Four years ago tonight...

Four years ago tonight, I left my desk in the newsroom for the last time.
My metaphor for editing was always that of the plate spinner.
I'm just barely old enough to remember having seen them on the Ed Sullivan show when i was single digits.
I always mark this anniversary with gratitude, but this year it seems bittersweet for numerous reasons, starting with the layoff of dear friends twice this year.

My journey these past four years has been remarkable.
And I marvel that it could really only be four years since I started seminary, and now I pastor a church.
I have lived so much life in these four years that I could not have imagined that night.

As a former-journalist, I can't help but wonder what the five-year anniversary story will be. Perhaps I should go start working on it...

Dreaming Dad's Poetry

I woke from a dream this morning,
a vivid dream, of Dad,
Dad reciting poetry.

At first it seemed
the poetry
was not his own.

Yet, by the end it was clear
He knew this poem by heart
because it was his own.

In the dream, I heard all the words,
listening intently
for the message beyond the words.

I woke to breeze blowing in the window
a calming and comforting breeze
and, when I realized I had dreamed of Dad

Not only of Dad
but of Dad's voice,
Dad's poetry, Dad's presence.

I replayed the dream,
and I remembered everything,
everything except the words.

Celebrating the sacred

As I traveled around the labyrinth at First United Methodist Church in San Diego on June 30, as my parting devotion of my appointment there as a local pastor, what came into my mindfulness were multitudes of times when I had been in prayer with people.

It was such an appropriate reflection for all my time there as a parent of a toddler in the preschool, as a member, as a student pastor and then as an appointed local pastor. Prayer centers me and prayer centers my ministry. To be flooded with memories of prayer was prayerful unto itself.

As I exited the labyrinth, I began to reflect on the New (appointment) Year. Last year, I actually committed some New (appointment) Year's resolutions to writing. So I began to reflect on what resolutions I might have for this VERY New Year. What came to me as an overwhelming awareness was my desire to celebrate the sacred wherever it appears.

As if on cue, the sacred hopped into my garage on July 1, New (appointment) Year's Day, in the form of a Horned Toad. I haven't held a horned frog in my hand since I was 10. I still hold an image in clear memory of catching and admiring one along the driveway of my grandmother's house in Jacksboro, Texas. I had never seen one outside of Texas. And this little baby came hopping up my drive and into my garage. Ryan saw it first and was amazed. It was as if a baby dragon had hopped into our awareness. I was delighted by his delight. And I knew as I held this horned toad and marveled at it some (ahem) 40 years later that this, THIS, was the sacred I had vowed to celebrate. It was one of those moments of connection with the Divine, one of those awarenesses of the transient and not-entirely-stable nature of time that connects me to all I have been and helps me imagine all I will be. It was as if the family totem had come to life to offer me blessing. I felt my tenuous Native American roots come alive with this gift of presence.

And so, I celebrated. I celebrated the sacred.

Last year, my list of New (appointment) Year's resolutions read like a litany of literary desire, hopeful appreciation, and trust in the Spirit:

1) Read more poetry.
1a) Write more poetry.
2) See more theatre.
2a) Research cheap ways to see theatre in San Diego.
3) Thank promptly.
3a) Live in an attitude of gratitude.
4) Keep it clean -- the desk, the coffee mug, maybe even the language
5) Delight daily in something.
6) Renew my resolve to follow the leadings and guidings, nudgings and shoves of the Spirit.
7) Hold on to hope.

This year, my singular resolution is more centering prayer than litany:
Celebrate the sacred.

And my hope will be that those celebrations sometimes include poetry, sometimes theatre, sometimes delight and always Spirit presence and great gratitude.

I am grateful for the Horned Toad
That traveled across time and memory
To bless the beginnings of this ministry year
To bless the future from the past
And to remind me that wonders never cease.

Thanks be to God!

Word Image of a Sermon about Word Images

These are the words of my Trinity Sunday sermon.
At the 8 a.m. worship service, there was communion, and I added another story to my life's litany of communion stories, but that is a blog for another day!

