I own a lot of stuff. As I gather that stuff to start my #RoadTriptotheGoose it occurs to me that I may not need this much stuff. I read science fiction. Thus, as I pack my car I always imagine "what if this is all that I'll have if the world-as-we-know-it ends on this trip"? What will I be sorry that I left behind? Certainly the 12 boxes of photos in my attic, which I have not looked at in more than 20 years. My sewing machine. Two bookshelves full of fabric. Hiking poles? Batteries? All these things are important, right? What is the modern day equivalent to the man who stores things up and the dies suddenly (Luke 12:16-21)? I do not have an excess of grain, does that mean I'm off the hook? I once asked a woman in a small town in Guatemala if I could take her picture. She said yes, but she had to run home first to get her other dress. That is, she had two, the one she was wearing, and the other one, that was for pictures and church and weddings and such. I saw a woman in India wearing half her sari while she washed the other half. I know women in Worcester who go braless because bras for large sizes are in excess of $50 each. In the meantime, I'm here debating whether I can go camping for four days with four outfits. What if it rains and one gets muddy? Packing is the art of figuring out what things will be important for the next number of days. What will be the weather, and what will make me uncomfortable, and what do I want to eat? What will I wish I had with me for the end times? It turns out that it is also time to reflect on my accumulation of things. What would it look like to live with less? And if I gave up my stuff, would I replace it with God? So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God. -Luke 12:21 I don't have any answers. Lots of stuff and lots of questions.
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I started my #wildgoose2021 road trip with the movie Coda. Hearing child of Deaf parents wants to be a singer. Great movie, and great start to my travels. It got me thinking about Deaf Bob--which is a stretch of epic proportions. Deaf Bob has nothing in common with this movie other than the fact that he was Deaf. (For anyone squirming at the name “Deaf Bob”, let me assure you that it was his chosen moniker.) Deaf Bob was a parishioner at Worcester Fellowship, the outdoor church for homeless and at risk adults. He and Tom taught me ASL and much more. They taught me to communicate with my Deaf neighbors using rudimentary signed english, a lot of repetition, and an ever present note pad. They emphasized that it is important to understand that Deaf culture is very direct. Bob says what he means without needing innuendo or words accompanied by a wink. I heard about sex and bowel movements and body pains that hearing folk simply do not generally discuss with their pastor. When I would be embarrassed Deaf Bob would say, laughing, “Pastor Liz, it’s okay, we are Deaf. Deaf people talk like this. Relax!” I’d love to tell you that I learned to relax. I did not. But I did learn the value of being direct. As a a regular volunteer at St. John’s Food ministry on Temple Street, Deaf Bob was on obvious choice for the cooking team for our annual Sock Hop. He planned the menu, provided the grocery list, and guided, er, forcefully directed, the cooks. Early in the planning Bob came to me to ask what to do about Glen. Glen was a helper—quick to volunteer, kind with everyone, and honest to a fault. He was also a little slow, didn’t speak clearly, and typically wasn’t very clean. Glen had a strong odor. “I thought I’d encourage him to do set-up,” I explained to Deaf Bob. “He wants to cook.” “Well, you know,” I hedged and could see Bob getting impatient. “I don’t think he can cook.” “He stinks. I’ll take care of it.” Bob was confident, I was nervous. Later I saw the conversation. Away from the team, Deaf Bob invited Glen to join the cooking team. He then used signs and motions of requirements to be on the team. Bob demonstrated showering by putting soap on a wash cloth and washing under his arms, around his private parts, (thank you Jesus he remained clothed for this demonstration), and balancing on one foot, demonstrated scrubbing between his toes. He rinsed off, Glen agreed to the terms, and started to turn away, but Deaf Bob pulled him back. He moved on to illustrate how to trim his beard, trim his nails, and even how to clean under the nails. I was becoming more and more nervous that Dave would be put off by this lesson, but he seemed entranced. Sure enough, on the day of the event, Glen showed up in a clean shirt and jeans, a neatly trimmed beard and clean hands he presented to Bob for inspection. Deaf Bob went