Put a Holy Spirit on it!

Sermon for the Baptism of Jesus: January 13, 2012

Lectionary Readings

Jesus is baptized.

Jesus is baptized, and while we might wonder how or why or, in the Gospel of Luke, even, by whom—Jesus goes for baptism, and his ministry begins. Here, he begins with the Holy Spirit, marking him God’s own beloved child and sending him into the world.  In that moment of prayer, everything changes.

When Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

This week  I saw a short clip from the show “Portlandia.” It’s a sketch comedy about Portland, Oregon—it takes the earnest cool and political correctness of Cambridge and turns it up by 100.  “Lisa” and “Bryce” go to a fancy but ho-hum boutique full of cute things. But it’s not cute enough. They bring all their crafting gear to cover everything with birds…cute birds. Tote bags and greeting cards and pillows and candles, everything in the store gets slapped with a bird to bring it to the next level of “cute.” They craft and craft and craft, until the store owner proudly opens the door to let everyone in and  an actual bird comes in.  Everyone ducks and tries to swat it away. Bryce screams, I’M ALLERGIC! Lisa and the shop owner fight over a lamp—presumably the better to whack the bird with. 

 Watch the video here

A lot is lost in my translation, but the point is that “Lisa and Bryce” have no interest in actual birds; it’s an image they’ve created in their minds of saccharine domesticity, a little like the blue eyed Jesus holding lambs and children all at the same time.  It’s compelling, but it’s not real.

But the Spirit alights on a Messiah who will be a very real savior, one who hangs out with prostitutes and scheming tax collectors.  Jesus shows us the Spirit—holiness, awe, and wonder, and justice and truth.  And again and again we try to swat him away and wish it were less embarrassing.  We tend to want something a bit more domestic, not an actual living and breathing savior who comes to sweep away all of our preconceptions and limitations. Scripture is full of these stories. 

Herod, sending John to prison, wanted something more domestic. All that truth and integrity he thought he wanted went too far. This is not what he expected. This is a different kind of savior.   

The women who go to tell the other disciples that Jesus has been raised don’t want to hear it, consumed with their own sorrow. This is not what they expected. This is a different kind of savior.

Hearing Jesus preach for the first time, his community is first fascinated, and then horrified and then literally runs him out of town. This was not what they expected. This is a different kind of savior.

My Son, my beloved.

This is a different bird—this is a different way of being with God, altogether.  This starts with how much God loves us; not who your father was, or how much you can afford to give or whom you are superior to. Then, as now, we need to be reminded that this is a God who blows through all our preconceived notions. Things get complicated. It’s not as tidy as we thought.  We get allergic, too.

Like the crafters in Portlandia encountering a real bird, like the people of Nazareth wanting nothing to do with their hometown prophet, we also have certain expectations. But the Spirit goes where she will and inspires those she will inspire. Even in our allergic anxiety, the Spirit gets through.

In seminary, I had friends who became priests later in life, giving up successful and constructive careers. Yes, God said to them, you make a great teacher, but now I need you to teach in a different way. Yes, you’re a terrific lawyer, but I want you to convince people of something new. Yes, you are a great accountant, but now I need you to stop counting.

I’ve heard your stories about stewardship, about how you felt called into giving new gifts, how you rearranged your commitments to offer absolutely everything you can to the church, first, rather than whatever is left over.  

Jeanne Manford with her son at NYC Pride 1972

This week, I heard the moving story of Jeanne Manford, who died this week at the age of 92.  An ordinary Queens elementary school teacher, she sprung to action in 1972 when her gay son was beaten and the police stood by and watched.  Her whole life was rearranged at age 50, when she couldn’t be silent anymore. “I have a gay son and I love him,” she wrote to the New York Post. A few months later she marched in a Pride parade carrying a sign that said, “Parents unite in support of our gay children” and a worldwide movement was born. No one had spoken out like that. Out of the Spirit empowering her to speak the truth, family after family would no longer be divided by hatred.  In her life, the Holy Spirit came to her as a call to action. In the life of the world, the Spirit came as a mother’s love.   

The Spirit is not the domesticated parakeet who politely comes to sit on our fingers. She may be a dove, but I also imagine her as a heron, swooping in over enormous wings and enfolding us in love, then pushing us out to do share that love in the streets. Giving us voices to speak.  She knocks things over and delights in watching us put the pieces back together, reveling in our ingenuity and creativity and weeping with us at our frustration.

