december 8th...

"i'm just sitting here
watching the wheels
go round-and-round..."

This day - each year - is pregnant with pauses -- for finding deeper meaning. John Lennon's "Watching the Wheels," is the perfect keynote for a number of reasons.

December 8th, 1980. Heartache. I was a 26 year old who thought she knew the world she lived in. Difficult as it was, it was graspable. Yes, as a generation, we had been through the assassinations of both Kennedy brothers and Martin Luther King, Watergate, and a confusing war that had taken our brothers and boyfriends before their time. But we had the Beatles. We had George's spirituality. We had John's imagination. We had Paul's sweet joy. We had Ringo's loyalty. We would be okay.

And then John was assassinated and something shifted for me. I struggled with finding a sense of meaning and clarity about "why?" A few years of beating at the air, and falling off the deep end. And the deep end really was quite deep. More like falling into an abyss of self and sorrow. I couldn't imagine anything -- much less a world of "all the people living life in peace..."

So what changed. I think, in hindsight, it was another December 8th. December 8th, 1984 -- and a global video conference, imagined by a group of men and women who believed that it was time:

“to live for all mankind"
 

And today, over three decades later, I have no doubt -- whatsoever -- that these two December 8th events are connected on my spiritual path.

I believe that John Lennon's passing dug deep into the soil of my heart. It was a painful cultivation beneath the surface of complacency. It was not enough to love the song, "Imagine," I wanted it to be real, alive, breathing in me, and in the world that I lived it. I was afraid that John's passing would mean the end of his dreams. Instead, I think, it stirred something in us that was sleeping.

Fast forward to 1984. I was raw with a desperate hope that felt like an exposed nerve. I tried every pain-killer to quiet its ache. Nothing was working. It pulsed and throbbed like a wound.

But somewhere, they were praying. They were listening, planning, reaching out with something that could not be commodified -- it was hope. The worldwide leadership of The First Church of Christ, Scientist was gathering its greatest resources, the hearts and prayers of its members, to recommit to its Leader, Mary Baker Eddy's vision:

“to live for all mankind"
 

Not just its own members, but all mankind. As one member of their Board of Directors put it, "the meeting reflected a  sense of spiritual urgency to address the needs of our fellow man at the deepest possible levels." They were casting their net wide - as fishers of men, and I was caught in their draught. 

Today, 39 years after John's assassination, his deep moral imagination for our world resonates like a tuning fork in our collective hearts.

Today, 35 years after the "to live for all mankind" video conference that circled the globe, a 19th Century woman's vision for humanity resonates at the core of my being.

I remember as a child hearing the statement:

“Nobody wins, until everybody wins."
 

I believe this to be true. If my God isn't All-in-all -- and all, for all; well, it's not a God I can love, trust, or worship. But He/She is. Eddy states in her primary work, and the books that guided those 1984 visionaries:

“Love is impartial and universal
in its adaptation and bestowals,
it is the open fount which cries,
Ho, everyone that thirtieth,
Come ye to the waters..."
 

Imagine all the people living life in peace. Imagine all the people free from persecution. Imagine all the people sheltered and fed. Imagine all the people having access to educational opportunities, healthcare, seniority filled with wisdom and love -- rather than dismissiveness and isolation.

Just imagine. Then, live for all mankind.

December 8th is a day of new birth, of fresh opportunity, and great moral awakening for me. It is a day for imagining all the people living life in peace -- and then doing all that we can to make it true.

offered with Love,

Kate

"everyone knows God..."

"Yes, I'm thankful for
the Lord above,
the gift of His unending love,
the promise kept
that there is so much more.

These are the things
I'm thankful for..."

Dillon Cate's cover of Garth Brooks' and Trisha Yearwood's Thanksgiving anthem,"What I'm Thankful For,"* was my husband's solo offering at our church service yesterday -- and it took my breath away with its simple beauty.

Because I knew the love, devotion and humility Jeff brought to sharing that gift with the congregation -- for me, it was less a performance, and more - a prayer.

Our service is a simple one that concludes with time for sharing testimonies of healing by those who are gathered in worship. We'd brought a friend who was unfamiliar with this Thanksgiving tradition, and I have to admit I was listening to everything that was shared at the service, through the lens of his heart. What was he hearing? Would it make sense, resonate, inspire?

Most of the remarks were thoughtfully shared and filled with reverence and thanks. But there was one testimony that brought me to tears. It leveled the playing field. We were no longer a congregation of church members and visitors, we were all one - in the thing most essential.

My friend, Linda Clarke, rose and began her testimony by saying that, although others in the congregation had shared how many generations of family members had practiced our faith, she was a first generation Christian Scientist. In one sentence she had swept away all sense of religious heredity, hierarchy of faith, or any distancing one might feel from the direct and immediate relationship to divine Love -- that is inherent in each of us, and unites us all.

Then she went on to share an experience she'd had at a recent Bible Workshop she'd hosted as the Adult Program Director at the Adventure Unlimited Ranches. She said that in the opening session, Bible scholar, Kristy Christian, had said:

"everyone knows God.
I want you to think about this..."  

It was so simple, and so profound.  Yes! Because everyone knows love -- and God is Love -- everyone knows God.  Because everyone experiences Life -- and God is the Source of all being -- everyone experiences God. It was an accessible truth.  One that unites us all. 

Later, when interviewing Linda for this post, she said, "I always try to look at people as the image and likeness of God -- in perfection. But this was different, to see a homeless person, or someone I might not agree with, or even someone who has done something I can't support, as really "knowing God," -- able to hear His angel messages -- this has given me a lot to think about. It has made such a difference for me."

The deep love for others, that resonated through her remarks, was like the "cup of cold water," that Mary Baker Eddy speaks of "millions of unprejudiced minds," waiting and watching for. I couldn't imagine anyone - in that overflowing Thanksgiving Day gathering of friends, family, and guests - who wouldn't feel loved, honored, and included through this view of themselves and others - as knowing God.

In her remarks, Linda went on to share how trusting in this fundamental fact -- that everyone knows God -- frees us to love unconditionally.

