Wait, what?

These were the looks on our faces 20 years ago, about an hour after we’d made our marriage vows in Montreat Chapel. We were both 21 years old and this snapshot is a decent representation of at least a part of what we were feeling that day: Wait, we’re actually married? OK… and now what?

Actually, all these years later, this is probably still a good visual of my experience of marriage much of the time. Wait, what?!

What I mean is that there’s nothing static about marriage. I’m not the same person as the guy in that photo who’s wearing those J.C. Penney pleated slacks and trying to act like he knows what’s going on. Thankfully I’m not. Neither is Maggie.

In hindsight, it’s a strange thing to think of all of the build-up and planning for our wedding, though I don’t regret any of it. It highlighted the significance and permanence of our vows. It’s as though the occasion itself was an answer to the reasonable questions, Really? Till death do you part? Are you sure?

The thing we didn’t know, not really, and which was maybe foreshadowed in our deer-in-the-headlights expressions, was how regularly we’d need to answer those same questions again. In some ways marriage is simply one year after another of making the same vows – as a different person than the one you were the year before, to a person who’s a little – or a lot – different than the one you made promises to in previous years.

People sometimes laugh when they see our wedding pictures. How old were you, 16? But here’s the gift of having been married for half our lives: I’ve had the chance to grow to love the many stages of the same woman. That’s the impossible and wonderful thing that we could only barely imagine on that warm North Carolina night 20 years ago.

I can imagine a tradition in which each anniversary the same people gathered, along with new ones picked up along the way, to witness the same two people make the same vows. The vows would remain the same; the wife and her husband, now differently constituted and configured, would be the changed parts of the annual ceremony. In this alternative universe we’d all recognize that no person should remain the same, that change is evidence of life even when the changes are frightening and surprising. We’d affirm the grace that holds together this couple who, on any given anniversary, is becoming acquainted with the person they’ve each become.

If I could whisper anything to those two as we prepared to cut the cake it’d be something like this: Relax. You don’t have to know what you’re doing. Enjoy each other today for who you are. And hold each other loosely so that you’ll be ready for who you’ll each become.

Happy anniversary Maggie. I can’t wait to see who we’ll be in the next 20 years.

“…the thought of the church participating and even sanctioning it pushes me right over the edge.”

The realization of creation’s inclusion in God’s reconciliation project should disturb us, for we have done great violence to the earth and its inhabitants. By assaulting creation we have assaulted ourselves and thwarted God’s will for the world. Based on a fault theology of dominion, the church has helped to perpetuate the idea that the earth and its nonhuman inhabitants are primarily “natural resources” to satisfy humanity’s needs and fancies without caution or compassion. misinterpreting dominion as domination, broken humanity has cleared forests, blown off mountaintops, dumped waste in oceans, hunted animals for sport, created factory farms, and experimented cruelly on monkeys and rats. Such violent crimes against creation describe not just the distant past but the tragic present… I find humanity’s assault upon the earth and its fellow creatures nearly unbearable; the thought of the church participating and even sanctioning it pushes me right over the edge.

– Al Tizon in Whole and Reconciled. I won’t say much about this book now as I’m writing a review to be posted elsewhere, but Al’s wisdom is what the church urgently needs today. I was so impressed by how broad and holistic he could be – this passage comes in a section about reconciling with creation – while always remaining specific and applicable. I hope a whole bunch of American Christians and their pastors read this book carefully.

Scaredy-Cats

Last night our old cat jumped onto the couch next to the four-year-old as he sat with Maggie, listening as she read his bedtime story. This cat, the epitome of scaredy-cat, has never done this before. In the dozen or so years that we’ve had her, she has spent about 90% of her time in hiding: under beds, buried under blankets, disappeared into the darkest corner of a closet. For a while we owned one of those oversized recliners and she figured out how to crawl inside one of its wide – and, we came to learn – mostly hollow arms. It was only when one of us dropped into that chair and leaned back that we’d discover her there, the frantic wiggling and clawing the unmistakable signal that we’d again disturbed her peace.

fullsizeoutput_29fbIt took a few years before Gabby the cat would venture onto the couch with us on an evening when we sat quietly, reading or watching TV. When we adopted our first son she seemed to revert and for his first few years E must have wondered about this imaginary animal his parents mentioned occasionally.  Most of our guests over the years couldn’t be faulted for thinking the same; occasionally someone will do a double-take while sitting at our dining room table, “I didn’t know you had a cat,” they’ll exclaim with that certain tone that indicates whether or not they’re a cat person.

Anyway, as E learned to be quiet around our sensitive cat she slowly warmed to him, eventually even seeking him out to be scratched behind her ears. The four-year-old has always been a bit more rambunctious. Frankly, I thought it’d be a few more years before she’d let him get close. But tonight, to the surprise of both Maggie and W, she hopped right up.

I only mention our cat and her skittish ways because I sometimes think I’ve learned as much about being a pastor from her as I have from most of the books I’ve read and classes I’ve taken on the subject.

When we adopted the cat who’d become Gabby – the shelter had named her Fleur which is a good French word for flower but, in our opinions, not so good for a cat – the woman who had cared for her warned us that she was pretty shy. An understatement! At six months old she’d been found near death, shivering under a pile of frozen leaves. It took a few months to revive her to the point where she was strong enough to be adopted. On top of being so easily frightened, she’s always remained skinny. No matter what we feed her she still carries evidence of those first cruel days in her body.

It’s been close to fifteen years that we’ve lived with this cat. She is the same animal now as she was when we first drove her home. But she’s also different, braver. She’ll never be one of those cuddly, social cats but almost every morning now, before everyone else gets up, she’ll jump into my lap while I read. Instead of burying herself in our furniture, she perches on one of the couch’s armrests, hoping to be pet while we watch reruns of The West Wing or The Simpsons.

People can change and heal is what I’m getting at I guess. But we can’t be forced. And if you want to be there when it starts to happen, you’ve got to stick around long enough so that when they’re finally ready to be seen you’ll be around to see.