What Kind of Stranger Are You?

"What kind of stranger are you?"

The small black girl paused in her climb up the playground equipment and asked me that question. She was speeding around the playground with my white daughter and another little black girl. The three preschool age girls united in laughter, daredevilry, and energy were challenging each other to scrambling up, over, and under everything in sight. 

I tried to be inconspicuous as a spotter as they climbed on the equipment, trying to eye all of them equally for potential falls. Halfway through scaling the wooden framework, one of the little girls turned and looked at me. 

"Is that your daughter?"

"Yes."

"Can we play with her?"

"Sure!"

"Are you a stranger?"

"Um, yes, I am a stranger to you, but not to her." 

"What kind of stranger are you?"

I froze for a moment, cutting my eyes away from hers. For a kindergarten aged black girl in Anchorage, Alaska, what kind of stranger am I? What kind of stranger am I to her mom or dad, her older brother, her next door neighbor, her teachers, her cousin, her pastor or community leader? 

"Well," I said carefully. "I am the kind of stranger who you can ask for help if you are hurt or lost or scared. But you should not go anywhere with me or take anything from me. I am the kind of stranger who will be kind to you, but I still want you to know that not all strangers are the same." 

There's no way to explain to any child that strangers are not always the danger. That sometimes the danger is in your house or your school or the people in positions to protect you. I didn't say that I am a stranger who has fought for things for all Alaskans- like Medicaid expansion, more Medicare doctors, community policing, and more detox beds in the Anchorage Bowl. I didn't tell her that I'm the kind of stranger who wrestles with privilege and frustration and anger. I didn't tell her that I'm the kind of stranger who has a #BlackLivesMatter pin stuck into my bright pink pussy hat and I mean both symbols wholeheartedly. 

As far as she knows, I'm the kind of stranger who watches out for all the kids on the playground. I'm the kind of stranger who will push her on the swing. I'm the kind of stranger whose daughter will refer to other girls whose names she does not know as "my sister". (I don't actually know why she does this, but V told me once that all girls are her sisters. I didn't argue.) I'm the kind of stranger who will pretend to be a tickle monster under the slide, but will only tickle hands and arms of children to whom I am not related. I am the kind of stranger who will offer a bandaid for a scrape, but not a snack because I don't want children I don't know to be in the habit of taking food from people they don't know outside of an organized setting or a grownup's permission. 

I'm the kind of stranger who is not close to being perfect or even that good, but I'm strange enough to keep persisting in being better. 

What kind of stranger are you? 

Psalm 131: Thoughts

Psalm 131 was one of the selected readings for tonight's evening prayer.

The New Revised Standard Version reads:

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high.I do not occupy myself with thingstoo great and too marvelous for me.But I have calmed and quieted my soul like a weaned child with its mothermy soul is like the weaned child that is with me.
O Israel, hope in the Lordfrom this time on and forevermore.

 There are beautiful images here. I feel subsumed in the image of "like a weaned child with its mother". When I hold my children in my lap, they are cradled against the breast that once fed them. They hear a heart beat that they knew in the womb, heard in the their first weeks, that beat near their ear as they fed, and that lulled them to sleep again and again.

Though my youngest has been weaned for over a year, she still comes to my lap for stillness, for consolation, for a little rebirth. Leaning against my breast again is coming back to the fount that gave order and life to each of them for so long. It is the place to regroup, recharge, re-covenant with the love that gives them the strength to go out again, try new things, fail or succeed.

Even for adopted or bottle-fed children, the metaphor holds for the lap as the place of comfort.
It holds for the heartbeat within a familiar chest as a re-orienting rhythm.

What an image for us to consider in our relationship with our Creator. That we have a place of peace to snuggle into, to be cradled, to be re-acquainted with our most primordial selves.

When we are at peace in closeness with what Is, Was, and Ever Shall Be, we are like a beloved child, held and comforted, for whom all is right with the world.

Thankful

No words necessary. 