Linda's testimony was the perfect message for each of us --from the "third, forth, or fifth generation" Christian Scientist, to our unprejudiced young guest. It lifted any sense of exclusivity -- a secret handshake or password-protected entry into the kingdom of God. It affirmed that this kingdom is within each of us.  That it is accessible, and has one Sovereign -- omnipotent and omnipresent Love -- who as Mary Baker Eddy assures us in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures is:

"impartial and universal
in its adaptation and bestowals."  

What a gift to us all. This, for me, was the message of messages.  It is the basis for true individual, familial, local, national, and global peace. Everyone knows God. When we trust this Truth -- we can live fully, share generously, and love freely.    


This message of God's inclusive love is something I am deeply grateful for -- thank you Linda.

offered with Love,

Kate


*If you would like to hear Garth Brooks', Trisha Yearwood, James Taylor and Kim Taylor's performance of,"What I'm Thankful For," here is that link.

"she knew..."

"Mary did you know
that your baby boy
would give sight
to a blind man..."

"Sometimes a light surprises," one loved hymn suggests. Today was a day of surprising illumination for me.  First, I discovered Ceelo Green's breath-taking version of "Mary Did You Know?," from Roma Downey and Mark Burnett's film, The Bible. But that wasn't the only light that took my breath away today.  The other will never leave me.

I love going to church. I love hearing scripture read aloud. This morning I felt like a child listening to loved stories at bedtime. As I was savoring the familiar passages from Luke -- ones that recount Mary's conception of Jesus, her run to Elisabeth's house to confirm the miracle of her cousin's pregnancy, and her "Magnificat," her song of praise -- I sensed something was missing.

I looked at the citations included in the passages being shared, and there was a gap. So, I opened the Bible lying next to me, and read:

"My soul doth magnify the Lord,
And my spirit hath rejoiced
in God my Saviour.
For he hath regarded
the low estate of his handmaiden:

for, behold,
from henceforth all generations
shall call me blessed.

For he that is mighty
hath done to me great things;
and holy is his name.

And his mercy
is on them that fear him
from generation to generation.

He hath shewed strength
with his arm;
he hath scattered the proud
in the imagination of their hearts.

He hath put down the mighty
from their seats,
and exalted them
of low degree.

He hath filled the hungry
with good things;
and the rich
he hath sent empty away.

He hath holpen
his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy;

As he spake to our fathers,
to Abraham,
and to his seed for ever..." 

Oh, she knew.

This was no frightened girl. This was a wise, inspired young woman. I don't know why I'd marginalized her as timid maiden who'd been swept up in God's plan for humanity -- a human vessel for incubating the divine idea.  But that paradigm was shattered this morning. I held my breath in awe of this strong, consciously willing, inspired woman of God.

In the breadth of a heartbeat she became something more to me than she'd ever been before. Her story was no longer that of a human mother following her beloved son -- hoping for a moment of audience with him.  An over-attentive mom, eager to see him succeed.

No, she too was God-appointed.  Her's was a life-long mission -- and she knew it.  She was wise enough to be still. Prudent enough to "hold these things in her heart." She knew when to speak, and when to be silent. But she never forgot.

She was the first harbinger of salvation. Hers was the first voice to proclaim the advancing reign of humility, charity, and grace. She was the one person who was always with him, from Bethlehem to Calvary -- and was waiting at the tomb.

She not only carried his body in her womb, but his mission and his purpose in her heart. And it was she who refused to let anyone -- even Jesus himself -- forget the promise.

She was not just his livery, but his teacher. Not just his mother, but the one who knew -- and remembered. I can only imagine the lessons in courage, trust, grace, and self-surrender she taught her son.

This morning she came alive for me in a new way. And I can answer, without a shadow of a doubt, that the woman who said, "be it unto me, according to Thy word," - knew her son would give sight to a blind man, recommend charity, raise the dead, feed the hungry, exalt humility, denounce self-righteousness, and bring salvation to a waiting world.

Yes, I am completely certain that she knew.

humbly offered,

Kate

"Will there ever be a place where I belong..."

"Fatherless and nameless still,
fallen heart and broken -
will there ever be a place
where I belong..."

I was ten, and as broken inside as a child could be. At four I was given a name I'd never heard myself called before, and was told that one of the people I thought loved me most -- didn't.  I was told that I would never see him again. No explanation, just new name, new dad, new home.

Can you spell devastation? I couldn't, but I knew it's color, tone, and temperature. The only thing that mitigated the reach of it's cold horror, was my little sister. She was my hope. She was the thread of belonging that kept me alive to myself.

When I first heard Chris Rice's "Belong" a few years ago, I couldn't listen to it. It was too hard. I wanted to stay here -- in the light of who I am today. But the other day a friend posted a link to "Belong" on Facebook, and I knew I had to write this piece.

As a little girl I had only brief flashes of God. As a toddler, my aunt and uncle took me to Sunday School whenever I visited them.  And during my darkest hours I would remember walking from their church to the town bakery for crumb buns.

I loved watching the powdered sugar falling on my black patent-leather shoes as we made our way along the cobbled sidewalk -- one hand in hers, one wrapped around my pastry. Those Sundays stayed with me, not because of the sweets, but because I associated those memories with a feeling of belonging to the "something bigger than myself," I was learning about in Sunday School.

My grandmother would also take me to Sunday School when I visited her.  Afterwards, we'd return to the her yellow bungalow on a shady street.  We'd eat our lunch on the sun porch and then water the African violets that covered every window sill in her sunny kitchen. I associated caring for plants with home, and a sense of belonging to something safe, sure, and alive with beauty.

When my family moved far away from both my aunt and grandmother, I gathered those memories of belonging close to my heart, and tried to share them with my sister in every way I could. We moved often, but she and I always shared a bed and dreams of home. I always knew that I belonged to her, and with her.

There were many dark nights when I would curl myself around her, and silently recount all the ways that we were whole. We had our mother's love, our growing family of siblings, but most importantly, we had each other. We were smart and creative -- we liked to draw and dance; she was very strong, and I could read faster than anyone we knew. I could spell and she was the best runner -- ever.

Then one day everything changed. Our parents started going to church -- the same kind of church that my grandmother and aunt had taken me to as a toddler. Our younger siblings were going to Sunday School with us and we were became part of a community of people who believed that God was real, people were good, and Love heals. It was a whole new world for us.

My sister and I were not really as alone and vulnerable as I had long-feared. I didn't have to be afraid that someday we might have to fend for ourselves in a dark, cold world -- one where loved ones could disappear in the breath of a moment. We had God and He loved us. He had all the power in the universe, and he knew our every thought. He wanted only good for us. We would be okay.

