The Outsider

I recently joined an adult rec basketball league in Richmond. I joined as a "free agent" because I'm new to the city and don't have enough (any?) basketball-playing friends to start a team.

Let me take you courtside for the start of the first game...

Team One is a group of Caucasian men, between the ages of 35 and 50, ranging in physical conditions from "great for his age" to "if he were married, his wife probably wouldn't let him eat so many potato chips."

Team Two is a group of African-American men, between the ages of 18 and 25, ranging in physical conditions from "great for any age" to "making him wear a shirt is like throwing a tarp over Michelangelo's David."

The guys on Team Two are warming up by lobbing alley-oop passes and dunking them home with graceful, well-timed leaps. The guys on Team One are warming up their jump shots, one of which is easily the ugliest I've ever seen -- the basketball leaving the man's hands with equal parts reluctance and desperation, like a baby entering the world in a slow hurry.

Everything about me -- age, race, skill, physical condition, and the canvas tote bag slung over my shoulder -- screams Team One.

I have been assigned, however, to Team Two.

Team Two is populated with nice guys, who shake my hand and tell me their names. They say I should sub myself in. I try it once, but no one will leave the game. I watch all but five minutes from the bench, rooting for a team that doesn't really want me.

Amazingly, Team One wins by one point in overtime. Players from both teams slap my hand, and we all go home.

Questions come with me. When did I last felt like such an outsider? What is there to learn in this discomfort? Am I too comfortable most of the time? Do I welcome those who are different from me?

I think that they are important questions for me to ask myself as a Christian. How we treat outsiders -- lepers, prostitutes, Samaritans, and tax collectors -- is a central concern of the Gospels. To the righteous, Christ says, "I was a stranger and you welcomed me." (Matthew 25:35)

This is not a history lesson. You and I are not off the hook because we don't know any Samaritans. What strangers are we called to welcome?

Reflection on Mark 10:35-45

“Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left.”

James and John make a big ask of Jesus.

I have a hard time relating to them in this moment.

I’ve never been so bold, never been so self-assured.

I rarely ask a big favor, rarely make a big request.

I can relate to doing a thing for the wrong reasons.

I have struggled at times with ulterior motives and self-serving interests.

And I can imagine the appeal of Jesus’ power and popularity, 
the desire to be close to him
and to benefit personally from that relationship.

I once met an especially charismatic teacher. 

“Charismatic” in the true sense of the word – not merely engaging –
but spiritually gifted in an especially obvious way.

After studying with Jeff for a brief period of time, 
I signed up for a ten day pilgrimage in Peru, 
where we would hike high into the Andes 
to pray and seek union with God.

Ten whole days!

Surely in ten days I would get it.

Whatever he had – wisdom, gifts, power – 
it would be transferred to me as we rubbed elbows.

Of course, I didn’t know that I thought these things.

Didn’t know until afterwards,
or maybe somewhere in the middle. 

This made the trip a terrific disappointment.

I was disappointed that I had to share Jeff with eleven other students.
(Yes, there were really twelve of us.)

I was disappointed that he didn’t show me any special attention.

I was disappointed in his lack of discernment as a teacher, 
that he didn't recognize my superiority over the other students,

the ones who lived behind their cameras like tourists.

The disappointment I felt was an arrow,
pointing in the direction of my hidden motives.

I wanted the seat of honor.

I never asked for anything or drew any attention to myself.

I just thought Jeff would figure it out.  
He was supernaturally intuitive, after all.

I was not James or John with their big mouths.

I was the other ten, my silent resentment building towards anger.

I wanted Jeff to give me something that wasn’t his to give.

Jeff is not Jesus.
And Jesus tells us that even he cannot guarantee the reward we seek.  
It is not his to give.

What we are guaranteed is work and suffering – the cup and the baptism.

We are reminded that life is gained only by giving it away in selfless service.

Martin Luther King, Jr. – on the eve of his assassination –
gave a great speech in Memphis. He said, 

“Like anybody, I would like to live a long life.  
Longevity has its place.  
But I’m not concerned about that now. 
I just want to do God’s will.”

If I look honestly at myself, I see
how often I am more concerned about my own life than about God’s will,

how often I ask what’s in it for me, where do I get to sit,

how often I feel angry and resentful when I don’t like what’s in it for me.

My hope and prayer is that Christ
show me the same loving patience he shows his disciples,

revealing to me the truth about myself in doses that I can bear,

guiding me away from self-interest,
(by its painful rewards of disappointment and anger)
leading me toward the path of self-giving,

the path of service, the path of love, the path of Life.

Thrills

A group of twenty-seven youth and five adults traveled from St. Stephen's to Busch Gardens last Sunday. Most of the kids (and two brave adults) rode a rollercoaster called "Griffon." The cars are 10 seats wide and only three rows deep, so it looks a bit like a section of a movie theater flying through the sky.

Griffon's steepest descent covers 205 feet, straight down. At the top, the car brakes for six seconds, holding the riders suspended at a 90-degree angle, over the abyss. Then the brakes release and the car hits 70 miles per hour as it falls in a vertical line towards the earth.