To My Kindergartner

Twenty-eight years ago, my dad gave me a bath the night before I started kindergarten. I remember two baths from my dad really clearly from hundreds that he likely gave.

The first bath I remember is one in which he tried to scrub off a mole cluster on my left arm thinking was dirt. It’s still there.

The second bath was the pre-kindergarten bath. My dad told me that there might be kids in my class who looked different from me. He might have said more about that, but I don’t remember it. Then he said that there might be other people, other kids, who would say things to be mean about people who looked or seemed different. Not only was I not to join into that meanness, my father warned, but I was to stick up for kids who were singled out or picked on. If my dad heard about me doing otherwise, it would be big trouble for me.

I remember this conversation clearly because part of my personality involves playing and re-playing shoulds and should nots over and over in my head.

My own child is about to become a kindergartner. I went to kindergarten in North Carolina, in the mid-eighties, and my kindergarten teacher was black.

My son is going to kindergarten in Anchorage, Alaska in 2014. He is entering school a long way from Ferguson, Missouri and Sanford, Florida. His preschool class had children from a wide variety of backgrounds. Nevertheless, what should I say to my kindergartner-to-be on the night before school starts? What do I tell him in the wake of the Michael Brown shooting? What do I tell my white son, with two white parents, about his situation, his privileges, his responsibilities?

My darling-

You have been able to drink juice in the store, eat cookies, get balloons, and hold your toys without anyone looking askance at you or me. It’s because we’re white.

We have played on playgrounds in different neighborhoods, run through the woods, tried before paying, and been given the benefit of the doubt. It’s mostly because we’re white.

We have books with people who look like us, movies of people who sound like us, pictures of things that we do, CDs of songs we sing- none of which were hard to find. It’s because we’re white.

In the world, you will get second chances, encouragement, recommendations, and help. Even if you are shut down, something else will come about for you. It’s part of what it means to be white in America.

My darling, it is not that I don’t want these things for you. I do and I will fight for this to be your world.

I’m tell you this because I want these things for your friends too. I want these for black and Samoan and Alaska Native boys and girls who will attend school with you. I want these things for children in Missouri and Florida and Texas and California and across the country.

I want you to all have the freedom to be children, to know that community is there for you, to grow up knowing that you too contribute, are valued, matter, influence decisions for peace, safety, and a future.

In kindergarten, just like in preschool, there will be kids who don’t look like you. You won’t look like them. Their moms and dads think they are special, just like I think you are special. You are all at school to learn.

If another person- a kid or a grown-up- is not kind to a kid, if you see something that isn’t right, is scary, or unkind- you can tell me or Daddy or Nana or Uncle D. We will help you. We will believe you. We care about you and your friends.

The bigger we get, the more we learn about other people and other places. The bigger we get, the more we have to do to work together with other people. The bigger we get, the more we realize that we have run out of people to tell and the work of repairing injustice, unkindness, fear is in our hands.

That’s not your work just yet.

But that’s Mommy’s work. My work.

No, it’s not because I’m white. It’s because I’m human.

Inspired by T. Denise Anderson: http://soulascriptura.com/2014/08/watching-our-step-a-blues-for-michael-brown/

Ask Away

Today I knew about a barbecue within my circle of friends. A couple people mentioned it to me yesterday (Thursday).

My Fourth of July plans, as of this morning- July 4, consisted of playing with my kids and waiting for my husband to return from a two day hike. I wanted to celebrate and be with other people, but I didn't want to put anyone out or show up where I (or my kids) wasn't (weren't) wanted.

So... to call or not to call and ask about the party.

Even with all the ways we have to contact one another these days, I am surprised how often people seem unwilling to ask other people for help. I know several people in the congregation who don't want to ask others for assistance during difficult times because they don't want to "put anybody out".

I recently had a conversation with a woman regarding a basic situation of church grounds maintenance (weeding) that she believed needed to be done, but was a bit beyond her. "Why don't you call a few people and ask them if they can help out?" I suggested.

