe," as six-year-old Seth called a kindergarten pal who grew mean on the playground).



I cling to doubt because it provides an allure of protection. Left free to roam and pillage, doubt runs right past being honest and on to constructing barricades. Nothing required of me. Nothing to disappoint me. No one to criticize me - because I've committed to nothing. We cannibalize ourself, rushing to dismantle our beliefs before anybody else tries.



Doubt as one voice keeping us honest is a good thing. Doubt as the voice telling us who we are is a horrible thing. Believing in the gospel is a posture of faith. And being a pastor is a life of living toward - and inviting others toward - faith.



If my life is defined by doubt, then I'm not getting on with actually being who I am in this world. I'm not living toward anything. Rather than giving myself to my church and my family and my craft and my friends, I'm simply detracting, deconstructing. I'm withering away. That's no way to live.



In the wise words of the Avett Brothers, "Decide what to be. And go be it."

We're All Pentecostals

For most churches, last Sunday was Pentecost Sunday, the day 50 days after Easter when we celebrate that God's Spirit has come to us, that God's act of redemption has broken free in the world. The days of the old order are numbered; a new world comes.



I grew up with a poor stereotype of Pentecostals. Pentecostals were the folks with bad hair styles and large broods of kids. They were the ones who spouted crazy noises and did insane things like pull snakes out of boxes and dance around with them, daring them to bite because neither scorpions nor vipers could harm the Holy Spirit-smitten child of God. Of course, they had stereotypes of us too. We were the folks who believed drums were devil-inspired and who preached on the evils of mixed bathing (google it), believing that the mere sight of a woman's bare thigh might induce pregnancy.



The doctrinal turf-wars between our respective churches were nasty. The Pentecostals said (so I heard) that we weren't filled with the Holy Ghost because we hadn't spoken in tongues and performed signs and wonders (and if any of those signs and wonders had anything to do with snakes, I was just fine not being filled). We, on the other hand, said these so-called signs and wonders and strange tongues were signs that they had indeed been filled - by demons. This was scary stuff for a kid who didn't appreciate snakes or demons but who did appreciate several of the pentecostal girls.



Interestingly, the prime signal of the Spirit in Acts was unity, where everyone heard God's good news in their own language - but they heard it together. Undoing the judgment of Babel where language separated the nations, God's Spirit now used language to bring the nations together again. This was the first visible act of God's promised New Creation, the remaking of the world through the power of the risen Christ. And, as Peter preached, this was the fulfillment of the prophet Joel's prophecy, where old and young, women and men, slaves and free, would all be brought together by God's Spirit.



But the Pentecostals had demons. And we were faithless. And those girls were out of bounds. We have a knack for taking a good thing and mucking it up.



I find it rather marvelous that the Spirit used language, words, as the raw material for God's first strokes of new creation. Of course. Language shapes our hopes and our fears. Language communicates what we love and what we desire. Language opens up new worlds. Language helps us see and understand. There is a reason Guttenberg changed the world with a printing press. There is a reason Dostoevsky or Charlotte Bronte or John Grisham or Louis L'Amour or Anne Lamott capture your attention and expand your imagination. There is a reason why early iterations of the healthcare debate changed as soon as medical review boards became known as "death panels." Language creates new realities.



We need a new language. We need a new imagination. We need to replace fear with trust, shame with freedom, cynicism with hope, distance with unity. We need God's Spirit. Thankfully, we're all pentecostals.

Diary of a Plain Pastor: Empty

'Be at peace,' I told her. And she had knelt to receive this peace. May she keep it for ever. It will be I that gave it to her. Oh, miracle - thus to be able to give what we ourselves do not possess, sweet miracle of our empty hands!

{Diary of a Country Priest}

It's a mantra to pastors, to anyone for that matter: you can't give away what you haven't received. I've repeated it. Mostly, I believe it. The truth in these words seems two-fold. First: don't play games or pretend; smoke what your selling. Second: all we've received is grace and all we have to give is grace; don't get too big for your britches.



But lo and behold, wouldn't you know that even such good words with such sincere intentions find a way to wiggle back to a place of self-effort and self-importance, a place that forgets (yet again) all about grace and gift and the marvel of God making something of nothing. By God, I hope I can give more than I've possessed, more than I've taken in and truly received. I certainly hope God can love through me when I'm unlovely and enact mercy through me when I'm in such desperate need for mercy.