Most of the kids thought that looked thrilling enough, but one boy - a slight sixth grader with an insatiable appetite for adrenaline - decided that he'd wait in a line four times longer to get a front row seat on Griffon.

I guess Sam wanted to be right on the very edge. Clearly he's not alone. After all, the front row line was four times longer. And at the same moment, on the edge of space, a man named Felix Baumgartner was preparing to break the speed of sound in a twenty-four mile free fall to Earth. (On a related note, how do you prepare for that? A couple of deep breaths?)

Meanwhile, back at Busch Gardens, Sam was tiring of the rollercoasters. So he, another boy, and I went on the "Rhine River Cruise." The antithesis of Griffon, it's a ride so relaxing it borders on boring (even by my standards). If the boat went any slower, you'd be tempted to help paddle.

When Sam noticed a turtle - sunning itself on a nearby log - his excitement, his shriek of joy, exceeded anything I'd witnessed all day. It was as if he'd just seen the earth from space.

Even as we humans make astounding advances in the field of self-induced adrenaline rushes, God's technology still manages to keep pace. While the world held its breath for Felix's four-minute free fall, Sam marveled at the simple, surprising appearance of a turtle.

Room to Grow

Now Lot, who went with Abram, also had flocks and herds and tents, so that the land could not support both of them living together; for their possessions were so great that they could not live together. 

– Genesis 13:5-6

On my first reading of this verse, I saw Abram choosing his possessions over his brother. After all, were it not for their material abundance, Abram and Lot could have lived together in the same land, right? Was Abram really putting his brother first by giving him first choice of the lands? Wasn’t he putting his wealth first?

As I struggled with this apparent greed and selfishness, a friend helped me to take a wider view of Abram and Lot’s “possessions” – to see not only their material wealth, but also their gifts of the Spirit. For the brothers to grow into their own unique gifts, they needed the space that we all require to discover our identities as individuals. 

Clinging to a peer group offers perceived safety and comfort, but it can also stifle growth and self-discovery. I once took a large group to a weekend youth event. They were thick as thieves, and they had a lot of fun. They didn’t seem to care too much what anyone else thought of them. They had their own esteem, and they had safety in numbers.

On Sunday morning, the homily was interactive. Youth were invited to reflect on the reading from scripture. Many young people participated, and it was quite moving. They mostly avoided generalities and vagaries, and took the risk of sharing from their lives – real questions and personal connections. But not one child in my group shared.

I think that they were afraid, afraid of what others would think of them. And it wasn’t the judgment of strangers that silenced them; it was the judgment of friends. When we surround ourselves too tightly with people we want to be like and people who want to be like us (as we are right now), it is difficult to be different than the person we’ve been in the past, to change and grow and become the individuals that God calls us to be.

Growing up, I wanted to be like Nick. We were friends – sort of. He didn’t want to be like me, so I tried hard to be more like him and less like myself. I clearly remember the evening in 8^th grade when I broke down and realized it wasn’t worth it. I let Nick go his own way. The feeling of freedom was intense. Space to be myself. It must have been a similar feeling when Abram surveyed the land before him and realized how vast it was.

At the moment that Abram and Lot separate, God rewards Abram, promising that his offspring will be as numerous as the dust of the earth, and that his descendants will inhabit the land as far as his eyes can see. 

The 8th Grade Dance

I've just returned from a weekend at Shrine Mont with seventy-some 8th graders from St. Stephen's and other parishes in the Diocese. 

For many kids, the highlight was the dance. That may not come as a shock. Perhaps a bit more surprising is that it was a highlight for me, too.

It was not the 8th grade dance that I remember -- gender-segregated circles, tightly sealed against intrusion, with outsiders clinging to the walls as if they were life-saving flotation devices. PYM* youth leaders helped set the tone by dancing with abandon, for no other reason than the joy of it. And the joy was contagious. 

For a few minutes, I just watched and grinned. Witnessing such exuberance and playfulness was like being in the presence of an infant, of life lived completely in the moment. After trying to play it cool with some foot tapping, I couldn't help but dance too.

I was similarly moved by the walking of the labyrinth. On the surface, these two activities present quite a contrast. The silent, measured steps of the labyrinth walk...the deafening chaos of the dance: the sacred and the profane. 

We walked as a prayer and danced as a party, and yet I can't help seeing a connection between the two. Both called us out of our heads, down into our bodies and feet, bringing us closer to life, closer to God. 

On Sunday morning, as we celebrated the Eucharist and our weekend together, how fitting it was to hear Jesus remind us, "Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it."

*PYM stands for Parish Youth Ministries; this committee composed of youth from throughout the Diocese of Virginia.

Irony

Wednesday morning I was to give a reflection at St. Catherine's morning chapel service. It was a little talk about love, and how -- in order to love -- we need to get off of our to- do lists, forget our agendas, and make ourselves present.

Well, then Wednesday morning happened. I just needed to print the thing. I was running five minutes late when I got to St. Stephen's. I loaded the document and hit print. I walked to the copier room. Nothing. I walked briskly back to my office.