One day, in Sunday School, my teacher read a sentence from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures.  It said, in part:

"...the author has often remembered
our Master’s love for little children,
and understood how truly such as they
belong to the heavenly kingdom."

That may seem like "just a sentence" to some readers, but to me -- as a child who wasn't even sure who she was anymore -- it was a "place" I could cling to -- it was where my sister and I really belonged.   It was a place in time and eternity that no one could take from us.

Now, I won't say that this sense of belonging was always easy to remember. Over the years I've struggled mightily with suggestions of rejection, abandonment, feeling untethered and homeless. But always, right around the corner, was the memory of belonging to a "heavenly kingdom" where the Master loves his little children.

And if you are thinking, "I don't really know anyone who feels like that..." Don't be so sure. I was not a waif. My clothes were always clean, my mother loved me, and I was surrounded by siblings I adored. But I was starving for this sense of belonging -- to know that I was not a random piece of human fluff, tossed indiscriminately by the winds of chance and circumstance.

Today, as I navigate each moment's responsibilities, decisions, and appointments -- being a neighbor, mom, volunteer, wife, daughter, sister, colleague -- I try to remember that just because someone seems to "have it all together," doesn't mean they aren't hungry for that same sense of belonging I was so desperate to feel. There is nothing more wonderful than knowing you belong to a broader spiritual community -- a family of Love -- warm, all-inclusive, impartial, and universal.  This is the kingdom of heaven, and it exists within us all -- regardless of socio-economics, religion, culture, race, or gender.   In this kingdom, we are united to one another as siblings of one common Parent.

It's a sense of belonging that even the most lonely person on earth has access to -- right this very second.

with love,

Kate

"the honest cries of breaking hearts..."

"We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody.
Beautiful the mess we are,
the honest cries of breaking hearts
are better than an hallelujah..."

Disclaimer: This is my love letter to my church family....I know that we each find the worship community that best meets us where we are, and walks us another step forward in our spiritual journey. I am just so deeply grateful to have discovered a circle of fellowship that stirs me to an even deeper desire to commune with God, and to serve others.

I don't know that I can say what is in my heart any better than Amy Grant's "Better than an Hallelujah."

I felt the power of its message resonating in our Wednesday church service the other night. But, in truth, it's always there. I never fail to feel it in a friend's unexpected kindness, in the deep collective sigh that fills our worship space when we surrender social reserve, for the touch of something unspoken. I feel it in that extra moment of silence following the Lord's Prayer, in the voice of a visitor as she tells her story, in the soft April breeze that carries our music onto the sidewalk, in the thoughtfulness that characterizes our circle of fellowship. I feel it in the profound respect I see expressed for each participant's gifts...without partiality, or any sense of hierarchy. I feel it in our shared laughter, and our shared tears.

We are small in numbers, but the genuine love, trust, and compassion I feel, each time I cross the threshold of our little urban storefront church, is always "better than an hallelujah..." for me. It is as if we truly see ourselves...and each other...as childlike, innocent, and full of joy when we are in one another's company.

"The tears of shame
for what's been done,
a silence when the words won't come
are better than an hallelujah...
better than a church bell ringing,
better than a choir singing..."

Sometimes, when we reach the end of a service, I feel like I've actually witnessed the Master himself restoring lost hope, lifting the broken, forgiving the adulteress, ministering from the cross. There is such love - among us - for his life, his example...his message of self-sacrifice, service, and charity.

In our sweet sanctuary, I've discovered all manner of Love...kindness illuminating even the darkest corner, mercy perfuming the air, charity opening wide the prison doors, and humility feeding the famished affections. I've seen it, and, more importantly, I've experienced it. I have watched one mother comforting another, a child holding the hand of a lonely senior, a homeless visitor sitting in front of a plate piled high with the bounty from a potluck feast...while he feeds our hunger to give. It's in the naked candor of heartfelt sharing, eye contact across a quiet room, the respect for honest questioning. And it's better than an hallelujah...sometimes.

In this sacred space, I have felt the words of the hymn:

"Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven..."

And I can tell you, with every fiber of my being that, for me, it is better than an hallelujah...all the time.

I am so grateful for my church family. It is exactly what I need. I feel like a happy child there. For me, it is home. One that is always filled with Love.

Ever grateful...

Kate

"Kindness in your gaze..."

‎"May there be kindness in your gaze,
when you look within..."
     - J. O'Donohue

Sometimes the joy in revisiting an old post (thanks L. for bringing it to my attention) is that I have the opportunity to include a link to a musical performance that wasn't available at the time of the original posting. Such is the case with this piece from June of 2008. Not only to I get to share with you a rare video of Johnsmith singing his beautiful song "Kickin' this stone.." at the Beltany Stone Circle in Ireland, but I get to revisit a subject that is so dear to me...self-compassion.

Jesus said that we must love others, as we would have them love us. But how would we "love us?' Do we really show ourselves the kind of compassion and mercy we would like to be known for showing others? If we would learn how to love others, we must start with ourselves. We must foster a deep and abiding understanding of the feeling of being loved, forgiven, and restored...within ourselves, if we would know the depth of its value to others...and devote our lives to giving it.

For many years, I thought my failings were just that...failings. I am starting to see that I have been given a post-graduate course (and by the way, the hardest and most rigorous course I've ever taken) on the value of mercy, the achingly beautiful power of forgiveness, and the knee-buckling sweetness of redemption's kiss. Here is the post from 2008. May you love your own innocence with as much tenderness, as you show others...

"Kickin' this stone..."

"Kickin' this stone
kickin' this stone…
kickin' these blues out into the open light
where moss can't grow…

…Kickin' this stone
down this long highway
all across the countless miles
from the cradle to the grave
past all my mistakes
with all their guilt and shame
through the gentle rain of tears
sweet forgiveness came…"
-     Johnsmith

I love church…especially the Wednesday evening tradition of my own faith.  I am never too inspired, too peaceful, too sure of my own spiritual ground to not have it bless me in unexpected ways. 

I have learned that if I leave all my costumes, roles and titles out on the sidewalk, and just enter the door with a hungry heart…I leave fed.

