It is the waiting time of year. Waiting for Christmas. Waiting for presents and presence. Waiting in lines and on the phone. Waiting for lift off.

For me, this time of year is called Advent – the Coming. I wait to celebrate the first coming and anticipate the second coming. It is the time of year that I am counseled – rightly – to slow down, use this waiting time to get ready, to reflect, to notice. At the same time, I think about people who spend most of their lives waiting. The homeless folks I see once a week wait for everything – food, a bed at night, paperwork, transportation, the phone. There are women and men who wait months and years and decades for children that never come. There are people who wait for loved ones to die. For a lot of people, there is nothing novel about slowing down and waiting. Maybe I can learn just by looking around.

Waiting is part of what it means to be human, starting from our origins of making others wait for us to arrive. Almost always, waiting is for the unknown (do you really think you can guarantee what is coming?) but we don’t have to wait alone.

Recently, I was on retreat with an amazing group of women friends.  It is an annual event that includes lots of reflection, music, prayer, wine, and chocolate. And a labyrinth.

The labyrinth at our retreat center is outdoors and made from stone, wood, and dirt–a locally sourced labyrinth. Walking it, you hear the crunch of leaves and small stones under your feet. Wind and sun and clouds and temperature all become part of the experience, so each time you make the journey it is a little different. I’ve always walked this one with a group and the labyrinth is big enough so that you can be in community and in your own space at the same time.

Like all labyrinths, this one will teaching you something if you pay attention. Insight, healing, serenity, and grace…if that is what you are seeking you can probably find some of it as you stroll that winding path. For me, a long, slow walk to the center and back quiets the noise in my head from a loud and busy life.

But here is something different: this labyrinth has trees growing all through it. Some help mark the way, others are smack dab in the middle of the path itself. It is impossible to make this journey without encountering and then finding a way around the trees. The first year those trees were a buzzkill; mid-meditation I had to stop, navigate, then re-group. In year two, I was nearly able to ignore the trees as I made my pilgrimage to the center and back again.

This was my third year and it was the charm. I paid attention to the trees as I sidestepped some, ducked others. There are a couple that you literally cannot pass unless you hug them. This is what I learned from the labyrinth: Sometimes you have to embrace your obstacles. So I hugged those trees on the way to the center and hugged them again on the way back.

Here is another thing the labyrinth reminded me: like all spiritual journeys the path of a labyrinth does not end at the center, it sends you back to the world again with whatever you learned along the way. So now that I am back in the swirl of my everyday life, I am hugging all the trees in my path: my argumentative son, my talk-til-she-drops daughter, my broken water heater, and the crazy-busy job I love. My path would not be the same without them.

P.S. If you are really into labyrinths, check out this great mediation written by my friend the Soul Curate here.

Norman Rockwell, 1961

Recently, I have had the great, good fortune of being asked to join a committee on Ecumenical and Interfaith Relations. No, seriously, for me this is great! And I mean that both about being on a committee and about the issue we’ll be working on.

Among other topics that engage us in ecumenism and interfaith work, is the big one about why we do it. Some people in my Christian tribe (not the committee members) think this work waters down their faith or should only be done with the goal of converting others to their faith tradition.  Others worry when they engage in this work that they are being judged for either being too Christian (or a particular kind of Christian) or not Christian enough—and sometimes both at the same time. Does ecumenical and interfaith work distract us from working within our own traditions, or is it something our tradition expects of us?

No matter how much I enjoy it, for me interfaith and interdenominational work is an obligation. It is a work of faith that springs directly from my baptism, the sacrament that made me a Christian. In other words, given the world I live in right now, I cannot be a Christian without also reaching across the divides of faith traditions.

In the vows taken on my behalf when I was a baby, and that I have renewed hundreds of times since, I have agreed to:

• Resist evil, turn to Jesus, and put my whole trust in his grace and love.
• Proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ, seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving my neighbor as myself.
• Strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being.

And there you have it, right there in the Baptismal Covenant, my imperative for interfaith dialogue and relationships: I live in a community that includes people from diverse religious and cultural traditions. I am to love all of them, seek Christ in all of them, and respect the dignity of every single one. I cannot honor my faith, my vows to God, while at the same time denying or disrespecting the faith of others, because that is part of who they are.

I am not a full-time interfaith activist. Which means I am living proof that it is possible to live out these vows without making this one aspect of living in community my main or only focus. (Although, I am grateful for those who do make it their life’s work.) I guess you could say that if I can do this, anyone can. And here are some things I have learned about ecumenism and interfaith relations so far, in no particular order:

1. You don’t have to get your ducks in a row first. Truly, you don’t have to nail down your theology of anything to make friends and treat people with respect. If you wait until you are “ready” or “know enough” or address concerns within your own house of worship…well, really, that work is never done and it’ll always be changing. And this is true of anything you do in response to faith. Do you have to do an intensive Bible study before feeding the hungry? Or addressing injustice? Or celebrating the blessings in life? If you wait, you will miss a lot of great opportunities.
2. Other people and their faith traditions can teach you a lot. And I don’t just mean learning about the faith traditions of others—although you will learn a lot about that. You will learn about—and sometimes clarify—your own beliefs as well. For me, as a Christian in a majority Christian culture, there is a lot about my faith tradition I take for granted. When I have conversations about charity or evil or family or career or prayer with people from other faith traditions, it sometimes throws my own beliefs into high relief. That is especially true if you include atheist brothers and sisters in the conversation.
3. Other people and their faith traditions don’t exist for my edification.  I learn so much from my relationships across lines of cultural and religious difference, yet if that is the only reason I pursued them I’d be exploiting people God is calling me to love. Sometimes there is a fine line between inviting someone to teach you and using them for your own purposes—like validating what you already believe. I’d say the key is having an open heart and expecting to change. Actually, that works for just about any relationship you have.
4. Be true to yourself and your beliefs. Part of being in ecumenical and interfaith dialogue means bringing your own faith tradition to the table. Without that, you are really just a fly on the wall. And nobody likes flies. It is possible to be fully yourself, be committed to your own tradition and still be respectful to others. You’d never know that by looking at a lot of the news these days, but it is true. Plus, when you are just an observer in the conversation, you are treating other people as an exhibit. See above, that’s not good.
5.  You don’t have to address global issues – the ones in your own neighborhood are just as important. In fact, maybe even the ones in your own church. I’m talking about interfaith marriages, people leaving one denomination for another, friends of friends who come to your youth group. How can you serve people if  you don’t know about them?
6. If you want to be heard, you also have to listen.
7. It is okay not to get it right all the time, no one does.