The people were “questioning in their hearts,” whether John was the Messiah. This moment may have settled for them that it was Jesus, not John, but the questions about what this really meant for them wouldn’t have stopped. What Jesus wanted for them to do in their lives, where that Spirit would bring them into the world, filled with that same love.  We may take our whole lives to figure out what it means. We may take our whole lives to allow our hardened outer shells to be softened by that love.  But it starts here, with baptism.  For Jesus as well as for us.  I want to share the prayer we offer for the newly baptized, but I share it now for all of us.

 Let us pray.

Heavenly Father, we thank you that by water and the Holy Spirit you have bestowed upon us your servants the forgiveness of sin, and have raised us to the new life of grace. Sustain us, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give us an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works. Amen.

The finished piece

Re Entry: Becoming a (more) tattooed lady

In all the literature about sabbaticals, there is a good deal of angst spilled around the dreaded Re-Entry—coming back to work with all the same problems and all the same personalities. You feel that you’ve traveled so far, and here you are, back where you started. Surprise! You’re the same person! And treacherous icicles still hang down from the gutters. “Re-Entry” after international travel is another category as well, so I get two.

Still, the point of pilgrimage is to come to see the place you started from for the first time, as the TS Eliot poem goes. You are you, but you can see better. And I’ve been entering the water pretty slowly, with one Sunday visit the day I left for Africa, then back to the office for a week to do the pageant, Advent 4, and Christmas Eve, and then on to family vacation for a week before coming back to a one-day workweek before Sunday (clergy weekend being Friday-Saturday).

So I was back working—really working—for not very many hours before trekking over a week ago to Watertown, for a long-planned tattoo appointment.  I have four other tattoos, mostly simple line drawings—a tree, a tiny snake, a female symbol, and a labyrinth (my most recent one, gotten 8 years ago for my priesthood ordination). I had thought I was finished with that one, but after my kids were born, I still wanted another, and they seemed like a good excuse.

I started thinking of having their names—both Hebrew—incorporated into some kind of design. And maybe some flowers. And I don’t remember when it occurred to me to desire a swallow tattoo—and suddenly it started to get pretty big. Swallows are an old sailor image, when (Wikipedia tells us) they’d get a swallow for each 5000 nautical miles of travel.  My only claim to sailing is that I tend not to get seasick, but I do like birds an awful lot. There’s something compelling about how they manage to be wild but also have a certain domesticity about them. 

Still, names and birds—doesn’t a suburban mom with sailor tattoos kind of scream “desperately aging hipster?” Sure.  But swallows of all kinds are also everywhere—canoeing down the Mystic River to the Boston Harbor last August, my husband Noah and I saw bank swallows swirling around the water on this side of the locks. Earlier, in Sweden while visiting the old megaliths at Alestenar when I was there when my aunt died, swallows.  And they have those adorable crossed tail feathers. 

So I put my reservations aside and thought a little bigger, and a little bigger.  My favorite color is purple, and I love the wild pansies that creep up everywhere and all over.  It’s the flower for Angermanland, where my Swedish grandmother’s family is from, and I thought of linnea flowers, another Swedish one (and her middle name).   Finally I decided it was time when I was on sabbatical. I met with Holly from Always and Forever tattoo shop in Watertown and was talked out of both Hebrew for the names and incorporating my existing tattoo into a new design, and staked out my right arm. I’d thought of sort of a little cap sleeve design. Birds, flowers, names. Compact.

When I met Holly to talk about the tattoo, she had other ideas. I came in last week and saw something that goes almost down to my elbow, including the names which I finally decided to have in English.  The whole process has led to more introspection than I’d ever expected. First, the images I wanted, of course. But the questions along the way as well. Holly first suggested we just cover up my old female symbol tattoo. It’s done with very fine lines which have blurred over the years (it’s 15 years old, almost to the day), and it slants in kind of a funny way. But it’s still my tattoo. You could see it in the pictures from Noah’s and my wedding, when I am holding each of my children for the first time—it’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It reminds me of when I got it, when I was as radical a feminist as anyone at my crazy hippie college was, and reminds me of those radical commitments—always to go to the root, look deeper. So, no, I wasn’t covering it up, dilapidated as it was. Plus my mother drew it for me.