Last night was no exception…and the blessing was so surprisingly BIG.  The inspirational readings were on "opinion."  Our little group meets in a storefront on a wonderful walking neighborhood street full of shops and restaurants and coffeehouses. So we place a sandwich board out on the sidewalk.  It lists the theme of our meeting and invites everyone to feel welcome.  When my husband saw the sign last night, he initially thought it said that the meeting was going to be about "onions"…thank goodness he was wrong.

The readings were strong and compassionate.  The impotence (vs. importance) of opinions rang through every citation.  I could easily nod my head in agreement.  Mary Baker Eddy says, "…mere opinion is valueless." I concur.  But as much as I agreed with where the readings and hymns took us, I felt like crying…church often does this to me. 

It was so easy for me to see that this spiritual promise, regarding the valueless-ness of opinion, is true.  I can readily accept that any mere opinion about someone, or something, is absolutely valueless to me, as a spiritual thinker.  So why was this message stirring up so much sadness in me? 

As I probed around in the darkness while sitting quietly in our small congregational circle, I came upon the stone that was gathering moss in my heart.  It wasn't my opinion of others - or others' opinions about me - that made me heartsick.  It was my opinions about myself.  I realized that I was entertaining opinions about my own mistakes and choices that left me filled with regret and remorse. 

I sat there, wondering if those feelings would ever abate, when I heard a young college professor and research scientist begin to speak about a recent healing he'd experienced.  I heard him say, "people often think that science is about proving something. But, science is really all about disproving a hypothesis…and it only takes disproving it once to prove that it is not scientifically true." 

He went on to explain that if something is scientifically true, it must be true EVERY time. So if it can be disproved even once, it is not really true.

This sent a shockwave through the dark places of self-doubt I had been wandering around, and resting, in.  I was wallowing in a space where I was sure I could possibly be trapped forever. I figured I could easily spend the rest of my life trying to prove that the bad opinions I held, about myself, were not true.  That I would have to prove in hundreds of thousands of different ways, that I was not a bad mother, a negligent sister, a forgetful friend, a less than perfect wife. 

But I suddenly saw that each time I was able to be a good mother, an attentive sister, an alert friend, a compassionate neighbor, a good wife, I disproved those false opinions I had harbored in the dark regions of my heart, kicked around over and over again, and often stubbed my toe on. 

Instead, I could kick them into the light of day, and let them become good and precious stones…cleansed by tears, bleached by the sun, strong and ready to use for building a better view of myself...a foundation strong and sure. A home I might even want to share with others.

It only takes one act of kindness, fidelity, attentiveness, patience, humility to disprove the validity of false opinions about ourselves...and others.   It's good to be a scientist.  To be Christian...kind, merciful, honest, loving, compassionate...in my practice of this Science - even with myself - is heavenly.

You can see why I love church…

Gratefully,
Kate

"Calling all angels..."

"I need a sign to let me know You're here
All of these lines are being crossed over the atmosphere
I need to know that things are gonna look up
'Cause I feel I'm drowning in a sea spilled from a cup

And I'm calling all angels
I'm calling all you angels..."

I heard Train's "Calling All Angels" tonight, and everything telescoped into a moment of remembering.  Like most good stories, it starts, "it was a stormy night..."  But it really was.    When some years ago,  I felt as if I was at the end of what I thought I could endure...emotionally.

For weeks I'd been stumbling through my days in a fog of depression.  I felt lonely, sad, and hopeless.  And the saddest thing was, that even though I was so lonely, I didn't want to be around real people.   All day long,  it was the hazy comfort of my bed that whispered her promise to me like a gentle, kind friend...whether I was in my office, driving to appointment, sitting in meetings, or laughing with colleagues.  In fact, no matter what I was doing, the only place I really believed I could find peace, and therefore, wanted to be, was in that bed.

It called to me like the snake, Kaa, from Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book, "just come to bed and go to sleep, go to sleep," in a hypnotically soothing voice.  I could  easily imagine what it would feel like to let the drug-like heaviness of sleep seep through my body, and surrender to rest I thought I'd find in the escape of dreams. I fought back, but it wasn't easy.

Day after day, I would show up for my responsibilities and commitments, but the incessant, dull ache of "if only I could go back to bed,"  throbbed just under the surface of my smile.

Then one day I couldn't.  I just couldn't sleep.  At all.  And before I knew it, one day turned into two, which turned into ten.  Ten days without sleep, or more importantly, without the escape from depression that dreaming promised.  And since dreaming only came with sleep.  No sleeping, no dreaming.  I was a walking zombie...literally.

By day ten, I didn't know what to do, or where to go, to find peace, or even just a little bit of rest.  But, because it was a Wednesday night, and "just showing up," had become my default behavior.  I headed, wihtout much hope of it making a difference, to church.

I was alone that night.  Alone in a city with a veritable plethora of church options, and yet I'd never felt more listless and unmoored.  I found myself driving to a familiar part of town...but one that wasn't on my normal radar...and walking into a very small church with only a handful of quiet worshippers. But the minute I sat down, I felt compassion.  I sensed a happiness, a quiet peace that was non-invasive but palpably geunine.  One woman offered me a soft blanket when she noticed I was shivering.  Another asked me if I'd like a cup of water as she crossed the room to get one for herself. 

The kindness was not effusive, but it was rich, gentle, and authentic.  The hymns, familiar and comforting,  were better than dreaming, and the stories of inspiration and healing, shared after the brief, simple readings, were touching and encouraging.  I felt as if I were in the company of urban angels.  There was no drama, no hierarchy, neither a hesitancy to share honestly, or a chomping at the bit to get the next word in...it was as divinely choreographed as the innocent interplay of children taking turns. 

They didn't know that I was ready to collapse with exhaustion, and suffering with acute depression.  I didn't say a word that night, but I felt as "listened to" as if I'd poured my heart out and the entire congregation had surrounded me, held my hand, and tenderly dried the tears I was really just too sad, and tired, to even weep that night.  No one said a word, or asked a question...but I could feel their openess of heart.  It had called to me.  Without a word it had invited me to step into their company and rest upon the spiritual love that united them.

I left church, that evening, feeling more rested than I had in weeks.  And later I slept peacefully for the first time in days. 

Because of a last minute office call, I had to join our church service, remotely, by phone last night.  The same tender, sweet persuasion that called me into their congregation years ago, poured, undiluted by technology, through the phone lines....some things never change. 

