Who Knows Where the Time Goes?

 

Judywhoknows

A friend just published a post, on another topic entirely, in which she quotes a song from Judy Collins’s album, Who Knows Where the Time Goes?  My friend’s post is about a memory significant to Lent.  She dredged up some memories for me as well.

It’s the fall of my junior year in boarding school in western Massachusetts.  I am “campused” (like being grounded, boarding school style), due to an unfortunate encounter with a teacher who discovered a friend and me visiting the boys’ school five miles away in the middle of the night the previous spring.  Thus I spend a lot of time on my own, gliding around my dorm room or sprawled on  my bed, listening to music, when my friends are away – which means that 50 years later (FIFTY ?!?!) I will still know all those songs by heart.  At sixteen, I have loooong brown hair with red and gold highlights, a romance going very badly, and a stack of English papers to write, having largely given up on Algebra II.

I do not know that some thirty years later, I will have a son who will be a high school senior and living in the same dorm, with the same view of the mountains stretching before him.  I do not know that, like Judy Collins’ son, mine will die of suicide only a few years later, and that her music and those memories will all be wound into one ball of yarn, forever unraveling.

I still like the music, though.

Preaching Politics

Facebook ~ yes; preaching, no.  Friends, yes ~ congregants, no.

That’s been my general approach to political commentary.  On Facebook, I post news articles and, often, my own opinions thereon.  I don’t think that my outlook is lost on my congregation ~ I speak and pray often enough about those who suffer or are disenfranchised ~ but I don’t go all out political.  I’ve been told, and I’m pretty sure that it’s true, that the folks in the pews hold views across the political spectrum, and while I’d like to persuade some of them to move further to the left, that’s not my job in the pulpit.  On FB, I don’t usually feel the same constraints.   I also read posts by friends and family who disagree with me.  I don’t follow their logic! ~ but I read them.  Usually without responding.  Their pages, their posts, their views.  I don’t feel inclined to take up their space with argument.  (They don’t always extend the same courtesy to me.)  Harder, for me anyway, to listen to folks in the church with whom I disagree without reacting.

In the last church I served, after a couple of months, people began to thank me for bringing contemporary concerns into the prayers.  (I did hear of one gentleman who was angry that I had not prayed for a matter he deemed of concern ~ which I would have, actually, had I known about it but, as so often happens, he told other people, and not me.)  But I didn’t push things very far.  When we held a service of music and prayer for the city the day before the Republican Convention opened in Cleveland, we kept it strictly nonpartisan.

Last Sunday, however, I was done with caution and impartiality in the pulpit.  Just done.  Angry at what the American infatuation with guns had wrought.  Disgusted by cowardly politicians raking it in from the NRA.  Devastated on behalf of parents whose lives have been forever altered in a vicious and brutal way.  And inspired by the young people of Parkland FL.

So my sermon on God’s promises of reconciliation through Noah, for the healing and rebuilding of all of creation throughout the Bible, became a sermon on laying down weapons of destruction.  I mentioned AR15s specifically.  I mentioned Emma Gonzalez, specifically.  I said NO to criticizing young people and NO to wringing our hands and saying “there’s nothing we can do,” and YES to the Kingdom of God among us.  And told them about specific ways of taking action.

I wasn’t preaching to the choir, as  would have been in my home church.  A few people thanked me for giving voice to their own thoughts.  Many more were silent, and I’m sure that at least a few of those were critical ~ but not to my face, not yet.

To my astonishment, our secretary asked me to publicize means of communicating with our state and federal representatives.  So we’ll put that information out next week.

There are hundreds, thousands, of pastors more articulate and powerful than I am in preaching what the Spirit tells me is the real good news ~ God’s passionate love for all of creation ~ and political ways of moving on that news.  I write this for all of us somewhere in the middle, trying to figure out how to live with integrity without creating a resistance that prevents people from hearing us.

It’s hard to know when you’re hitting the right balance, and when you’re simply wimping out.

Stuff

As Quiet Husband and I contemplate The Third Third of our lives, it is profoundly apparent that we are Stymied By Stuff.

We have been married nearly 44 years, have lived in the same house for 34 of those years, have raised three children and cared for a menagerie here, have replaced two bathrooms and a backyard space, and have filled three floors, three attics, and a full basement with Stuff.

We have read and dreamed about downsizing, and looked at smaller houses and condos, but before we can do anything about those fantasies, we have to evict the Stuff.  I have, of course, read about Kondo-ing, other decluttering methods, the spirituality of de-cluttering — all of the authors amateurs, I have to say.  Marie Kondo, for instance, recommends starting with something that does not spark an emotional response — books, for instance.  Ha ha ha.  Repeat.  Ha ha ha. She has a limited understanding of the bond some of us enjoy with our books!

I have reluctantly accepted, per the counsel of friends who were once in a similar situation, that this is at least a two-year project, one which I commenced yesterday.

Phase One: Locate photos in one place.  I have chosen the second floor linen closet.  If they don’t all fit there, then there are too many. Yesterday I began to clean out the bottom of four shelves to make a space.

Plastic bins of medicines; random picture frames; even more random snapshots; some supplies which must have come from some surgery I have mercifully forgotten about; an old jewlery box containing actual jewelry plus the 1.5 letters which constitute the only handwritten communications my mother left behind, an early ultrasound of my boys, and some other stuf f through which I have yet to sift.  Result: Two bags of trash, a clear-er space, and that jewelry box still to be addressed.

It took me an hour.  Maybe I need to modify my expectations from two years to ten.

 

 

 

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