And I wasn’t going to go to a different artist. I’d been internet stalking Holly for months, since she opened her shop. I found her by just looking at bird tattoos online; I loved the way her designs worked with the body, over curves and bones and soft lines.  So this tattoo is my project, but it’s also hers. It’s her artistic vision that gave me the beautifully variegated blue and purple in the flowers and not the almost-black purple I’d thought I wanted. It’s her vision that got the linnea flowers the perfect shade of slate blue instead of the pink that’s actually found in nature. And it will be her vision, combined with mine, when I go back in 7 weeks and finish the shading and coloring. So walking into Always and Forever last Thursday, I knew that I was trusting her a lot, and trusting myself, too, in getting another tattoo that wouldn’t be quite so easily hidden.

I've been going back and forth in my mind: what is the line between what you do to be “you” and what you do to conform.  When I was younger, it was an easy choice: all "me" and no conforming at all (or so it seemed to me...a sixteen year old girl with a shaved head conforms to a certain image of something, for sure). In seminary I remember when I took out some of my earrings (at that time I always wore six on one side and three on the other) and it felt like a cataclysmic shift in identity. Of course it wasn’t, but it was a shift.  Maybe I’m a little behind the curve in still thinking about these things at age 34.  Even being part of an entire book about the reconciliation of feminism to Christian faith (My Red Couch—I wrote the title essay in 2004), I can say that while it doesn’t bother my own conscience to generally be part of the institution of the ur-patriarchs, I still have moments where I wonder about how to walk the line between the counter-cultural impulses I’ve always had and the social conformity that “church” has implied pretty much since the Emperor Constantine. Too political? not political enough?  In any given sermon I could feel like entirely betraying my radical view of the Christian faith or entirely alienating those who come to church just wanting to feel a little better about their already-hard lives, whom I am loath to blame for that desire.  I've met elderly church ladies who are more on fire for the radical  Gospel than any self-styled activist with a nosering.

And then there’s my faith and vocation; as a priest, I’m called to preach the really hard and radical truth of the Gospel. Love everybody, all the time, forgiving them and yourself, and look relentlessly for the presence of Jesus in everyone. Bring greed and corruption to its knees and fight for the peace and justice and wholeness for every person. It’s one thing to fall down and ask for help to do the right thing the next time.  But if I’m silent because I worry about people getting mad and leaving (as has, actually, now happened more than once, mostly about GLBT inclusivity) I might as well get a job selling expensive lawn pesticides.

So here is my tattoo.  It is enormous.  It is a radical change. It is a shift, a before-and-after, of how I get dressed every morning and whether I decide to wear short or long sleeves.  It’s going to be visible. Not like my little labyrinth poking out the bottom of a long skirt once in a while, but really, really all the time, unless I plan to be very hot all summer.  When I saw the huge design Holly had made, and saw her trace out “Isaiah” in huge letters just above my elbow and “Adah” over my shoulder, I felt like I was daring myself to misbehave, daring myself to stop worrying about being so offensive at the same time as I want to rebel so badly.   A month after my Africa trip, it seems like an awfully superficial thing to worry about.  When you live in a village in a mountain-top in Tanzania with no health care, you have much bigger fish to fry. If there are fish at all.  

But here we are.

Having a big tattoo doesn’t make me more or less faithful to the radicalism that Jesus asks of us. Sitting for 3 ½ hours while someone pokes you with needles does not have to be a moral experience (it may be a moral question that the money I spend on it could send two kids to primary school for a year in Uganda).   Still, I hope that it will be a reminder not to be so worried.  As the rector of Christ Church, it’s not my job to please people, it’s my job to love them.  It’s our job together to show each other how God loves.   Now let’s get on with it.

The icicles are still treacherous. I’m still going to space out during announcement time and forget to invite people to coffee hour.   The next time I get up into the pulpit and pray for an end to gun violence or war or any constellation of difficult topics, my palms will still sweat. But we’re here together, and God will be too, no matter what. And you definitely can’t see my tattoo with my chasuble on. 

 The stencil before we put the names on

before the color went in--facebook status: "More is more, friends. More is more."

Baltic Wheel Labyrinth, Ankle

Snake, Monica Irwin, Right foot (1997)

Tree of Life (after G Klimt--also drawn by my mom!)

Christmas 2012: Meeting Jesus on a Holy Night

Dear God,

Give us ears to hear your voice, give us feet to follow your paths, give us hearts to share your love. Amen.

Merry Christmas!

This is only my second service back after having had 3 ½ months of sabbatical, and I’m still a little shell shocked and excited to be with you on this holy, holy night.

It is a holy night.

