I realized, yesterday, that my ordination happened on the summer solstace--the "longest day" of the year-- the day with the most sunlight, in the northern hemisphere. My husband & I joked about what manner of metaphoric meaning might be contained therein, as the 30th anniversary of the ordination came...and went...a moment in time...a moment marking the passing of time...a moment representing more than half of my life-time...
It was a beautiful day in New York: warm, but not too hot, nor humid. Idyllic. A perfect day.
Minstry, however, is not always like that, on the outside. Yet in a deeper sense, it is... Ministry is about being with others in the contexts of their lives. It is about incarnational embodiment of the Gospel. It is about the unexpected popping up in the midst of the ordinary, the hum-drum, the up-and-down days. It is about bath & meal & conversation: font, table, and pulpit. Ministry is about suffering & joy; consternation & celebration; or, in Frederick Buechner's words, about "Comedy, Tragedy, & Fairy Tale."
Thirty years have come and gone since that summer solstace of 1981; it does not seem possible, most of the time. And yet, as I think back, I see faces and remember names, across places & spaces... A child baptized, and buried three months later; another child receiving first communion--soon to be, herself, ordained! ("Grace: God's love given freely." --and if she is reading this, she knows who she is.) I remember the single mom struggling with her four children and living in poverty; I remember the retired church-men (yes, men) gathering to talk and do "handyman" work around the church. I remember the work-release programs of the upstate prisons, and the ministry of hospitality of the Ladies' Aid, the Frauen Verein, and the LCW... the forthrightness of GF: "So, what are you in for?" Inmate: "Manslaughter." GF: "Oh. Have some cake?") ... precious memories, precious times. Thirty years later, new memories are being forged, new relatonships born, nuances of ministry explored...
...like that of having found myself ecclesiastically homeless, in 2004, for reasons far beyond the scope of this blog -- and being welcomed into a new church home, in the city.... St. Luke's, the Lutheran Church near Times Square... first as a member & later, as pastoral associate. Word and Sacrament, there, support and sustain the healing work of pastoral psychotherapy; the practice deepens and enriches the ministry at St. Luke's -- interlocking circles of Word, faith, & grace.
6.22.2011
2.23.2011
Creativity Consciousness...
I just finished reading yet another book about providing psychotherapy with trauma survivors. It had some fresh perspectives on conceptualizing the work... but in the end, after all the theory had come and gone, after certain examples sounded technologically "dated" only 4 years after publication(!) -- one sentence stood out for me: that certain interventions "can be accomplished in a variety of ways, limited only by the creativity of the patient and therapist." (italics, mine)
This is one of the "gutsiest" sentences I've read recently, flying in the face of recipe-like protocols, cost-management of treatment, and what I believe to be an over-dependence on quantitative outcome measures. Creativity -- of both patient and therapist... I hear the phrase suggesting a collaborative, mutuality of imagination; a foray into the mystical places and workings of the brain, mind, & spirit that I call the "land of no words." It is where science meets art, inspiration, and the wisdom of the ages. It is also the way I work, as a therapist, a liturgist, a preacher.
Creativity, I think, is both movement and stillness; action and state-of-being. It is both a hallmark and a part of the birthing process of healing. Creativity enters into what now is with possibilities of what else could be. Creativity envisions what is -- and is not -- already there to be seen; the expected and unexpected, the up and the down, the inside and the outside and everything in between... it is the conjurer of paradoxes like the mobius strip, and conundrums of perspective.
Eventually "it" lands in the concrete words and behavior of the therapy room and/or the sanctuary: healing movement in sacred space, and God is present in the mists of mind, in the midst of human meeting.
This is one of the "gutsiest" sentences I've read recently, flying in the face of recipe-like protocols, cost-management of treatment, and what I believe to be an over-dependence on quantitative outcome measures. Creativity -- of both patient and therapist... I hear the phrase suggesting a collaborative, mutuality of imagination; a foray into the mystical places and workings of the brain, mind, & spirit that I call the "land of no words." It is where science meets art, inspiration, and the wisdom of the ages. It is also the way I work, as a therapist, a liturgist, a preacher.
