A Little Ministry (#837,298)

It was a hot morning at Farmers Market, and energy was visibly flagging among both customers and vendors near the end of the morning. A mother and her two young daughters stopped by for some kale...pretty much all I had left by the end. As they strolled out of the shady booth into the blazing sun, the mom leaned down to hear a question from one of the girls. They stopped and turned back.

A question about another vendor? Directions to the port-a-potty? A lost stuffed animal? So often returning customers are hoping I'm the Information Booth...and I'm happy to oblige. The commercial theory is that is customers are happy and comfortable, they will stay at market longer and buy more stuff...that's good for all of us at the market. And chances are they will return to the vendor who went the extra mile to give good service AFTER they made their purchase.

It's also part of my spiritual practice: To take the time to treat each person with kindness and respect, whether there's something in it for me or not. Doubly so, for those who might tend to be less respected by others: Children, the elderly, frail, differently abled, foreign, another color, dressed oddly.

This time was different. "She has a question she's been wanting to ask you" the mother said as they approached the table I stood behind. She wanted to make sure I paid attention to her daughter, who was probably in the 4 to 6 range. It must be something important. I silently blessed the mother for taking the time to come back on such a hot day, and for making sure I gave her daughter the attention she deserved.

The little girl looked up at her mom, questioningly. Mom nodded. "Go ahead, honey. Ask your question."

Reassured, the girl looked at me. "Why do you wear that on your head?" she asked, full of sincere curiosity, excited that her desire to know was being honored by both her mother and me.

I smiled in sudden understanding. Probably it isn't just the child who is curious, but also the mother...hence the effort extended to come back and ask.

"I wear the prayer covering because there's a place in the Bible where it says that women should cover their heads when they pray. And I know I need to pray all the time. So I wear this to help me remember to pray a lot."

That was all that needed to be said in that moment. It was a good answer. The child understood, and was satisfied. So did the mother. We all smiled.

As they turned and walked away, tears of gratitude welled up in my eyes. What a gift it is to answer a child's honest question with an honest answer that is one they can grow with for a lifetime, no matter where life takes them, no matter what their beliefs for practices.

Remember to pray a lot.

For Goodness' Sake

A friend has undertaken an inquiry into the nature of goodness (www.insearchofgoodness.wordpress.com). In the midst of busy times and transitions at the farm recently, I have only been aware of this in a perfunctory manner...noticing her facebook updates, and nothing more. But today's status made me stop and take notice:

"Something weird is going on with my soul."

Been there. Done that. Here's where it got me. It's a good thing...but profoundly surprising, if I stop and think about it. I'm not the least bit surprised other people think I'm nuts.

Not that she will end up anywhere remotely close to where I appear to be, from the outside. Or she might. I'm just saying there's no correlation to any outward result. Heck, I don't even know where I'll end up, just a little of where I've been and where I am now.

Skimming her blog brings cascades of recognitions, memories, understandings of my own journey. This blog was begun to tell the story of the rainbow covering that I wear daily, to explain it to others, to help myself to understand it better. But it is also the current chapter of a lifelong journey. And so she has reminded me that after starting in the middle of the story, it's only fair to spend some time, now and then, going back and filling in some of the history.

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Where did my own journey start? The foundation was laid in family values: beauty (real beauty, like a lawn studded with thousands of dazzling dandelions), truth (like the little child saying, "but the Emporer HAS GOT NOTHING ON!"), education (like having Audubon guides read to me instead of bedtime stories when I was a toddler), etc.

But I can (at least at this moment, from this perspective) trace the actually intentional quest to a season in high school. Finding the Witter Bynner translation of The Way of Life [Tao Teh Ching] while taking inventory of the high school library one summer. NOTICING the shimmer of sunlight on autumn grasses. Reading and discussing Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (ZMM) with my best friend. Was that also the year I learned to spin yarn, and realized I needed to raise my own sheep someday? It well could have been.