That’s not a word we use so casually in our regular conversation, but it bears reclaiming.  Christmas is the time in our life together as Christians that we are really told, in no uncertain terms, that our lives are holy and our world is holy.

We have some strange ideas about holiness. We think that holiness is maybe just for other people. We think that holiness is maybe just for people who pray all the time, or give all their money to charity, or at the very minimum do “more”—more what, we’re not sure, but more than us anyway. We’re not quite sure we make the cut.

Maybe it’s our Western achievement-oriented culture.  We want to prove things, have it all listed out in tidy rows and spreadsheets, wanting certain knowledge. Maybe it’s our own collective insecurity, or maybe it’s a deep, deep sorrow at the state of the world and a hopelessness about effecting positive change. Maybe it’s just our own brokenness that can’t see a way out.

The good news is that we don’t have to find a way out. Christmas is not yet another thing that we have to do, adding it to the list and trying to find a way through.

And Christmas is not just about holiness far away, a good girl and her polite husband.  Holiness is about us, in all of the messiness of our lives and all the ways we aren’t quite sure we make the cut. Against our own best advice, maybe, that’s where God insists on going.

God will not stay far away.  

God is closer than we can imagine, intimately joined to us in our sleeping and our waking, our prayer and our protest.    It has always been so—in the Gospel of John we hear how Jesus as the Word was spoken by God from the beginning, woven into us from our birth.  We were made in the image of that holiness. We are part of God and God is part of us. So the birth of Jesus isn’t so much a hinge in time as it is a recentering. We remember who we are.

We remember who we are, and we remember what we are capable of. That we are able to work with God as partners in healing this world. That the work of bringing Jesus Christ to birth is our job as well.  When I was travelling two weeks ago in East Africa, I met Jesus again and again.

I met him in the matriarchs of the Cathedral in Korogwe, Tanzania, where we were treated to a multi-course feast of chicken, beef, fish, ugali corn, greens, fruit, and more on the first day we were in town, bleary from days of travel. I met him in the people of the church in Amboni, in a diocese with no women priests, when I was not only invited to preach and give out communion, but—hysterical laughter enjoyed by all—handed a live chicken in thanks for my service. I met Jesus in Ann, a single woman with a transcendent smile, not much older than I who runs the children’s sponsorship program for the Bishop Masereka Christian Foundation, who in the course of her six years with the organization has adopted seven foster daughters, from the age of one to nineteen.  Her one year old was abandoned at three days of age.

I met Jesus when I got home, in our fellow traveler Colin, who was in Tanzania with us but didn’t stay for the Uganda part, who came to the airport to welcome us and see if anyone needed a ride. I met Jesus in Pree, a two year old who fell asleep on my shoulder as we were visiting the mobile health clinic in Kasese, who was tired and sick and whose parents had had to leave her in the care of her six and eight year old brothers. 

From the Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania, to the tin shacks of Kasese, Uganda, to well-manicured suburban lawns, to practical two family homes, from pavement to rain forest, God comes to us and God says come, here, with me, I need your hands here.

Through sorrow and joy, through tears and elation, through hilarity and laughter and desperation and suffering, God comes to us.

If God chose a barn to be born in. If God chose a young woman who wasn’t even married yet.  If God’s coming to us was announced by social nobodies like shepherds, how can we assume that God has somewhere better to be than with us? How can we assume that the birth of Christ is for judgment, rather than for generosity? 

We are God’s people. God may have chosen to create better people, or smarter people, or more attractive ones. But we’re it. From sketchy shepherds to scared teenagers, to everyone in between we’re it.

God comes to all of us, and God comes to all of us.  We don’t have to be powerful. We don’t have to be well-behaved or strong or have all the answers.

Because this is a holy night. This is a holy place. And God is here. 

Pictures (last of them?)

Fauna

Marabou Stork, Entebbe, Uganda

 Kampala, Uganda

 looking episcopal at the kizara center

Tanzania

 More fauna

 Bar/Internet Cafe at the White Parrot 

Korogwe, Tanzania

 Faith, hope, communion at St Barnabas house 

 Korogwe, Tanzania

 Swahili Introductions

Tanzania

Sleepy girl--my favorite picture

Kasese, Uganda

Video: Welcome to St Alban's Parish, Ngombezi, Tanzania

Video: Wow and a Swahili lesson

The view to the sea from the mountains in Tanzania--

more proof of Shadrach's labeling of Americans as "the wow people."

A Swahili lesson with Angelina and Colin