Creativity, I think, is both movement and stillness; action and state-of-being. It is both a hallmark and a part of the birthing process of healing. Creativity enters into what now is with possibilities of what else could be. Creativity envisions what is -- and is not -- already there to be seen; the expected and unexpected, the up and the down, the inside and the outside and everything in between... it is the conjurer of paradoxes like the mobius strip, and conundrums of perspective.
Eventually "it" lands in the concrete words and behavior of the therapy room and/or the sanctuary: healing movement in sacred space, and God is present in the mists of mind, in the midst of human meeting.
2.04.2011
Movement in Stillness ~~ Words out of Silence
"When there is too much, there is not enough." (anon.)
2010 was kind of like that. Winds of change rippled, and sometimes ripped, through my life, bringing a new life-partner, wedding, and step-children as well as the scourge of bedbugs, an assaultive barrage of jackhammers as my apartment building's facade was "restored," and an acute hip-to-knee injury. When there is so much movement, a counterpoint of stillness is needed; a silence of word in order for the healing movment deep within to give rise to new words to share.
But now, as turns and jumps return into and out of my dancing, and the chaos of an apartment upended recedes into a new state of order, as solitude and family life become integrated, the joining of word to contemplation, here, begins anew~~with gratitude.
Gratitude, gratefulness, appreciation, thanksgiving... to God and to all those near and far and dear who have given their support, love, prayers, helping hands, joy, laughter, kleenex, new phones, more kleenex, humor, more kleenex, and their hearts. Not unlike 1990, the year in which I lost my voice and was "listened into" a new one; not unlike 2001 with its September story; 2010 has become another year measuring time into "before" and "after."
In the "after," there are new roads to travel; new paths to carve out ahead. There are new dances to learn; there is new space set apart, inside and out. Today, I own my ambivalence about change, and pray thus, "O God, change is all about us and within us, but in your steadfast love and faithfulness, I will~~and do~~put my trust." So be it; amen.
2010 was kind of like that. Winds of change rippled, and sometimes ripped, through my life, bringing a new life-partner, wedding, and step-children as well as the scourge of bedbugs, an assaultive barrage of jackhammers as my apartment building's facade was "restored," and an acute hip-to-knee injury. When there is so much movement, a counterpoint of stillness is needed; a silence of word in order for the healing movment deep within to give rise to new words to share.
But now, as turns and jumps return into and out of my dancing, and the chaos of an apartment upended recedes into a new state of order, as solitude and family life become integrated, the joining of word to contemplation, here, begins anew~~with gratitude.
Gratitude, gratefulness, appreciation, thanksgiving... to God and to all those near and far and dear who have given their support, love, prayers, helping hands, joy, laughter, kleenex, new phones, more kleenex, humor, more kleenex, and their hearts. Not unlike 1990, the year in which I lost my voice and was "listened into" a new one; not unlike 2001 with its September story; 2010 has become another year measuring time into "before" and "after."
In the "after," there are new roads to travel; new paths to carve out ahead. There are new dances to learn; there is new space set apart, inside and out. Today, I own my ambivalence about change, and pray thus, "O God, change is all about us and within us, but in your steadfast love and faithfulness, I will~~and do~~put my trust." So be it; amen.
9.12.2009
September 12th, "Live, from New York"
It is the day after the day before.
Much was said yesterday, about the new designation of September 11th as "a day of service and remembrance" (or is it the other way around?) -- which is great. But what about today? Do we serve and remember for one day only?
The names and faces of so many wove themselves through my heart and mind yesterday, and to a greater and lesser extent remain there today. Some are living and some are not. Some are healthy and some are not. Some have become impoverished in the last eight years; some have not. Some have left New York; most have not. It is their home.