From ZMM: "And what is good, Phaedrus, and what is not good: need we anyone to show us these things?" Those words have been faithful guides on my journey. ZMM tells of several, interwoven journeys: spiritual, psychological, physical. The complex, non-linear telling of these inseparable tales foreshadows my own convoluted sense of time in my own life...a non-linearity that sometimes puzzles others. The past is current here in the present; the future is embodied here as well; now is all there is but the past and future are both enfolded here. When someone says, "oh, forget that, it was all in the past"...well, how can I do that when it is part of the present?

Circularity. The poem Miracle tells about one seed, that of my baptism: a truly momentous event in my life, in hindsight. Getting there was 40 years of the journey--40 years of other, generally more subtle miracles.

But before my deliberate commitment to God (baptism), I simply didn't have the language to describe the previous miracles, the steadfast guidance I received from God in my daily living, the love and care that nurtured me whether I believed in it or not. I didn't believe in it, in fact. Not a passive lack of considering believing, but an active, "informed" denial of any such thing. It is very difficult to be aware--in any detailed sort of way--of something for which we do not have language. About the most we can say is--as Diane so well put it--"Something weird is going on". And then we can hope that someday we will stumble on the words with which to explore it.

Silly me. God was here/there all along. This I know from the depth of my heart and soul and mind and spirit. Yet back then I "knew" the exact opposite: that God was a ridiculous myth, an intellectual construction by and for those who were too stupid to live without some sort of SuperParent making up rules and punishing those who broke them.

I can't prove it either way. Neither can anyone else. Perhaps it's simply a symptom of mental illness that I'm wearing this "little piece of spiritual cloth" on my head.

But for goodness' sake, for God's sake, I can't imagine not wearing it, now.

For God's sake, because it is one little thing I CAN do that is following scripture (obedience R-not-me)...and...(because I am not as nice as I think I'd like to be yet) it asks the Emperor's-new-clothes question of all biblical literalists, "so why aren't YOU taking that scripture literally, if you claim to be taking all these other really vague scriptures literally?"

For goodness' sake, because it reminds me to be good. Now. Today. Always. Whenever God or anyone else is watching.

Good. Good day. Good night. Good bye. Good grief!

For goodness' sake, it's WAY past my bedtime.

Blow-out

Being a covering is hard work.

Evidently, I scratch the top of my head in perplexity a lot...or at any rate, that's where coverings wear out first. Both my currently active coverings have grown so threadbare at the top that they've developed small holes. Don't know when I'll have time to sew new ones.

I don't mind wearing them with holes in them. There's actually something satisfying about it. First the humility of knowing that I'm not too vain about them. If I were wearing them for show, I'd worry more about how they look. I think it also says something that I scratch my head in perplexity that much...I know I DON'T have all the answers, and the holes prove that I take the time to think things over! Then, too, their tattered, faded condition proves that I've been wearing them long enough to wear them out. It's not a passing fad for me, it's a commitment for the long haul.

After church at Willow Springs the other day, A brother I'd not talked with before shook my hand and introduced himself. He observed in a friendly and straightforward manner, "I've heard of the coat of many colors, but this is the first I've seen a covering of many colors!" I smiled broadly. I hadn't thought of my covering as a reflection of Joseph's famous garment. It "covered" (protected) him, too.

[Is it a sin of omission that I failed to point out the "queer" significance of the rainbow colors? Can I plead my case based on "Women should not speak in church?" Perhaps not...we had stepped outside onto the broad steps of the building, so technically we were no longer IN church. I think not. To discuss such matters would seem as inappropriate as expounding on my favorite website or rock star to him...it's a part of a world that is not their world. When in Rome, do as the Romans....]

The brother continued. "I presume you wear it for the same reason we do." I said that I'd started wearing it nearly 5 years ago. He nodded in approval, clearly satisfied with my answer. "Then it is a real conviction." "Yes, and that was after several years of discernment. My River Brethren friend gave me the pattern she uses...."