Lately, I've dropped more than a few balls. If I were a street juggler, there'd be nobody watching - and no coins in the jar. If it's up to my sermons to save the world, the world's headed for the fiery place. If it's up to my powerful faith to create momentum within our church, well, we are in dire straits. Last night, Miska and I were talking about our early years in ministry. "You had quite an ego," Miska said. She was right. But God was kind and indulgent - and God loved a few people even with my arrogance and faithlessness and erroneous ways. Contrary to Sunday School ditties, apparently God does use dirty pots. Are you familiar with any other kind?



These days, I find myself feeling more empty than full. Some days I don't know what to pray for - or how to pray for - the people I love. In conversation, I often don't know the words to share with a struggling soul. My sermons seem vanilla. My organizational skills are struggling to reach their normal level of mediocrity. Old nemesis (doubt, inner-disconnection, spiritual lethargy) have come knocking. All of this leaves me hollowed out.



If my job is to give what I possess, well - you see the trouble. But I believe that when we are empty, there is more space for God to fill, if we'll be quiet enough to let God fill it. When we have little to say or give or perform, then God can speak and bless and act. And if the gospel means anything, it means this: we need God to speak and to bless and to act.



And from the beginning, God has always made something of nothing, a "sweet miracle of our empty hands" indeed.

Yes

We have a cat.



That's a line I never thought I'd write. I'm not fond of cats, but I'm no hater either. In high school, I had a friend who had a sadist streak toward cats. One day without any provocation, he snagged a stray by the tail and spun her round-and-round over his head, the cat's shrieks piercing new decibels with each whirl. Finally, my friend released the screeching cat, on the high arc of a spin, sending the poor creature rocketing through the air and landing on a roof. The cat dug her claws into the shingles, stunned and motionless. I felt bad for the traumatized feline, and I've never forgotten that cruelty.



I carry no ill toward cats; they simply aren't my thing. More than this, though, we've been in a season of life when I can't imagine taking on responsibility for one more creature. I'm maxed out on emotional energy, financial resources and mental capacity. Kids will do that to you.



So a couple weeks ago when Miska raised (again) the fact that Wyatt was begging for a cat for his ninth birthday, the only words I could muster were, Are you kidding me??? She was not in fact kidding me.



Neither was Wyatt. He begged. He pleaded. He gerrymandered. He teamed with Seth, and they staged a coup. He worked his Wyatt-ly manipulation. He concocted plans to save up $150 for the adoption fee, littler box and supplies. When Wyatt said he would gladly take responsibility to clean the litter daily, I knew I was finished. This coming from the boy who has been known to gag over the sight of a carrot (a carrot, I say), the boy who acts as though the Apocalypse has arrived when asked to clean his room.



But something good was emerging in the heart of this son of mine. He wanted a creature to care for, a creature to love. This was no passing whim. A piece of who Wyatt truly is was finding expression in his desire. This was one of those moments where a mom and a dad know we've been offered the opportunity to love a boy, to see him and to love him and to encourage him toward his best and truest self. I would have been a fool to say no.



I'll have many opportunities, with both Wyatt and Seth, for these yeses. I hope I recognize them.

Talk-o-Meter

The Talk-o-Meter. It's an app that tracks who monopolizes a conversation. God help us if Miska ever got a hold of this at our house .... Thankfully, she eschews most technology and rolls her eyes at words like "app."



Wouldn't it be fun to just set this running at the beginning of a lunch with a friend who never lets you get a word in edgewise, who pauses only to catch their breath and lives oblivious to how they suck the air out of a room? You could simply let the lunch unfold, per the norm. Then, near the end, push the phone to the middle of the table and wait for their question...



What's that?...

Diary of a Plain Pastor: Dirty

The mistake she made wasn't to fight dirt, sure enough, but to try and do away with it altogether. As if that were possible! A parish is bound to be dirty.

{Diary of a Country Priest}

If you were to take a quick tour of our home, you'd find an upstairs door with a hole, crushed by a seven-year-old known as "our little hurricane." You'd discover swaths of blue (or is it green now?) goo permanently melded into our nine-year-old's bomb shelter (aka "room"). You'd find sketches scribbled across their (previously white) ceilings, just above their loft beds. And their bathroom - please, for the love of all that is holy and true, do not go into their bathroom - brings their mother to tears.



But of course, each of these scuffs and smells marks the presence of a boy we love, a son that has come, in such inexplicable ways, to mark our own life, our own hopes. The one thing worse than having all this chaos would be not having this chaos.