Sunday's sermon (preview)

"Wordle: Sunday's Sermon"

Making Art of Life

"Wordle: Linda Major Clark"

Making Art of Life
By Karen Clark Ristine for Mom on Mother’s Day 2009

Cinnamon toast,
Georgia O’Keefe,
Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain;
I learned to appreciate all these art forms from Mom.

Y Lady,
Book store owner,
Yearbook adviser;
I learned how to transform lives through each incarnation of her.

Feminist before it was fashionable,
A challenge to rigid authority,
Unabashed advocate of underdogs;
I learned to seek justice from her.

Okie transplant to Texas,
Baptist convert to Catholicism,
B&W photographer to digital;
I learned to bridge differences from her.

Trees of life,
Dad’s love,
Blessed Ties that Bind;
I learned to appreciate all these art forms from Mom.

Can I Get a Witness...

Jim and Molly each preached powerfully and wonderfully yesterday about how the church can be radical in its welcome of all people -- something the United Methodist Church struggles with,
something we all struggle with.

After her sermon, Molly led us in a ritual asking us to prayerfully consider those we most struggle to welcome and to remember times and places we have felt unwelcome or excluded and to prayerfully work to heal those hurts within ourselves. She asked us to recognize that we sometimes are those who struggle to welcome and at other times are those who feel unwelcome.

Introducing the prayer ritual, Molly showed a photo of Marian Anderson singing outside the Lincoln Memorial in 1939 because the Daughters of the American Revolution had barred her from performing at Constitution Hall. She was invited, instead, to perform from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial,
where 75,000 people heard her sing.

As we walked to the baptismal font, we drew out a stone to represent those times of struggle in welcoming or feeling welcome and our hopes for healing within the church, within our hearts, within all of humankind, and Molly played "Would You Harbor Me?" -- a litany in song performed by Sweet Honey in the Rock, an a capella group of women who have been part of the soundtrack of my life since 1986.

As we walked forward together, the litany repeated:

Would you harbor me? Would I harbor you?
Would you harbor me? Would I harbor you?

Would you harbor a Christian, a Muslim, a Jew a heretic, convict or spy? Would you harbor a run away woman, or child, a poet, a prophet, a king? Would you harbor an exile, or a refugee, a person living with AIDS? Would you harbor a Tubman, a Garrett, A Truth a fugitive or a slave? Would you harbor a Haitian, Korean or Czech, a lesbian or a gay?

Would you harbor me? Would I harbor you?
Would you harbor me? Would I harbor you?

It was a powerful witness to a glorious hope for the future not only of our United Methodist denomination but for our own church, for our own hearts and for all of God's kin-dom.

It was also a powerful privilege for me to get to consecrate communion immediately after that ritual since Molly feared she might have a cold. I love the welcome table of the United Methodist Church. No matter what our constitution says, no matter what we struggle with as a people, our communion table is open to everyone. Our sacrament is a means of grace shared with anyone -- anyone -- desiring to receive it.

After worship in Water's Edge, two different families talked to me about exclusion within the church. One couple loves worship and fellowship at Water's Edge at First UMC but is taking a social justice stand not to become members until the denomination changes its policies and fully includes lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people. Molly's sermon (and Jim's) talked about upcoming denominationwide votes on the UMC constitution that would change the language to make clear that all people are welcome as members. That change, itself, would be welcome and celebrated by many.

And there is hope, though not certainty, that a change in welcome in membership might lead to changes in the denomination's current prohibition on lesbian, gay, and bisexual clergy. (Transgender clergy are currently included.) The UMC has its own version of "don't ask, don't tell." The denomination bans "self-avowed, practicing homosexuals" from serving as clergy.

I went to seminary with United Methodists who identify within the LGB community and who love the church and are clearly called to ministry. Some are caring ministers gifted in pastoral care. Some are powerful preachers. Some are visionaries with a hope for the future of the church of Jesus Christ. All must remain silent on their true sense of self through their candidacy, commissioning and ordination process. Even people who care deeply about them coach them not to name who they are if they want to pass their written and oral Board of Ordained Ministry examinations.

For me, asking these ministers to remain silent about who they are is not unlike trying to silence Marian Anderson. Marian Anderson could not hide the difference for which she was discriminated. These pastors can. But should they? My prayer is that someday someone within the church is brave enough, prophetic enough, to see the human rights reasons to provide an open pulpit so that these pastors can preach from the steps of freedom rather than be bound in silence.