"I shouldn't have to ask. They should volunteer. What's the world coming to when people have to be asked to help out?" This was her response. The tone in person was about how it reads in print.

It's funny. God certainly knows all our thoughts, our desires, our fears, our joys, and our longings. If there is Anyone who does not need asking to know about a situation, it is God. Yet, Jesus reminds us that we are indeed supposed to ask for what we need and desires (Matthew 7:7)

Do we obey this? Do we ask God for what we want? Do we bargain like Abraham, grieve like Samuel, and dance like David before the Lord? Do we weep like Hagar, listen like Deborah, and rejoice like Mary?

Do we ask?

What do we expect to get from God, much less anyone else, if we don't ask?

Asking, in the end, isn't even necessarily about wish fulfillment, but about communication in relationship. Meeting the needs of others- the mutuality of hope and shared experience- is how we come to understand what it means to be human. From that, we come to a better knowledge of why and how God was as one of us in Jesus.

Ask- even Jesus asked the Father for what he needed, wanted, and even wished for.

I texted the hostess around 10 am and asked if it would be okay if I came to the barbecue, allowing that it was totally okay if she already had a full list or it just wasn't a good fit this time.

She texted back, apologizing, because she thought we had already received an invite and just weren't coming. She requested that we bring dessert and I revamped our plans for the day to get the kids to take a nap and to have time to make some brownies.

She could have said no. I could have stayed home and wished we had a place to celebrate our country's independence and groused about no invitations.

But I decided to embrace my humanity and ask.

In 10 Years...

The prompt asks: What do you think you'll be doing in 10 years?

I have no idea. 

God willing, my husband and I will be celebrating 18 years of marriage. And these two squirts will be 11 and 14 (yikes!) 

Everything else will be a surprise. I ask God to help me see the surprises as revelations and blessings. Even eventually will work. 

Open Letter to My Kids for Mother's Day

My darling children-

I love you so much. With each of you, I remember learning that I was carrying you and immediately talking to you and praying for you. That's what Momma does still does for and with you!

I was recently on a trip to NC to help some other members of our family. I missed you both terribly while I was gone. D, I got to talk to you on the phone, but, V, you're still a little small for phone conversations. This was the longest I've been away from you. I looked at pictures of you both all the time.

When people would ask about my children, I would speak of you with obvious love in my voice. People would comment on how much I must miss you. I would confirm that I did. I want you to know how much I love you, every day, no matter what. I'll never not be your Momma. I will always do my very best by you and I ask in advance for your forgiveness when it turns out that my best isn't the best for you.

Because I love you so much, I want you to know the truth. You're not the center of my world. Besides the fact that role is filled by God, my central human relationship is with the person you know as Daddy. Our family is Momma, Daddy, D, and V. In our house, we also live with our dog, Ivan, and your uncle/my brother Uncle DD. So there are a lot of connections. 

My relationship with Daddy precedes my relationship with either of you. Daddy and I have been through a lot of hard things together. He has listened to me talk out some very painful things that have happened to me. I have waited while he worked out frustrating things in the garage on his projects. We have not always understood each other, but we have tried to support one another. 

I think you need to know that it isn't that I love Daddy more than you. I love Daddy different than you. We're not best friends or even soul mates. We have made a commitment to living together, to loving each other, and to helping one another to live in the world and not go crazy. It's not always easy. The only way we can keep those promises to each other is by making each other first. Our relationship- its solidity and solidarity- is what makes your lives good. (Surprise! It's not toys, books, or chicken nuggets.) 

There are all kinds of potential questions you might have about this revelation. Would I choose if I had to? Absolutely. If I needed to, I would do whatever was necessary to keep you safe. Your well-being is my priority in any emergency. However, part of the way I look after that for you, day to day, is by spending time with Daddy, making sure we communicate, solving some of our problems, and letting him know how much I love him. 