And that is why I think September 12 needs to be held up as image and metaphor, not just of life "going on," but of how life goes on; of how we treat one another--how we respond to human sorrow, need, and pain. In 2001, the subways began to run back into Manhattan again on September 12th. I was on one of them. It was the day when volunteers, not just first responders, were able make their way downtown, and uptown, and wherever they were needed. Sometimes there was nothing to do, but just "be" with the eye-witnesses of the day before. Sometimes, it was just about being together, supporting one another in comprehending what had happened. Sometimes there were tasks to be done; recovery workers to support; sorrows to be held and griefs to be borne.
Eight years have passed, and though September 11, 2009 was quite different that its counterpart of 2001, September 12th is much the same -- except for all the construction on the subways, and their failure to run anything close to normally today, and the appalling lack adequate money to help the suffering survivors. Still we remember, lives lost and found; still we serve, because there is need.
It is always, now, the day after the day before.
Link to photos of Tribute in Light
Much was said yesterday, about the new designation of September 11th as "a day of service and remembrance" (or is it the other way around?) -- which is great. But what about today? Do we serve and remember for one day only?
The names and faces of so many wove themselves through my heart and mind yesterday, and to a greater and lesser extent remain there today. Some are living and some are not. Some are healthy and some are not. Some have become impoverished in the last eight years; some have not. Some have left New York; most have not. It is their home.
And that is why I think September 12 needs to be held up as image and metaphor, not just of life "going on," but of how life goes on; of how we treat one another--how we respond to human sorrow, need, and pain. In 2001, the subways began to run back into Manhattan again on September 12th. I was on one of them. It was the day when volunteers, not just first responders, were able make their way downtown, and uptown, and wherever they were needed. Sometimes there was nothing to do, but just "be" with the eye-witnesses of the day before. Sometimes, it was just about being together, supporting one another in comprehending what had happened. Sometimes there were tasks to be done; recovery workers to support; sorrows to be held and griefs to be borne.
Eight years have passed, and though September 11, 2009 was quite different that its counterpart of 2001, September 12th is much the same -- except for all the construction on the subways, and their failure to run anything close to normally today, and the appalling lack adequate money to help the suffering survivors. Still we remember, lives lost and found; still we serve, because there is need.
It is always, now, the day after the day before.
Link to photos of Tribute in Light
8.23.2009
Body, Brain, & Spirit
"The brain is part of the body."
I don't know who said it first; I think I heard it first from Francine Shapiro, at the 2003 conference of the EMDR International Association, in Denver. It was a moment that has stayed with me, and is ever present these days as I am developing my thesis proposal for a second level theological degree.
"The brain mediates...everything."
I don't know where I first heard or read that, either--but it is profound, and leaves me pondering more questions than responses to them. If the brain mediates "everything," how does the brain mediate the Spirit / spirit? How does the brain mediate God? What does one make of, in James' words, "the varieties of religious experience"? And what of the rest of the body in religio-spiritual experience? In Brainspotting with clients their "felt-sense" of religio-spiritual experience, that "felt-sense" is noticed, most often, somewhere below the neck--but not always... yet the phenomena of the experiencing itself is brain-centered.
"The human brain was not designed for the demands of 21st century urban life."
I read that recently, or something like it, in a couple of different places. I am not sure if I agree or disagree. While I have a visceral desire to agree wholeheartedly--I also feel a pull back from doing so. The brain's ability to adapt, to accomodate, to change, to grow, to heal--is phenomenal, as is that of the whole human body, and indeed the whole creation. (That said: I do not believe that the human brain was designed to meet the demands of hyper-excessive sensory stimulation, nor the concussive effects of explosions such as those experienced by far too many Iraq war veterans. If anyone doubts the effects of vibrational energy, here they are, in most negative form.)