I hit print again, just in case that was the problem. I took a light jog to the copier room. Nothing. I ran back to my office.

I hit print again because I didn't know what else to do. I sprinted to the copier room, my shoes clicking and clacking. Turning into the hallway, I saw a woman -- who had been vacuuming -- plastered against the wall. She'd heard me coming. "Oh my," she exclaimed, "We're in a hurry this morning!"

Yes, I was. In the copier room, I stood looking at the print status: "Waiting." I challenged it to change.  The copier needed to warm up. I didn't have time for it to warm up. I stared at the thing so hard. I twitched a little bit.

Print!

PRINT!

I was suddenly struck by my hypocrisy and by the humor of the situation. I saw myself, laughed a little, and walked away from the copier.

Without my carefully prepared script, I gave a different talk, one about a youth minister who rushes around, wildly preparing to preach on the importance of slowing down and being present. And it went well, not because of anything I'd done, but because God had given me a gift more powerful than preparation. Presence.  

The To-Be List

‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’  

- Matthew 23:37-39

No matter how much I get done, it seems that there will always be things left undone.  Those words – left undone – are part of a prayer of confession in the Book of Common Prayer. We say, “Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.” In another version of the confession, we say, “things done and left undone.”

When I was a teenager and I first began to really hear the words that I prayed, I thought that things left undone meant stuff like...
                        Studying for the test
                        Practicing the piano
                        Stretching properly after cross country practice
                        Feeding the gerbils
                        Doing my homework
                        Writing thank you notes
                        Cleaning my room

When I spoke those words in church each Sunday – “what we have left undone” – those are the things that filled my mind and made me feel like a less than entirely good person.  I rarely wrote Christmas thank you notes before Easter. I used the excuse that I’d wait until after my birthday (January 6^th) and then combine the two. That just made the task twice as large and made me feel doubly guilty for avoiding it. 

I can yet remember the feeling of walking to my piano lesson after another week of not much practice. It’s the feeling of dread that I have in a recurring dream where I’m a college student again and it’s finals week and I suddenly remember a class I signed up for that I haven’t ever attended.

The gerbils I feel genuinely terrible about. I’m quite sure that two gerbils died thanks to my negligence. That’s an awful feeling, to know that two animals starved to death because of me. So I’m not saying that doing things doesn’t matter. It does. But I’m not sure that my mental to-do list helps. So you understand what I mean, my mental to-do list isn’t really about doing things, it’s about wanting to have them done, so I can feel better about having done them, if that makes sense. 

Feeding the gerbils was on my mental to-do list for years – long after they were gone and the point had become moot. My mental to-do list helps me to worry, it helps me to feel guilty, it helps me to feel hopelessly busy, but it rarely actually helps me to do things. Had I instead, simply paid attention to my pets, I never would have needed to remember to feed them because I never would have forgotten to feed them in the first place.

_____________________

Now I hear the words that come after “what we have left undone”: “We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.” They are the words we heard this morning from the Gospel of Matthew – the Great Commandment.

“We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.” It dawned on me recently (and quite belatedly I suppose) that this sentence is not the start of a new idea. It is a list of the things left undone. And they aren’t really things at all – not in the way I usually think of things. It’s not writing thank you letters. It’s not practicing the piano. It’s not even feeding the gerbils. Feeding pets is important, but hopefully it’s something that we do out of the love that we feel for them, not out of guilt, shame, or mere obligation. In my experience – and the experience of those poor gerbils – a to-do list is not nearly the motivator that love is.

There are so many things left undone every single day, right? That’s not just me, is it? Chasing that to-do list is tempting. And doing things is satisfying. Getting things done is satisfying. In my family – and maybe in some of yours – when someone comes back from shopping, we ask “how’d it go?” And if it went well, the answer is “it was a productive outing”. A productive outing. I bought a lot of stuff. I got things done.

The danger for me is getting stuck on the to-do list. Getting stuck rushing around. I’ve worked many summers up in Maine, at the camp of the Episcopal Diocese up there. Most days we work from 8 a.m. until 11 p.m. It’s hard to turn off the busyness. In the morning I’d be in the great hall, getting ready for the day, and I’d bump into one of the directors. It would go something like this. I’d say, “Sara, I’m looking for the blindfolds. The purple and green lycra ones. I know that Katherine was using them yesterday at camp craft and they’re not back in the resource room. Do you think she washed them or… oh, I mean good morning, Sara.” 

Good morning. 

It’s 7:30. I’ve already had a cup of coffee. I’m already running around. Already getting stuff done. I’m on my never-ending to-do list, not on God’s much, much shorter list: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

That’s it. That's the list.

At the end of the day, God isn’t going to call me to account for the lycra blindfolds. Did I love today?  What if we replaced the words “by what we have done, and by what we have left undone” with “by who we’ve been, and by who we’ve failed to be.” Sure, there are actions that demonstrate love, but love is more about being than doing.

So maybe what I need is a to-be list. It could be pretty short I think. It wouldn’t replace the to-do list, but it would put the to-do list in its place. 

What’s on the to-be list? Love. Loving God. Loving my neighbors. Love.