So, on Mother's Day, I want you to know that I love you so, so much. I miss you when we're not together. I'm always thinking of fun things we might do or try. I want you to grow up- strong, secure, and spiritually maturing- knowing that you are loved and beloved. I also want you to know, in the midst of all that, in the kisses and the hugs, in the wrestling and the hide-and-seek, in the family bed mornings and the long nights to get you to sleep alone… I need you to know how much I love Daddy. Our relationship, our love and life together, makes your happy life possible. It's that important. 

Happy Mother's Day, pumpkins. 

 Love,

Momma

Maundy Thursday: Subversive Prayer

       When we were looking for covers for this bulletin, we found many different pictures of communion ware and elements for celebrating the Lord’s Supper. We found arrangements bowls, pitchers, and towels for washing feet. And then there were these two pictures- the new commandment, the commandment to love one another- distinctly printed over two different families- one black, one white, same poses.

            I felt a little surprised. First of all, Jesus is speaking to the assembled disciples. The commandment is, then, transferred from those who heard the words themselves to all who walk the same walk of trust and hope in Jesus. While it certainly applies within a small family context, the call to love one another is far more expansive than that. Rather than show the expansive nature of the call to love with an image of all kinds of people together, this images mask the challenge and subversive nature of what Jesus is commanding of all who follow him. Yes, commanding- not asking- commanding.

            Subversive. I think we are so used to what we do, to this story, to the person of Jesus, to being church people that we have forgotten the subversive nature of our faith. It has slipped our mind that we just heard a story about a nearly naked Jesus washing feet- something a free man would never do for other free men. We no longer think about Holy Communion as bites of food that bring us into communion with God, with one another, and with all those who have gone before us. We have forgotten the enmity that existed between our denominations that kept us from worshipping together for generations.

            We are called specifically to a subversive kind of life. We are commanded into a subversive kind of life- a life of radical service, of intense forgiveness, of praying with our hands, feet, dollars, and words. All of those things are what we hear in tonight’s gospel, a story that calls into a life of prayer. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, a rabbi active in many of the freedom efforts of the 20^th century, wote, “Prayer is meaningless, unless it is subversive, unless it seeks to overthrow and to ruin the pyramids of callousness, hatred, opportunism and falsehood.”

            Prayer is meaningless, unless it is subversive. What does this mean? To be subversive means to seek to undercut an established system, to overthrow rules and institutions, to ransack expectations. For ourselves, we are called to subversion for the sake of Jesus in the world. We are called to subvert systems that allow money and the monied to control resources. We are called to stand against structures that penalize the poor and those who are struggling. We are empowered to speak loudly against powers and principalities that declare power through war, oppression, and destruction of natural resources.

            If we are not doing these things, we are not praying as deeply as we might. If we are not praying, we are not trusting. If we do not trust, then what makes up our faith?

            We have reached a stage where anything beyond what we “usually do” feels like a big deal. This evening should not be a shock to us. It shouldn’t happen just once a year. Of all the congregations here, we could easily merge together and create, perhaps, three good-sized congregations across Anchorage. We could, by our actions, declare that praying together in word and deed is more important than our own buildings, our own denominations, and our own tightly held fundamentals about worship. (Says me!) That would be subversive!

            We could organize a photo campaign, a letter and email write-in, and a Youtube video that says the commandment to love one another goes beyond our families, beyond people we who know, beyond people who look like us, beyond people we even like. We could tell our neighbors that we are not okay with slandering gays and lesbians. We could tell our friends that we don’t want to hear racist jokes. We could tell our adjudicatories and our national bodies that it is time, once again, to make a clear statement against Anti-Semitism. That would be subversive.

            In the first Passover, the Hebrew people- enslaved though they were- knew that God was subverting the power of the Pharaoh. Hurrying through their lamb dinner, carrying their unleavened flour on their backs, they believed they were overturning the pyramids of callousness, hatred, opportunism and falsehood that their years of slavery had built. What could have been a journey that killed them, destroyed their faith, or might have ended their covenant with God instead became a foundational story of their self-understanding- people who can withstand anything with God’s help! Talk about subversive.