I needed a sign from God, that night...some years ago...to let me know She was in still my life...I found Her heart beating strong, in that company of angels...  Uniting with that heavenly host...in silent service, and as an active witness...is a blessing more lovely than dreaming. 

I am so grateful...

Kate 

"a resurrected church...within..."

"It's crowded in worship today
as she slips in
trying to fade into the faces..."

I know I've used Casting Crowns' "If We are the Body" to keynote an earlier post, but it's such a powerful song, and fits so perfectly with today's message, that I'm using it again.  I hope it moves you to dance within the body of Christ. 

My friend, and colleague, Suzette, recently shared the following  article, "20 Steps to a Renewed Church," (also copied below for your convenience), by the Former Episcapaelean Chaplain at Northern Arizona University, Tamie Harkin, as it appeared in The Fund for Theological Education's online newsletter.  It's a powerful message with so many practical ideas for renewing our sense of church.

Mary Baker Eddy defines "church" as:

"The structure of Truth and Love; whatever rests upon and proceeds from divine Principle.

"The Church is that institution, which affords proof of its utility and is found elevating the race, rousing the dormant understanding from material beliefs to the apprehension of spiritual ideas and the demonstration of divine Science, thereby casting out devils, or error, and healing the sick."

For me, this "church" refers to any collective body of ideas with a God-sent mission and purpose.  Marriage, family, congregational worship groups, businesses...and as Jesus, intimated, the collective organization of movement, flexibility, affection, rhythm, function...called, the body. When John relates him as saying, "Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up." John then going on to explain, "...he spake of the temple of his body." (John 2: 19 & 21)

Rather than being institutionally proscriptive, Eddy's definition has given me permission to be expansive in my expression of church, and has empowered me to act with courage, compassion, and clarity of calling.  I have used it to find direction and healing in every part of my life.

But that's another post.  Back to this amazing article that Suzatte shared, because I am finding it practical. in so many ways.

In thinking about its message of renewal, especially for my own inner sense of church,  I've been brought to my knees.

How often do I judge myself, instead of embracing every twist and turn of my journey, or forget to greet myself in the mirror with appreciation, generosity, and grace?  How many times have I forgotten to allow myself the joy of seeing God' presence in those things that really touch my heart, all because I have held myself to following a rigid spiritual script...one that hasn't left room for a walk in the woods, or sitting in an art gallery, dancing with my husband, or playing Life with our daughters? 

Allowing Harkin's ideas and insights, to wash through me...in ways that bring joy to all the "bodies" of my life...my marriage, my family, my neighborhood, school, place of worship...I am suddenly giddy with excitement about what "church" might look, and feel, like.   Perhaps it will look like a happy group singing praise to God on a beach at sunset with new friends gathering..moment-by-moment, to warm themselves by a bonfire of love. 

I hope you enjoy Tamie's article...below...there may be sections that you don't relate to...that's okay, this is just one person's inspiration on church. I found it fresh and compelling. You may not agree with some of these ideas, my only hope is that you are willing to read her article with an open mind, and take from it what might be useful to you. Although her faith traditions, language, and worship experience may be different than mine, I sense that we share a common love for congregational communities of faith, and worship, that care about others, and like to sing.

Thanks Suzette...I can't wait to see you at our sweet little urban storefront hippie church where we laugh, and cry, and eat, and pray, and hug. and yes, sing...alot!!

20 Steps to a Renewed Church  
- Tamie Harkin

Tonight I went to a meeting at the local Episcopal church; it was a dinner and get-together with the new Bishop of Alaska.  Apparently, Alaska hasn't had an Episcopal bishop for a while, so this is exciting news that there is now a bishop. 

The dear little Episcopal church here, which is called St. James the Fisherman (how cool is that name?!), is tiny and doesn't have a priest and is run by well-intentioned older women.  Which is the story of so many rural Episcopal churches.  I left thinking, "ah, the church."  Not "ah" like a sigh of relief, but more just a sigh.

I feel like buried in the center of the church (and I mean the church as a whole--all the Christians worldwide) is this amazing, redemptive, beautiful thing.  But it's in a deep cavern somewhere, and meanwhile people have stacked old broken chairs in front of that cavern, and shoved all the old Halloween decorations up around the doors of the cavern, and there are cobwebs, and way up above the cavern, in the church building, people are arguing over whose pew is whose and how to correctly iron the cloths used during Eucharist. 

And, of course, they're arguing about whether gay people are really fully human.  When I was an Episcopal chaplain--for four years--all the time people in the church would ask me, "Why don't young people come to church?" or "How do we get young people to come to church?"  I have some suggestions now, so listen up.   Here is a step-by-step plan for how to get more young people into the church:

1. Be genuine.  Do not under any circumstances try to be trendy or hip, if you are not already intrinsically trendy or hip. If you are a 90-year-old woman who enjoys crocheting and listens to Beethoven, by God be proud of it.

2. Stop pretending you have a rock band.

3.  Stop arguing about whether gay people are okay, fully human, or whatever else.  Seriously. Stop it.

4.  Stop arguing about whether women are okay, fully human, or are capable of being in a position of leadership.

5.  Stop looking for the "objective truth" in Scripture.

6.  Start looking for the beautiful truth in Scripture.

7.  Actually read the Scriptures.  If you are Episcopalian, go buy a Bible and read it.  Start in Genesis, it's pretty cool. You can skip some of the other boring parts in the Bible. Remember though that almost every book of the Bible has some really funky stuff in it. Remember to keep #5 and #6 in mind though. If you are evangelical, you may need to stop reading the Bible for about 10 years. Don't worry during those ten years you can work on putting these other steps into practice.

8. Start worrying about extreme poverty, violence against women, racism, consumerism, and the rate at which children are dying worldwide of preventable, treatable diseases. Put all the energy you formerly spent worrying about the legit-ness of gay people into figuring out ways to do some good in these areas.

9.   Do not shy away from lighting candles, silence, incense, laughter, really good food, and extraordinary music. By "extraordinary music" I mean genuine music. Soulful music. Well-written, well-composed music. Original music. Four-part harmony music. Funky retro organ music. Hymns. Taize chants, Bluegrass. Steel guitar. Humming. Gospel.; We are the church; we have an uber-rich history of amazing music. Remember this.

10. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

11.   Learn how to sit with people who are dying.

12. Feast as much as possible. Cardboard communion wafers are a feast in symbol only. Humans can not live on symbols alone. Remember this.

13.   Notice visitors, smile genuinely at them, include them in conversations, but do not overwhelm them.

14.  Be vulnerable.

15.  Stop worrying about getting young people into the church.  Stop worrying about marketing. Take a deep breath. If there is a God, that God isn't going to die even if there are no more Christians at all.

16. Figure out who is suffering in your community. Go be with them.

17. Remind yourself that you don't have to take God to anyone. God is already with everyone. So, rather than taking the approach that you need to take the truth out to people who need it, adopt the approach that you need to go find the truth that others have and you are missing. Go be evangelized.

18. Put some time and care and energy into creating a beautiful space for worship and being together. But shy away from building campaigns, parking lot expansions, and what-have-you.

19. Make some part of the church building accessible for people to pray in 24/7. Put some blankets there too, in case someone has nowhere else to go for the night.

20. Listen to God (to Wisdom, to Love) more than you speak your opinions.

This is a fool-proof plan.  If you do it, I guarantee that you will attract young people to your church.  And lots of other kinds of people too.  The end."

Thank you Suzette for sharing this wonderful article with me.  I am making space in my heart for its message to evangelize my sense of church, congregation, worship...and body of being.

with Love,

Kate

"...but, according to Him..."

"According to Him
I'm beautiful,
Incredible,
He can't get me out of his head.

According to him
I'm funny,
irresistible,
everything He ever wanted..."

I know, I know..."According to Him" is one pretty poppity-pop pop song by Orianthi (just don't underestimate her guitar riffs, there's nothing poppity about them...it's pure rock and roll Stevie Vaughn style!).  But its "hook" so perfectly illustrates this experience, that I couldn't resist...so please bear with me.  Bottom-line, sometimes the messages we tell ourselves in the mirror, are worse, than our worst critics could ever come up with...but I am getting ahead of the story.

I was sitting in church that morning, feeling rather uninspired.  The words sounded like "just words," and nothing was penetrating the fog of self-dismissal that had been gathering since dawn. 

It wasn't a new feeling.  It was an "old, old story," and it was one that had lulled me into self-sympathy for years.  And even though it was a story I really didn't love telling, or listening to...I couldn't kick it out.  It seemed like an endless loop of mental static playing in my head. "You are not worthy, you are small.  Anyone who thinks you are worth knowing...much less loving...is being fooled by your thin veneer of self-confidence.  If they really knew you, they would see that you weren't worth their time or attention."

Over and over it played.   

The Scriptural readings from the desk were beautiful words.  And I tried with all my heart to focus on their message, rather than the one that was trying to force its way into the door of my thinking, and hijack my fragile hold on peace. 

I sat in one of the creaky, red boucle'-upholstered auditorium seats in our church sanctuary, straining to hear.  The Bible passages that opened the service were from Psalms:

"What is man, that thou art mindful of Him?"

Sigh...I knew this one so well.  Too well. 

I tried to let it sink in, but it was like pouring water on the parched, wind-hardened, and impenetrable surface of a sun-baked pasture on the Colorado high plains.  It rolls right off, or evaporates under the searing heat of a mile-high summer day, before it can even reach below the dust on the surface.

I sat back into my creaky seat, trying to disappear, even more deeply, into the background of my own life.  Perhaps I could blend into the fibers of the upholstery and never have to propel this sad, sorry "me" through space ever again. 

I know, it sounds like the ego was having a personal-drama field day...and it was.  But I didn't have a clue in those days about how the ego could, and would, take on the voice of false-humility, and coo its message of "You are unworthy..." just as easily as it would arrogantly assert, "You are the best..." if it thought it could get me to believe that I had a self-created (or destroyed) identity separate from God. 

It was a fickle whore who was more than willing to say whatever it thought would get me to believe that I was special, an originator, a creator, and thus undermine my sense of God as the All-in-all, the one and only all-powerful, loving Father-Mother...the only Cause and Creator in, and of, the universe.

But that was when God pushed Her way through the ego's over-confident space of "gotcha" and walked onto the platform in the form of an angel in a pink and aqua floral chiffon prom dress.  Really!

Our church hired students from the local university to sing an inspirational solo during each Sunday service.  Sometimes these students were familiar with the Bible and brought spiritual insight to their interpretation of a piece.  And sometimes, it seemed as if they were singing a Scriptural text with as much understanding as they would bring to an Italian opera, phonetically sounding out each syllable perfectly, but without contextual meaning. 

As she opened her black folder and the introductory notes poured from the organ, I was slipping further and further into the ego's grip. 

That was, until she sang,

     "What is man?  That Thou art Mind,  full of him."

Her freedom from a more "traditional" spacing and emphasis gave the passage a whole new meaning. And the text for this particular solo, was just a repeat of that line from Psalms...over and over again.  Rising, and rising...in pitch and volume...to a crescendo-ed message of divine promise and unfailing spiritual self-reference, then gently closing with an almost whispered, benediction of "thou art Mine."

I will never forget the feeling of awakening that poured through me like water penetrating dry ground.  I could almost feel the roots of new spiritual insights digging deeper into my being searching for the source of that refreshment.  I sensed the brittle outer covering of dormant seeds splitting and peeling away from the plump green endosperm of spiritual promise.

The next Bible verse read from the desk was like soft rain on the savanna after a drought.  Not a torrential downpour that would have eroded all the seeds awakened by those first drops of divine Love's "living waters," but a gentle wash of nourishing waters to slake the thirst of the soul.  It was a spoken repeat of the text from the solo:

"What is man, that thou art mindful of Him."

But after the solo, I knew I would never hear it, ever again, as anything but:

"What is man?  That Thou art Mind, full of him."

God wasn't something I filled my mind with, I was what God, as Mind, was filled with.  I was the beautiful images, the songs, the poetry, the stories and promises He was cherishing, nurturing, reflecting upon...all the time.  That was me!  That was my identity!  My thinking had nothing to do with creating "me." Only God's thinking mattered.  And the better I knew, and understood, His identity, His character, His name and nature, the more I would know the kind of thoughts He entertained...me.