I do not know where this adventure is leading me, or the good brothers and sisters of Willow Springs. But it is clearly God who leads me wherever we are going.

I need only be present in each moment, listening to that still, small voice that seems so much louder when I step away from the turmoil of the "English" world.

Mini-ministries

One Sunday morning recently I set forth on the long drive to one of the churches where I often attend Sunday morning meeting with the Old German Baptists--actually almost on time, for a change! It had been a couple weeks since I'd been able to get away from the farm on a Sunday morning, and I was really looking forward to the spiritual gifts that invariably come from the nealry two hours of clear, practical bible study that is what passes for a church service with the OGB.

The 45 minute drive to the "8 Mile" meetinghouse is, in itself, a good meditation. The path lies clear across Lawrence and out the other side, then through miles of hilly farmland. It's good to get out of the river valley now and then, for a change of perspective. Seeing other farms always teaches me something about farming...and sometimes there's a special gift, like seeing a calf born just as I'm driving by. Besides, just driving on the open road has been a "therapy" thing for me for decades.

But imagine my surprise when the parking lot was empty at 8 Mile! Perhaps I'd read the calendar wrong? Since the denomination had a "division" last summer, the small remnants of two churches had joined for worship each week--odd Sundays at one meetinghouse, even Sundays at another.

I drove back to the Willow Springs meetinghouse. Again, an empty lot. Perplexing.

Some dim memory tickled at the back of my brain. Had my OGB friend M. said something a few weeks earlier about a special event some Sunday in April? I couldn't remember. Life has been very, very busy this past month.

But now what? Not exactly "all dressed up and no place to go," because I don't "dress up" for church. But certainly out and about with no clear destination.

I decided to try the Lone Star Church of the Brethren. It's another small, white, wood frame meetinghouse, not quite so plain on the inside (there's a piano, and printed bulletins). The Church of the Brethren, like the OGB and Mennonite churches, is descended from the Anabaptist movement at the time of the Reformation in Europe. Each denomination has preserved some practices at the expense of others, but they share many core values: simplicity (whatever that means...), pacifism, adult baptism. The COB order of the service is very like the Mennonite church I'm exiled from, and uses the same favorite "blue hymnal" as many Mennonite churches, including "mine". They had just finished the Children's Time when I arrived, and were singing the children off to Sunday School so the parents could focus their attention on the sermon. I felt sad for the division of ages. More fun for the children, perhaps, but with families so busy during the week, it seems more important than ever that the children and adults should share the whole church experience, as in the Old German Baptist church.

God, you are showing me who I am in you, and where my path lies. It's not at all clear, but times like this at least show me where it isn't. Please give me the strength and patience to "let the little ones come to me" as you did, "for such is the kingdom of heaven."

I have attended here before, and had not found the service to lift me to heavenly heights of praise and awe, nor lead me to profound depths of reflection. But sometimes it is most important to focus on "Whenever two or more are gathered in my name."

When my mind wandered during the "Meditation Time", I perused the rather commercial-looking pre-printed bulletin cover. There was an interesting meditation printed on the back. I was surprised to recognize the author's name at the bottom...someone who frequently contributes to the lively exchange on a COB listserve I participate on.

The minister directed me to the stairs after the service, making a polite escape tactless. Making small talk as we went down to whatever awaited, I mentioned my pleasure at seeing Brother Eberly's name on the back of the bulletin. "Oh," said the minister. "I guess I'll have to read it...."

Hm, I guess God needed me to help get Brother Eberly's message to the minister....

The fellowship time after the service was far different from either Mennonite or OGB, however. Here this little community showed its full glory. "Something to eat downstairs" turned out to be more than enought finger foods for a full, balanced, healthy meal: fruit, cheese, crackers, raw vegetables, summer sausage, chips, salsa, and cookies. The older lady next to me in line invited me to sit with her and her husband. Another lady about my age sat next to me as I settled in across from the older couple.