Only then will our hearts, minds and doors, truly, be open.

May it be so.

Amen.

Title TK

Ryan's mama loves communion.
Ryan loves communion almost as much as his mama.
Ryan's mama loves Vespers.
Ryan loves Vespers almost as much as his mama.
Last night, Ryan and his mama and Vespers and the Holy Spirit and a bunch of good people came together in communion -- this holy mystery.

Karen's dad loved mystery.
That's how he finally came willingly to the communion table, through mystery.
Karen's dad loved fishing, too. And baseball.
Karen loves baseball almost as much as her dad.
Ryan loves fishing almost as much as his grandpa.

Fish used to be part of the communion meal in very early Christian churches.
Baseball did not, at least not recorded by Eusebius or Tertullian -- though Tertullian did provide Christian Tradition with a name for its own Tinker-to-Evers-to-Chance combo, coining the term Trinity.
Baseball did not, at least until last night, when Ryan, a promising Mira Mesa Youth Baseball utility player and speedster on the base paths, decided to race to the communion rail.

From the middle of the sanctuary, Ryan began weaving his way quickly past other worshipers, breaking into a full run on the chancel to surpass Tom, who is almost always first to the altar on the side Ryan's mama serves. Tom seemed taken aback at first and then, when he saw that it was Ryan racing to be first, he broke into a smile as big as the one on Ryan's mama's face.

"The bread of life and the cup of blessing, given in love for you, Ryan," Ryan's mama said to him.

"Amen," Ryan said, looking into his mama's eyes.

Amen

(The title to this blog came to me as I sat in the front pew listening to the beautiful postlude last night. The title and a bunch of other words that aren't these words also came to me then. These words are better than the words that came to me last night, but I can't for the life of me remember the title, nor, for that matter, come up with a better one. So, I've used some journalism shorthand. Often stories are sent on down the production line without essential elements like headlines. So, at the top, you write "Headline TK." TK, for some odd reason, stands for "to come." It lets folks know you didn't forget to write the headline, you just haven't yet had time or inspiration, or both. Sometimes you even see the words accidentally published.)

The rooster is growing on me

I confess that the rogue rooster who lives in the canyon my house overlooks and enters the urban landscape each morning to crow from sidewalks and fences has begun to grow on me.

This morning, I woke before the rooster to finish my income taxes. About 6 a.m., I realized I had yet to hear the rooster, who has returned to greeting the day in hours that begin with 4.

If I'm deep asleep, I don't hear his first calls, but by 5 a.m., my sleep is light enough to be awakened by this nature-provided alarm.

So, when I did not hear him at 6 a.m. this morning and realized I could not remember whether I heard him on Monday, my first thought was: O my gosh, some neighbor really did have coq au vin for Easter dinner!

I have come to realize that I like hearing the rooster in the morning as much as I enjoy the call of owls at night -- a much less frequent occurrence, but always a welcome lullaby.

My only previous experience with roosters came on daytime visits to Aunt Mary and Uncle Brother's place outside Jacksboro, Texas. They always had a rooster and some hens and, for a time, a longhorn steer.

I probably saw a rooster in my youth, too, because my great-grandmother's home had a hen house. I don't remember the rooster. I remember the hens. I didn't visit often, but I have a crisp memory of watching my great-grandmother scatter feed for the hens and then give me a handful to scatter to the wind. I remember waiting outside the hen house while she collected eggs.

These are memories from when I was five or six, because Mamie lived with her daughters for the last few years of her life after her husband died.

My memories of their place, though, are vivid still.

And the rooster takes me back there.
And the rooster makes me want some hens.

I wonder how long it would take for chicks to grow to hens and how long before there would be eggs to collect. And I wonder whether instinct or genetics or memories from age 5 would kick in to help me scatter and gather as Mamie did. My father wrote a short story about Mamie's lethal hands. His childhood memory is not of her gathering eggs but of her killing a chicken for Sunday dinner.
I think I'd just stick with the eggs.