I sat in that auditorium seat for a long time after the service was over.  I can still feel the texture of that red-boucle' upholstery fabric under my fingertips as I softly stroked cloth, while quietly pondering the emerging seeds of true identity that were springing into birth within me. 

I let the cool Colorado air...passing through the branches of the large pine trees just beyond the open windows next to me...waft across the fertile space of my heart and blow all the old, brittle, chrysalis-like seed coverings away so that something fresh and vital could grow into something...something that I didn't need to know the exact form or function of at the moment.  An aspen tree, a tomato plant, a peony bush, a blade of grass whose identity is maintained by Mind...or even a bean sprout, here today, in my sandwich tomorrow.  It didn't matter.  Whatever it was, it was good, it was of God, it was perfect...it was me.  And that was a good thing. 

Mary Baker Eddy states in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Mind maintains all identities,
from a blade of grass, to a star,
as distinct and eternal."

"According to Him.."  That's enough self-knowledge for me.  Whatever He thinks...that's what I am!!

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"When love takes you in..."

"I know you’ve heard the stories
But they all sound too good to be true
You’ve heard about a place called home
But there doesn’t seem to be one for you
So one more night you cry yourself to sleep
And drift off to a distant dream

Where love takes you in
and everything changes
A miracle starts with the beat of a heart
When love takes you home
and says you belong here
The loneliness ends
and a new life begins
When love takes you in..."
- Steven Curtis Chapman

I heard "When Love Takes You In," the other day and found myself thinking about our "home" here in St. Louis.  I am not talking about the house we have put our furniture in, the neighborhood that hosts our house, the driveway where we park our car, or the yard our children play in. And it wasn't camp. I was surprised to realize that I was actually thinking about St. Louis. I couldn't imagine that I had genuine feelings of "home," and they weren't settled deep in the heart of Colorado's Arkansas Valley...or, somewhere off the coast of Maine.

But this was a different feeling. It didn't undermine the sense of home I experience with such fullness at camp. In fact, it complimented it. And woven into those feelings of "home" were golden threads of gratitude for an amazing group of people who have taken us in, and made us feel like we belong. People who have, by letting us serve along side them, shown us that our humble gifts have a holy purpose, are received with gratitude, and that we make a difference.  I am talking about our church family.

To be honest, I have never known anything quite like it. 

I've belonged to a number of wonderful, lovely churches over the years.  I've loved serving my community through Christian fellowship.  I've enjoyed serving on boards, teaching Sunday School, reading, ushering, representing the congregation on interfaith councils, weeding the flower beds, and painting the nursery.  I've loved church work. I still do. 

But this is different.  And it goes against everything I've always thought about church membership.  My model had always been one of standing back to back with others who care about the community at large, and looking outward in service. I've never, ever, thought I wanted, or needed, to be part of a congregation that looked around the room at eachother.  For me, church services were for the visitor, testimonies of healing and inspiration shared at mid-week meetings were held for the purpose of introducing newcomers to the power of practical spirituality.  We were all there to serve the stranger, the wanderer, the fallen...not eachother.  

But that was before I tripped, and fell...and landed hard. 

The church I'd been attending at the time was a lovely place with many kind, amazing people.  But I felt embarrassed, and in the context of that familiar setting I was very aware that I'd outgrown my paradigm. I was not the same person who'd been so self-certain about what she believed.  The church I started attending in my new neighborhood, was cavernous, and although the ushers were warm and polite, I often wept silently through the deeply moving readings, and left with red eyes and a swollen face. I didn't know how to bridge their respectful distance, and since no one approached me, I made no real connections. I knew it was because they were trying to respect my privacy, but I needed something different and I didn't even know what it was. I was starting to feel like a church failure. Shouldn't I be able to feel "at home" anywhere?

At a recent meeting, a friend shared a thought-provoking view of church. She offered that different church congregations are not actually separate church entities, but rather more akin to different committees within a larger spiritual community.  And that we are drawn to the committee, and the committee-work, that best fits us...our needs, our gifts, and our desire to serve.  But that, in actuality, there is really just one church.  In retrospect, I could see that during that time, I just hadn't found my "committee"...yet.

I didn't need politeness, I needed someone to take me by the shoulders, look me in the eyes, pull me in, hug me hard and long....and then hand me an apron and show me the way to the kitchen and a large sink full of dishes needing to be washed, dried and put away. In all of my church wanderings I had felt welcomed and cared for, but not "at home." I was looking for the kind of mothering I had grown up with...from my church. Even though I didn't recognize it at the time.

Then one Sunday in the midst of my church" homelessness." I found myself sitting on a folding chair in the main room of a small urban storefront, and I knew it was over, I was home.  Yes, I knew some of the people who were in attendance, and in fact,  I a few of them quite well.  But that wasn't why I'd come that day.  I'd come with an ache for something I couldn't even describe.  And right away I felt like Alice coming back through the looking glass...everything made sense again.

Somehow I knew that within the space of this church family, where there weren't any expectations about who I was...or had been, I could find a new way of thinking about church. One that was, for me, felt "practically perfect in every way."  In the embrace of this wonderfully colorful, and creative, congregation I, still, feel only a willingness to "receive" visitors and members alike, as fellow searchers, hungry for whatever would feed our "soul"...be it song, sermon, or science.  And that Sunday, I immediately felt as if evey heart "had prepared Him room." They were ready to welcome the Christ in anyone who walked through the door.  In their company, I felt the space to be new. A fresh, healing breeze blew through their hearts, and it swept me up in its wake, clearing away all the cobwebs that had gathered in the corners of my own sorrow-filled closet, setting me free to breathe, and smile, and serve...again.

Yes, our Society, like so many other churches,  is committed to serving the larger community, and I am just so grateful that it is never at the expense of caring for one another...or vice versa.  There is a lovely balance between fellowship and community service, and the devotion to maintaining that delicate balance, fills my heart with humble gratitude and joy. 

Our little church is a wonderful, funny space filled with guitars and recorders, folksingers, dogs, babies, hot chocolates, couches, folding chairs, and buckets of red and black licorice. We are regularly referred to as the "hippie church" and I feel as giddy and happy as a child everytime I hear it.  It is perfect for me.  Just like Goldilocks and the "just right" bowl of porridge. I love that I have never once thought about what I am wearing, whether my hair is brushed, or if I even have shoes on when I head off to church.  All I can think about is how close to God, my fellow worshippers, our community, and the world, I feel each time I walk through our doors.