around to all the volunteers providing hair nets, beard coverings, and disposable gloves. No one was dissuaded by being asked to follow basic hygiene requirements! During clean-up Glen came by and told me thanks. He had never been welcomed on the cooking team before, and loved the experience. Deaf Bob died earlier this year. I hope he knows how much he helped me learn ministry. #5loaves2fish12volunteers #RoadTriptotheGoose In the fall of 1983 I started my first "real job". That is, not a summer job, or work study, but the beginning of a career. And I was lonely. So lonely. I started to look for a church, mostly as a way to meet people. Here's the rub. How do I find a church that accepts all of me, that doesn't require that I pretend to be someone I'm not? Would I be welcome as queer? (In those days most of us commonly used "gay" to describe ourselves; "queer" was a slur. I'll use today's language throughout this story of my past.) I remember picking up the phone and calling churches, listening to the dead silence after my question, the hangups, the sweet and horrible undertones as someone said "honey, we love all sinners". I remember my silence when I finally reached a church that said "yes, we will care for you exactly as you are." I sobbed with relief. It would be later that I'd fall apart and Jesus would assure me that God says I am okay. It would be much later that I'd turn to ministry and sharing the good news that God cares for each person exactly as they are. In 1983 that welcoming church provided community with others that wanted the best for me. Over time our culture has developed signs for marking that a church is safe, often by voting to be "Open and Affirming" (UCC) and "Reconciling" (UMC). Straight people and cis-gender people studied how to be affirming, not just welcoming, how to trust our LGBTQI family members, neighbors, and ourselves. We started to hang up flags. The rainbow flag makes it clear that "we welcome all" means more than "you can come in". It means that we will do our best to love all the parts of who you are. You don't have to pretend to be straight, or even to pretend that you have figured out everything about yourself. When Ashburnham Community Church put out our flag we got a steady stream of phone calls. Some sounded just like me in 1983, tentatively asking "does this mean I can be queer at your church?" Crying when I said yes. All of the calls were expressions of thanks and relief. Overwhelmed, surprised, relieved to be seen. Of course some Community Church members have heard negative feedback, mostly from people concerned that it meant they had to be LGBTQI to come inside. Oddly enough, almost all of our congregation is straight! We want you to know that you can be who you are when you are in church with us. You are welcome to wrestle with who you are (and what you believe) in our space. We are wrestling ourselves. Right now Ashburnham is struggling with whether flags--the rainbow flag and the blue-white-pink trans flag--are appropriate in our elementary schools. Honest, caring adults are wrestling with whether the flags cause division, or if children are too young to think of themselves as GLBTQI people. Here is what I know--I was in third and fourth grade, in public school, when other children started calling me "Lezzie Lizzy". I didn't know what it meant, but I certainly knew that it was meant to hurt me. I can't imagine how much better the rest of my schooling would have been if someone had said "Lesbians are people who are love other women, and we don't make fun of that." I wish there had been a rainbow flag in my classroom. Kids recognize gender at age two and start thinking about their own gender at age three. Many trans kids who come out as teens or pre-teens remember feeling mis-gendered when they were three or four. For most of us, gender is pretty secure--being around trans people doesn’t affect my identity as woman, and being around people who doubt them doesn’t affect a trans person’s gender identity. A trans flag in a classroom is a lifeline for a young person who knows their gender doesn’t match what they have been told. What's in a flag? A chance to offer welcome, a chance to reassure a child they are safe in this space. It's a sign; in a church it is a sign that God loves you, in a school a sign that the community loves you. |
My ThoughtsFor my organized thoughts, see my book Five Loaves, Two Fish, Twelve Volunteers: Developing Relational Food Ministries. In this spot are thoughts that appear for a moment--about food programs, mission, church, building community, writing, and whatever else pops into my head. History
January 2024
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