I wonder all these things and then I wonder about practical matters. I wonder about zoning laws -- yet my friend Sharon just got two chicks and she lives in La Jolla. I wonder about cages -- what could I keep hens in that would keep them from becoming coyote food.

And that only increase my admiration for the rooster. How does HE survive the coyotes? For that matter, how does he survive the traffic on the streets he roams?

At 6:15 this morning, the rooster finally began to crow. I think the overcast sky may have caused him to sleep in. But during the silence, I realized that I will really miss him when he's gone.

He ties me to my past and he amuses me in my present and he helps me dream of a future that might include some fresh eggs. And if there are fresh eggs, perhaps there should be a garden to grow the scallions and tomatoes and peppers that would go so well in an omlette. And if there is garden, perhaps that means there is leisure time to tend it. And if there is leisure time, perhaps it won't matter when the rooster crows.

And so, in gratitude, I offer this ode to my rogue rooster...

Ode to a Rogue

He climbs up the canyon wall,
Squeezing through the iron fence,
And raises his voice to the day.

He calls me from sleep to wakefulness,
He calls me from present to past,
He calls me from current anxieties to past comforts.

He calls, and as he does,
I recall my great-grandmother,
Who fed her chickens and also killed them.

He calls relentlessly,
He calls insistently,
He calls boldly into the dawn.

Kaleidoscope Poem

Kaleidoscope

Light, bits of glass, physics,
Whimsy, imagination, delight,
Sudden change,
New perspective,
Temporary art,
Portable stained glass,
Time suspended.

At just after 9 a.m. this morning, someone on the East Coast searched for a kaleidoscope poem. I know this because it was a google search that landed them on my blog on a page with a poem in progress of images and sensations from sitting on my grandmother's front porch one early morning last summer as she made the slow transition from this life.

In gratitude for being sent back to that sacred moment -- captured clumsily, I thought I'd try to write a kaleidoscope poem.

(This discovery also prompted me to look at recent blog traffic to a blog that hasn't been updated for months, and, to my delight, I discovered that Whispering Hope, still regularly brings searchers here. There's something poetic in that alone.)

I've written under the words "kc's kaleidoscope" since high school and I've collected kaleidoscopes at least that long. Not captured in the poem above is my delight in how a kaleidoscope brings so many possibilities and perspectives together in one place as art, not conflict. They are held not in tension, but in beauty.

And, as I was crafting the poem, I knew just which picture needed to go with these words! And it made me realize, anew, just how much I will miss the kaleidoscope of light and experience that has made art of my life all the years I have been at First UMC San Diego.

Praying into the Silence

All week I have watched
as people who know me well
see me differently than I know myself to be.

(An awareness of amazing emancipation.)

My journey all of Lent
has been deeply internal,
prayerful and excruciatingly self-aware.

(An awareness of incredible blessing.)

All week I have watched
as people who do not know me well
help me see myself anew.

(A awareness of unexpected affirmation.)

My Lenten steps have been toward freedom.
Freedom to be myself unfettered,
Unfettered from criticisms that seek to destroy.

(A awareness of internal reconciliation.)

I have experienced daily acts of forgiveness
toward those whose pain and insecurity
blind them to love and understanding.

(And I pray such forgiveness when I have acted out of pain not love.)

Each day, even in the midst of very difficult times,
I have experienced sacred moments
of light and hope to hold fast to always.

(And I pray such sacred moments for all.)

This Holy Week has brought unexpected affirmation
of all of my callings, personal and pastoral,
at the culmination of a journey through deep self.

(And I pray such holy affirming for all.)

Through Lent, I expected tearing down, yet there was only letting go.
I expected to fear self-reflection; instead it embraced me.
I saw the rooster as self denial; instead it was about self worth.

(And I pray such loving self-embrace and healing release for all.)

I am all the things I know myself to be.
I am some of the things others say I am.
I can let go of those that I am not.

I only need to live up to my true self,
To know and cherish the me I was created to be
And to accept, at last, the holy embrace of self.

And so I pray into the silence of Holy Saturday
That it may be so.
And so it is.
Amen.

Ryan's Christmas song

Ryan wrote this Christmas song, lyrics and tune, I just helped arranging it for guitar...



Feliz Navidad
Ho! Ho! Ho!