"Where do you live?" The older lady asked. I generally begin the answer to this question with "North Lawrence", and go from there as seems appropriate. "Oh, I grew up in North Lawrence," she replied. We compared addresses and found she'd lived just a few blocks from my place in the early 50's, at the time of the '51 flood. She related how her mother and sisters had spent two years living on the back porch of their home while the flood-ravaged house was rebuilt. A useful bit of history...the following day was the public hearing for my Conditional Use Permit to allow camping at the farm, including for myself to have somewhere to live while renovating one of the little houses.

Thanks for the encouragement, God! I'm not so nuts after all...just learning from the past. Camping out for a summer is nothing compared to living with two kids on a porch for two years!

Someone commented on my covering. "You must be German Baptist". I tried not to choke on my astonished laughter, nor embarrass the questioner. "Well, I do attend there usually, but they were having a special function today. Actually the German Baptists wear white gauze coverings; this one is cut from the River Brethren pattern." I went on to explain that each Plain church had its own covering style and color, and I wasn't any of them.

God, I guess you wanted me to remind these people of their Anabaptist cousins in other faith communities. The last names here are all the same ones from the Old German Baptist church, but I guess generations of "disfellowshipping" have spintered the once-close families. Maybe my presence here will begin a path towards rejoicing in their similarities rather than shunning their differences. So many families have been torn apart through our churches' history. As faithful Christian presence in our nation dwindles, it seems like we should band together to strengthen our numbers across divisions, not perpetuate our disagreements about the logs in each others' eyes.

The woman next to me heard me mention I was a Mennonite. "I tried to find Peace [Mennonite] Church when I first moved to town," she said. "I went to the address in the directory, but it was Ecumenical Christian Ministry building, and no one there had ever heard of Mennonites. It was really strange."

I sadly shook my head, commiserating with her confusion. "When was that?" I asked. It was just after the congregation had bought a building of its own and left ECM behind, apparently leaving no forwarding address. My heart aches for my church, hiding from new members and casting out old ones that don't fit the mold.

Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.

She does not, perhaps, realize that we are ministering to one another. Seeing her disappointment in the implied rejection of not leaving a trail she could follow, I'm reminded that their behavior towards me is not so much about who I am as about who they are, and how they are wounded. My heart softens a little, and I can pray for them more gracefully than usual.

We exchange email addresses. We haven't used them yet, but we each know there is another lost sheep, looking for their rightful fold.

Meanwhile, any flock will suffice for company. The rainbow covering helps me remember that every human interaction I have, every day, truly is ministry work if I remember that it's so. Not just my ministry to others, but others' ministry to me.

A Starting Point

After a lifetime of fascination with the Amish, "simple" living, etc., I "serendipitously" wandered in to the liberal Mennonite church in middle age. This was a profound turning point in my long and circuitous faith journey.

Here I found, after a long journey through many spiritual practices, a Christian church that professed the same things I saw when I read the Gospels: Simplicity, non-violence, honesty, separation of church and state, priesthood of all believers, adult baptism, radical faith in a loving God. I was baptized, I became a member.

Before long, I found my path leading right back out the other side of the Mennonite Church--from "not a Christian" to "conservative fringe" in something just a few years. I gradually found my way along a path my liberal church wouldn't follow...something I sometimes describe as "urban stealth Plain"...or in lighter moments, "MennAnaQuak" (I sojourned with the Religious Society of Friends, a.k.a. Quakers, for a few years).

Searching for an outward sign of this inward journey, I began wearing a traditional Anabaptist "prayer covering" in not-so-traditional rainbow colors, to signify one of my other essential core identities: not conventionally heterosexual, according to either Plain or "English" culture.

This blog invites others to join me in exploring, sharing, reflecting, and encouraging one another in our personal explorations of what it means to be "Plain" and "Queer", "In the world but not of the world", all at the same time.