So what about creation theology... and the need to hold together creation (& covenant & renewal) and redemption? In our "transitional eschatologies" (S. Mark Heim, A Trinitarian Theology of Religious Ends) what does care and repair of the physical aspects of creation look like? What recognition of ultimate versus penultimate healing and wholeness needs to be acknowleged? Yet however we define it, describe it -- it's all still mediated by the brain, which itself is part of that creation...
Where I'm going with this, what I want to explore, think, and write about--one day--is a theology of the brain. That's way "too big" for the current academic exercise, of course... but it's what's driving it. Brain and its relation to body, and the relation of both to God, and vice versa-- through that wonderful Lutheran Confessional Theological lens, which can do no other than root it all,sooner or later, in grace.
For now, I'll keep reading, exploring, learning, thinking.... and maybe write some of those thoughts here in the future.
3.20.2009
Interlochen memories
I recently wrote a paper on an obscure phrase in the Smalcald Articles (Martin Luther's "theological last will and testament"): "the mutual conversation and consolation of the brothers and sisters" as a means by which the gospel is communicated. In the paper, I reflected on the paradox of contemporary technologies that bring people together -- and simultaneously let them remain apart.
When I wrote the paper, I was thinking, in particular, of Facebook, where there is now a rightfully "closed" group for people who attended the Interlochen Arts Academy c. 1969-1972, plus or minus. It is a remarkable group; remarkable when we were young & remarkable at the "certain ages" we all are now. Some in the group I first met as a summer camper, when I was 9 or 10 years old; others were met in high school. Some are my brother's friends. Yet Interlochen is a bond we all share; stories & confessions abound there; celebrations of life -- and also mourning of peers and former teachers. And of course the requisite: "what are you doing now?" and "does anyone know whatever happened to ________?"
The Facebook group is filled with nostalgia; with remembrances of times past... The "discussion board" brings us together in a particular state of mind: the children, the artists, the students, the performers we once were, together in the "land of the stately pines..." until news of a death is reported... "long illness" ... "AIDS, early in the epidemic" ... "unknown causes" ... And the fragility of life becomes present as the brief moments in real time when our lives intersected, fade into the reality of lives as they are now, as we are now.
Interlochen is in my blood. It was there that creativity and spirituality found each other in my life. There, that the dancer, sitting on the steps heading down to the Minnesota building, heard again the vocational call to ministry first sensed eight years earlier. "Who me?? Girls can't be pastors." Little did I know as I re-sensed that call, the Lutheran Church in America had just ordained Beth Platz. Much less could I know, eight years later that same church would ordain me.
Facebook has awakened roots and nearly lifelong friendships I thought were gone forever. But are they real or virtual? Or virtually real? Perhaps only a face-to-face reunion can answer those questions. Until then, I cherish the memories of "the way we were" and enjoy the maturity of who we all are now. It might not be exactly what Luther was talking about--but buried within those discussion boards, to me, there is grace.
"Sound the call...."
"God of the lakes..."
"Dedicated to the promotion of world friendship through the universal language of the arts."
When I wrote the paper, I was thinking, in particular, of Facebook, where there is now a rightfully "closed" group for people who attended the Interlochen Arts Academy c. 1969-1972, plus or minus. It is a remarkable group; remarkable when we were young & remarkable at the "certain ages" we all are now. Some in the group I first met as a summer camper, when I was 9 or 10 years old; others were met in high school. Some are my brother's friends. Yet Interlochen is a bond we all share; stories & confessions abound there; celebrations of life -- and also mourning of peers and former teachers. And of course the requisite: "what are you doing now?" and "does anyone know whatever happened to ________?"
The Facebook group is filled with nostalgia; with remembrances of times past... The "discussion board" brings us together in a particular state of mind: the children, the artists, the students, the performers we once were, together in the "land of the stately pines..." until news of a death is reported... "long illness" ... "AIDS, early in the epidemic" ... "unknown causes" ... And the fragility of life becomes present as the brief moments in real time when our lives intersected, fade into the reality of lives as they are now, as we are now.