I see Susan, Sue, Carey, Suzette, Cynthia, Richard, Ian, Gail, Dee, Charlotte, Kathi, Sara, Sally, Kristin, Phil, Christie, Gale, Jeff, Carol, Elizabeth, Dinah, Emily, Gretchen, Larry, Shari, Ryan, Preston, Ken, Yvonne, Fabienne, Jim, Cooper, David, SueEllen, Penny, Winsome...and the rest of the family, and I know I am "received" unconditionally.   With them I know with absolute certainty that my mistakes are not as important as my desire for redemption and grace, I never feel judged or measured, there are no hierarchies or jockeying for position,  and our traditions have more to do with cookies than rules.

It is in this home, in this family, in this church that I have learned so much about the meaning of redemption, forgiveness, grace, and sanctuary. 

It Is here that I have felt the "power of the Word" moving through the congregation like a warm river dissolving the past...hardness is healed, hearts are softened, lives are transformed, and sorrow is lifted...right before our eyes...with the gentle touch of the Christ.  Kindness does that.

I love my church home.  I love my church family.  I feel so honored and blessed to live, and work, and play, and sing among them. 

Thank you for preparing room in your hearts, and receiving us into your fold...I love you all,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit: Ashley Bay 2009]

"The heart of the matter...forgiveness"

"I've been trying to get down
To the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thought seem to scatter
But I think its about forgiveness
Forgiveness..
Even if, even if..."
- Don Henley

Last night at church a number of people shared their thoughts about forgiveness. This is a subject that resonates very deeply with me. It's something I have wrestled with, extended, held back, felt, and longed for throughout my life. It is also a subject that I hunger to better understand. It seems so critical to healing. It has much deeper significance than just letting go of the past and its hurts...self-imposed or at the hand of others. Real forgiveness reaches beneath the surface of "who did what to whom and who deserves to be forgiven" to a place of self-surrender that isn't as easy as it sounds...or should be.

I could hardly get through last night's service without dropping my head in my hands and weeping. As I sat there barely moving with my eyes closed and hands folded....any movement would have dislodged the tears...I thought my sadness was about all the ways in which I longed to be forgiven for mistakes, mis-steps, thoughtlessness or fear-based decisions I held myself responsible for. As soon as the last note of the last hymn had been sung, I slipped out of my seat and through the door of our urban storefront gathering place rushing to my Jeep before the huge tears that had been pooling just behind closed lids began to fall. Once behind the wheel in my steel "closet" I let go and drove through a veil of tears on cloudless Spring night. As I prayed for some clarity about what I was feeling, I suddenly realized I wasn't actually hoping for forgiveness from someone...anyone...really. I was longing for a way to forgive myself.

I suddenly saw that no one holds us more accountable for past mistakes and hurts than we hold ourselves. If we have injured someone else we can say we are sorry and hope that they accept those genuine apologies, but we will never really know what is happening in their heart...that's God's province and it is a very private matter between the Father and His child. The real work for us is in forgiving ourselves.

A number of years ago I couldn't seem to function because I felt so wounded by someone else's choices. I was caught in a labyrinth of blame, anger, and hurt. I was a wounded creature limping through a maze of self-certainty that, "I didn't deserve what had been done to me" at the same time I held a vise-like grip on my right to withhold or bestow forgiveness. I couldn't put my hurt down and therefore didn't have the freedom to grasp what would lead me out of my own prison...all the while licking my wounds and snarling at everyone who approached trying to help. I finally got hungry enough to stop and beg for food. A friend tossed me a bone. She asked a simple question, "What did Jesus have to say about forgiveness from the cross?"

Well, I knew this story really, really well. It came out of my mouth without thinking, but on it's way out it must have passed through that cold region of my heart and started the sudden thaw that commenced. "Father, forgive them..." That was all I needed. By the third word I got it. Jesus didn't say "Father help me forgive them," or "Father what did I do wrong that I let them down as a Messiah and now I'm here...did I not pray enough or use the right words...please help them forgive me." No. He put the act of forgiveness where it belongs, between the individual and the Father.

In all actuality this is the only place it really can be accomplished. Any wrong done to another, or by another, needs to be seen for what it is, a fear that God is absent. What ensues is a reaction to that fear. When we steal, lie, cheat, say mean things, spread gossip or slander, judge another or show disrespect we are just afraid that God is not present to care for our needs, acknowledge our goodness, right a wrong, correct a mistake, or dispense justice. The offense may feel like it is directed at a person...often at us, or more sadly, by us...but it is really a statement about how we view God and whether we trust His government and care in our own lives and in the lives of others. When we realize this we can put the forgiving where it belongs...in His court of Fatherly love and wisdom. As an expression of genuine humility we can always apologize for our mistakes made, and as an expression of meekness, we can accept another's apologies as a gift of grace. But the real act of soul-penetrating forgiveness happens in the secret sanctuary of the heart...that place that is occupied only by the Father and his child.

But what, you may ask, about that hunger for self-forgiveness that made me weep alligator tears. Well, I am trusting that my Father knows my heart and I am putting even that desire for self-forgiveness completely in His hands. My job is to love and serve Him through my love towards, and service to, others...every second of every day. Moments spent is self-flagellating guilt, remorse and regret are not a good use of the resources He has entrusted me with...intelligence, affection, faith, hope, compassion, grace, kindness and joy. Guilt, remorse, self-hatred and regret will never "feed the hungry, heal the heart." They do nothing to honor His presence in my life and they are a waste of His generous gifts of Love.

The Lord's Prayer says, "Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors." This statement took on new meaning for me last night. As I drove past the park, filled with children playing, redbuds in bloom, dogs running and disporting themselves on suspecting couples walking hand in hand, and the early blossoming of daffodils, magnolia and tulips, I realized that I wasn't applying the same approach to my own need for self-forgiveness that had become quite natural to me in thinking of others. I wasn't saying within my heart...about my own deeply regretted mistakes..."Father, forgive her..." and leaving it all in His care. Leaving it between a Father and His beloved daughter. Trusting Him to watch over her heart, her future choices, her words and her works with a Father's devoted attention and love.

His grateful daughter,
Kate