            On this night, of all nights, we cannot, we must not, we will not forget that our faith is a radical gift. It gives us an identity beyond our families, beyond Alaska, beyond our country. It associates us with the community of believers across the world and across time. Eating, washing, and praying together- we do these things because they have been commanded and because, with God’s help, they change the world. And in this subversion, in this life of active prayer together, God also changes us.

Amen.  

Low in the Grave

This song makes me think of my dad, who would make us sing the first verse softly and then JUMP up during the chorus.

His own experience with the song is this: Dr. Jim Blackmore, one of my seminary professors. He was from very humble beginnings in Warsaw, NC. He had been to Southern [Seminary] and was at Edinburgh, Scotland when WWII started. At least the US involvement. He joined the service there as a chaplin and was not required to go to basic training. He served through the war and finished his Doctorate at Edinburgh after the war. 

He was a small man, no more than 5'6". He told us the story of  singing this song with his brother when they were about 8 or 10 years old. They would squat with arms stretched in front of them, then at the "Up" they would jump up and stand with arms out stretched to the side. What a riot to see him demonstrate for the class when he was in his 70s.

I introduced this song to the congregation I serve a few years ago. We crouch low in the verses and JUMP during the chorus- everyone who physically can, does. 

There are, then, people who will associate memories of this song with me. 

I think of my dad. 

He thinks of Dr. Blackmore, who would think of his brother. 

They, presumably, learned the song from someone else. 

And so goes the communion and community of Christ, connected in song and body through time.

Beyond the history of this song, someone always thinks of the person who revealed the love of God in Christ to them. 

All the way back it goes until the rhythm  of the song is the pounding feet of Mary Magdalene and others- running to say, "We have seen the Lord!" 

Perspective: Raising or Experience

NaBloPoMo Prompt for 2/18: What has had more influence on your life perspective: your upbringing or your experiences?

At this point in my life, my experiences have had a greater influence than my upbringing. The testing, tempering, and trial of what my parents imparted has been transmuted into something different in me. 

Still, it must be said that my upbringing has likely shaped some or many of the experiences of my life. 

My parents both went West at some point. So did I. 

My parents pursued things unexpected. So did I. 

There are many things like this in my life. 

Two years ago, I was at a preaching conference where one of the speakers was explaining the concept of Midrash- a way of filling gaps through imagination and prayer to extend a biblical story. He spoke about how Midrash would be a new concept to the congregations we serve. Additionally, we needed, as clergy, to learn to wrestle with Scripture in the deep way. "It's okay to be frustrated with God," he said. 

I turned to my friend at a break and said, "What actually frustrates me here is that I already know this. If I learned anything from my parents, it is this: faith is hard, horrible, hefty work. You will definitely limp away. But, by God, you will be blessed. 

Blessings may not always look like what you want. Or what you hope for. Limping is not fun. It is never about being happy. But there is joy unparalleled in exploring beyond the words, beyond the pat answers, beyond the Sunday morning. 

In the wrestling, in the singing, in the tears, in the silence, in the communion, in the isolation, you will hear whispered the words of eternal life. Because they do not exist anywhere else."

This was the Midrash of my parents- the perspective that I left there house with- in my head and my heart. 

There are many things they taught that I decided to unlearn and some that I forgot. But Midrash, the story of faith that is beyond words, that is my experience of God. And I only know it because my parents brought me up to recognize it. 

Perspective: Reaping from Someone Else's Harvest

Today is the 125^th anniversary of my great-grandfather’s birth. Daniel Dunlap was my paternal grandfather’s father. My dad’s grandpa. He died well before I was born, so I did not know him, but I

have heard many stories.

For the past week, my dad and some of his cousins have been sharing memories of Grandpa Dunlap. He was a remarkable individual and well-known in the community for supporting education, for being a generous neighbor, and for his ability to repair just about anything with whatever he had at hand. His wife, Norabelle, was an equally remarkable woman.

Growing up in Moore County, North Carolina, I was used to my dad and my grandfather explaining to me who was who and how they were related to us. Since my last name was Dunlap, I understood that Dunlaps were my people. When people spoke about Dunlaps, they meant me, too.