I could go on, but seven is a lucky number, so I’ll stop there. What about you? What are your experiences of ecumenical and interfaith relations? Why is it important – or not—to you?

For the sun peaking over the trees
and children rushing to meet the school bus
and Mr. Don who will drive them safely
and a second-grader who forgot her lunchbox;

For my little dog, tagging all he surveys,
and all his friends who come over for a sniff
and the rain lilies that popped up
after a much needed downpour;

For the girl with high-school-senior anxiety
and the retired couple out for their morning walk
and the family who lost their dad last year
and the toddler cawing at the morning birds;

For the hectic start and a calming walk
and reminders of the fullness of life
all around the block
I am grateful, O God. Amen.

If only…

Over the years, as the lottery phenomenon has grown, I have developed a recurring fantasy of what I would do with a sudden influx of money. When I was younger, the fantasy included a new car, huge house, and extravagant gifts for all my friends and family. As I got older, I dreamed of starting a foundation that would end, once and for all, at least one world crisis. Travel was on the top of both lists. All over the world and never in coach class again.

Something happened recently to upend my priorities. Actually it was a series of things that acted like running water eroding my high standards of what constituted living well. In fact, it actually WAS running water.

If I ever win the lottery, or in any other way come into a huge bundle of cash, my only wish is never to smell urine again. Not human, not dog, not cat. No more scent of wet beds in the middle of the night. No more incontinent pets. No more boy children with bad aim who really should try harder. No more, “I forgot to tell you I accidentally got pee on the sofa and now it smells horrible.” No more adorable puppies peeing on my shoe. (That really did happen.)

When you see a picture of me holding up a comically huge check for $130,000,000, don’t come with your hand held out unless that hand is holding air freshener or a Clorox wipe. And for goodness sake, if you win the lottery, please don’t use your winnings to buy my children large drinks late at night, or I will be calling your new full-time housekeeper to clean up the mess.

Abstract painting of a person by Paul Klee

I’ve been thinking about the idea of personhood a lot lately. Last summer, there was some election-year debate about whether corporations are people. This summer, the issue is abortion, where people of good will can’t agree on when personhood–and the rights that go with it–begins.

There are different ways to define a person–theologically, morally, legally–and it is possible to hold multiple views depending on your purpose. For instance, you can hold on theological grounds that a person is a single, natural human being created by God and, at the same time, believe on legal grounds that a social group or corporation is a person that can sue and be sued. Science is even opening the discussion of how much a person can be changed by artificial parts and technology and still be considered a person. If you have an artificial brain with human memories, are you a person?

Regardless of where you start and what decisions you make, the determination of personhood is philosophical, not scientific. Science can tell us if a being is human or alive, but it cannot tell us under what circumstances it is a person. There is a difference between the two. To be overly general, “human” is what you are, the DNA you have, and “person” is what you are capable of, the rights and responsibilities you hold. Attributes like agency, self-awareness, and emotion are considerations when conferring personhood. In the U.S., persons are recognized by law according to their possession of rights and duties.

I believe my children are human persons (even if they don’t believe it about each other)  but they don’t have the same rights I do as a legal person–they cannot vote or have free assembly or engage in a host of other civil activities. On the other hand, they can inherit money and property and have a right to due process if they ever get in big trouble. So, even among persons, there are differences.

And that is just right now, here in the U.S. during the 21st Century. The idea of personhood varies across cultures and history. My own forebears believed that personhood was only granted to white, male, property owners. There are cultures in which moral and legal personhood can be ascribed to animals and other non-human beings.

So all of these thoughts have been swirling through my mind as the women and men in Texas and around the country have been shouting back and forth about the rights of women and the rights of fetuses, about medical procedures and murder, about responsibility and privacy. Is it possible to determine a standard by which a fetus is a legal person? And whatever the answer, how do the rights of a pregnant women–a person–fit with the rights of a fetus she carries? What happens when the rights conflict?

Of course, the law can be guided by not based on theological standards of personhood–not least because our nation includes a vast array of religious traditions with differing points of view. We can be informed by science and ethics, tradition and other areas of law. Does personhood begin when a human ovum is fertilized? or when a being has the ability to feel pain? or the ability to survive outside the womb? or draws its first breath?

It would seem important that whatever standard we use be consistent across the range of personhood rights. Are there different stages of personhood–just as we now withhold the right to vote until adulthood? Should the standards used to determine personhood for a fetus be the same as those for born human beings? If so, do they have access to all the legal rights of a born human being, or just some of them? At what point does a person gain rights to health care and nutrition? (In my state, access to both have recently been significantly cut for pregnant women.) What happens when the rights of two human persons conflict? How should the law arbitrate between them? There are some people who think pregnant women should not be allowed to eat raw fish or raw milk cheese. Japanese and French women think that’s going too far.

Perhaps, since a pregnant woman can be considered by some as two united human persons, they are the ultimate corporate person. What would the law say about that?