Churches are too enamored with cleaning up the chaos. Pastors, myself included, are too bent on getting the family (and this is what a church is, of course - a family) polished and scrubbed clean. A parish is bound to be dirty, at least if it's going to have any life happening within it. Living always kicks up the dust.



The work of the church -- the life of the church, that's better -- is to be a place where all the things we hide, all the things that undo us, all the things that frighten us have space to come out into the open. The church is the community where people discover what it means to live well, to love well - to be loved well. But this takes time. Rarely does it happen with a 40 Days Toward Cleanliness campaign. If my pastoral aims point at getting our church to have the right image, then I've abandoned my call - and I guarantee I've also run roughshod over people in making it happen. I've missed their stories. I've manipulated friendship. I may have managed a campaign, but I haven't been a pastor.



Shame gets results. Brute force gets results. So does a cattle-prod. But grace - a life of walking alongside someone toward Jesus - and prayers and true questions (ones that say I want to know you, not I want to work you) offers the possibility of more than a sparkling clean image. Grace transforms us; but it's a messy thing getting there.

Dance, Dance Revolution

Most everybody's got a cause. I've got a few myself. But a confession: I don't have energy for every cause, maybe not yours.



It's true that one way to damn the world is to not give a rip. It's also true that one way to damn yourself is to try to live someone else's vision. If we're living another's life or laboring to match another's efforts, it's often because we fear being ostracized or being seen as ignorant or uncultured. This story does not end well.



I do believe that every speck of our world matters. I wish good for every endangered Blue-and-Orange Threadtail, and I wish not a single tree ever fell needlessly. I cringe (and when I'm too calloused to cringe, I wish I cringed) at each wave of injustice, each wrong that must be righted. What's more, I wish to go on the record in official opposition to every disease, every environmental abuse, every political transgression, every theological travesty. However...



When we care about everything in general, it's difficult to care about anything in particular. And there are certain people and certain places I simply must love ... in particular.



Not every battle that must be fought is mine to fight. We each have our place. We each have our voice. The beauty of a life together is that I can work here while you work there, and somehow in this strange way, we're working together for the good, for the joy.



And that's a crucial word: joy. Joy offers a cue, signaling what our unique work must be, where our voice must speak. What gives you rich joy when you put your heart and energy to it? And conversely, what brings you piercing sorrow whenever that work is left undone? Answer those two questions, and I think you've hit your spot pretty near the center.



Even the revolutionary Emma Goldman recognized this. "If I can't dance," she said, "it's not my revolution."









*all protest signs are the opinion of the sign-holder and do not represent the editorial opinion of the management of this blog, it's advertisers or global subsidiaries. To be more specific, we make no assertion that God hates ponies. We do not in fact know God's opinion one way or the other on ponies. Other than the fact that God made ponies. God also made donuts.

Diary of a Plain Pastor: Carried

You can't go offering the truth to human beings as though it were a sort of insurance policy, or a dose of salts. It's the Way and the Life. God's truth is the Life. We only look as though we were bringing it to mankind; really it brings us, my lad.

{Diary of a Country Priest}



If I believe anything, it's this: a pastor is not a huckster.



Hucksters harangue, they prod. They flash a grin and slap your back and tell a story or two to work their charm. But they don't show a broken heart. They don't sit with you in your questions, adding their questions to the mix. They don't want any complications. They've got a product to unload, a point to make. They're working the vision.



Somewhere along the way, Christianity became a brand. And we pastors became the chief peddlers. It's a shame. Hucksterism may work to build a corporate identity, a crowd, some momentum. But it's still a shame, a sham.



I don't trust a pastor who's selling something. I don't trust a pastor who doesn't know his own story and her own wounds. But show me a pastor who wrestles with the truth and who's full aware that some answers are hard won, over a life of faith and sweat and laughter and tears - show me that pastor, and I'll listen, I'll follow. I long for a pastor who's living the good life, honest and good.



My hope is that I might be the kind of pastor I'm looking for, the kind of pastor I'd trust. And as I see it, this begins with me owning the fact that my wisdom and leadership acumen is mildly helpful, at best. I don't have any grace to hand out that hasn't first been handed to me. I didn't die on a cross or rise from the dead. I've got nothing to sell, nothing worth buying at least. My vocation has nothing to do with hawking Jesus-ware.



My work, as I see it, is to be brought along, to be carried by the Story. I'm to listen and then to retell the Story as best I know - and to never pretend that I've got the golden keys to either mercy or mystery. Whatever I know, whatever I've been given, it's been done to me. Grace carries me here and there, and washes me up on the bank wherever, whenever, she has the urge.