My people also included Barbers and Needhams. When I went to Scotland in 2005, I never had to spell my last name.

My mother’s people included the Moritts and the Felmans (and variations thereupon).

Now that I’m married, I represent the Seymours (and, on occasion, the Riggles).

All of these are names that came to me. What they mean, represent, stand for in communities is the work of people who came before me. They’re my people. I’m their people.

As I read the stories of Daniel Dunlap and his impact on the community around him, I think of this verse: [Jesus said:] “For here the saying holds true, ‘One sows and another reaps.' I sent you to reap that for which you did not labor. Others have labored, and you have entered into their labor." (John 4:37-38)

I did not work for what these names mean when people hear them, but I have benefited from that work. I have reaped a good harvest from Daniel and Norabelle and so many others.

Thus, I know that is my work to continue to sow so that my children and grandchildren and nieces and nephews will be able to enjoy the harvest. I work as a Seymour, a Dunlap, a Barber, a Moritt, a Felman.

I work as a Lutheran (ELCA), a former Southern Baptist, an Alaskan, a child of the modern South.

I sow as a graduate of Union Pines High School, Sandhills Community College, Meredith College, Yale Divinity School.

My work reflects on Father Hank Franklin, Pastor John Stone, Pastor David Helms, Dr. Sarah Lemmon, Rev. Beverly Alexander, Pastor Royall Yount, Pastor Larry Holmes, and on and on.

I did not build the name I inherited. It is by the graciousness that preceded me that I enjoy such a bountiful harvest. And I ask for the grace to continue to sow to allow for a harvest beyond me.

I Miss You

Tonight I was reflecting on the prophet Samuel at the beginning of 1 Samuel 16. God asks Samuel how long he intends to grieve for Saul. If you only pick up in the middle of Samuel, it's easy to forget that Saul is still alive at this point. He's just departed so greatly from God's vision (and Samuel's) for him, that God is asking Samuel to get out his anointing kit and go get another king for Israel.

Grieving someone who is still living is hard and painful.

In this Lenten season, I told myself I wanted to focus on forgiveness with regard to a specific situation in my life. In 2009, I had a couple very traumatic life events and someone to whom I was very close abruptly left my life without explanation or goodbye. I haven't heard from or seen this person since.

I've been picking at the scab over this emotional wound. Playing over the events in my mind, wondering what I could have changed, what I should have anticipated, what was my fault, what wasn't.

This wasn't an acquaintance. This was a very, very close friend. Someone with whom I had laughed, made plans, traveled, stayed up late, had adventures, trusted with secrets. This person was the only non-medical person present with me at the birth of my son and the first non-medical person to hold him. Five days later, the person left my life... apparently forever.

How long should I grieve this friendship, this bond, the plans that will never come to fruition? Do I cut off the branch, believing it will never bear fruit again?

This grief is complicated by additional longing for other people. Additional grieving of living persons. Following a significant church decision last year, several people left our congregation. While I support the decision, I cannot deny that the loss of the members has grieved me. Deeply.

It's not the lower numbers or giving. I miss the laughter that used to echo the halls, the hands that were always there to set up table, the loud amen that let me know a sermon point had hit home.

We still talk about the people who have left. Airing their stories. Pushing their names out of our mouths and remembering the life we shared together. And I don't think I am the only one who grieves, who misses friends and neighbors.

When people die, we may well struggle to make our peace with them and with death. The grieving goes on beyond what we expect and, often, beyond what we imagined we could handle. When we are grieving the living, it's hard to know what to say or how to frame our feelings.

I once heard it said, regarding grief, that your need to discuss it goes on beyond other people's ability to listen to it.

I've found that to be very true.

I think of Samuel, pouring oil over young David's head at God's command. As his hands performed the task, I think his mind probably went back to the last time he'd done the very same thing. He thought of Saul and there was the familiar accompanying twinge.

I miss you.