Interlochen is in my blood. It was there that creativity and spirituality found each other in my life. There, that the dancer, sitting on the steps heading down to the Minnesota building, heard again the vocational call to ministry first sensed eight years earlier. "Who me?? Girls can't be pastors." Little did I know as I re-sensed that call, the Lutheran Church in America had just ordained Beth Platz. Much less could I know, eight years later that same church would ordain me.
Facebook has awakened roots and nearly lifelong friendships I thought were gone forever. But are they real or virtual? Or virtually real? Perhaps only a face-to-face reunion can answer those questions. Until then, I cherish the memories of "the way we were" and enjoy the maturity of who we all are now. It might not be exactly what Luther was talking about--but buried within those discussion boards, to me, there is grace.
"Sound the call...."
"God of the lakes..."
"Dedicated to the promotion of world friendship through the universal language of the arts."
12.10.2008
Advent musings
I like Advent. I like its liturgical color, blue. I like the extra candles, the sense of movement in the church year binding first and last things, endings and beginnings, creation and recreation, incarnation and redemption, story and promise, repentance and hope, sin and grace.
I liked Advent as a child, back when the color was purple. Though I surely did not understand why Advent felt the way it did, I had dutifully learned that Advent means "coming, " and that Jesus was coming. The expectancy of his coming was palpable, at church and at home, despite the competition from St. Nick.
A bit of age has brought me a deep appreciation for the simple complexity of the season. Historically, it's a season of waiting, watching, preparation, penance, and prayer -- all somewhat somber -- but hidden within it, on the 3rd of its 4 Sundays, the color is PINK! And the theme of the day is JOY! "Rejoice, O daughter of Jerusalem! Behold your sovereign comes to you..." Already, and not yet.
It's not unlike the therapeutic process. There's a lot of waiting that goes on in it: waiting for clients' timing and readiness, waiting to see "what happens next." Waiting and watching, staying attentive and attuned to clients' deepest sorrows and pain, terrors and rage. Waiting and watching, as their healing process works deep within, with "sighs too deep for words." Waiting and watching, sometimes week after week, even year after year, waiting for the pink to emerge, living in hope for the freedom of the already-and-not-yet healing being wrought, deep within.
And I realize the extent to which EMDR and Brainspotting have taught me how to wait and watch, with patience and curiosity, with humility and steadfastness, whether in the therapy room, or in life. To wait and watch for "what comes next," to receive it for what it is, in open expectancy for all that is to come.
I like Advent.
"Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel has come to you..."
I liked Advent as a child, back when the color was purple. Though I surely did not understand why Advent felt the way it did, I had dutifully learned that Advent means "coming, " and that Jesus was coming. The expectancy of his coming was palpable, at church and at home, despite the competition from St. Nick.
A bit of age has brought me a deep appreciation for the simple complexity of the season. Historically, it's a season of waiting, watching, preparation, penance, and prayer -- all somewhat somber -- but hidden within it, on the 3rd of its 4 Sundays, the color is PINK! And the theme of the day is JOY! "Rejoice, O daughter of Jerusalem! Behold your sovereign comes to you..." Already, and not yet.
It's not unlike the therapeutic process. There's a lot of waiting that goes on in it: waiting for clients' timing and readiness, waiting to see "what happens next." Waiting and watching, staying attentive and attuned to clients' deepest sorrows and pain, terrors and rage. Waiting and watching, as their healing process works deep within, with "sighs too deep for words." Waiting and watching, sometimes week after week, even year after year, waiting for the pink to emerge, living in hope for the freedom of the already-and-not-yet healing being wrought, deep within.
And I realize the extent to which EMDR and Brainspotting have taught me how to wait and watch, with patience and curiosity, with humility and steadfastness, whether in the therapy room, or in life. To wait and watch for "what comes next," to receive it for what it is, in open expectancy for all that is to come.
I like Advent.
"Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel has come to you..."
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