Protestant Work Ethic

I'm sitting here feeling very guilty today. I think the Protestant work ethic is kicking in. It's been a week since I lost my job, and I feel as if I should be doing something productive, something that makes money, something that society finds more acceptable than being quiet, introspective, and listening for God to whisper next steps in my ear. I should be getting up in the morning, getting ready for work, worrying about the weather and road conditions. I should be checking emails and returning phone calls making sure I'm on top of the budget, personnel issues, projects and initiatives. I should be sitting in long, boring meetings listening to the 'flavor of the day' management theories and watching my colleagues play the political games it takes to get ahead. Right? I prove my worth by putting in long hours, by worrying about work when I'm not there and by being reachable and accountable 24/7. Right? Doing these things, after all, guarantees a pay check, prestige, and the good graces of Christian society since I'm working hard and taking care of myself. Where in the world did this idea come from? Here's what Google says about it: "The Protestant Work Ethic, sometimes called the Puritan Work Ethic, is a sociological, theoretical concept. It is based upon the notion that the Calvinist emphasis on the necessity for hard work is proponent of a person's calling and worldly success is a sign of personal salvation. " I visited my Concordance to see if Scripture  speaks to this work ethic. No where did I find Jesus or anyone else giving these directives.  It's true you can find Scripture to support almost any viewpoint; I say this to preface the Scripture that I did find and that speaks to my heart. First, Eccelsiastes 3:22 "...there is nothing better than that a man should enjoy his work, for that is his lot..." Secondly from Psalms 90:17 "Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and establish thou the work of our hands upon us, yea, the work of our hands establish thou it." I guess there is some Biblical precedent for sitting quietly and waiting for God to whisper what my work is to be.

Words of Wisdom for Lazarus

The mist is beginning to clear from my brain and my heart is starting to 'get it.' My world turned upside down this week and for a brief moment, I wondered just where God was in all this turmoil. Today as I read my daily meditation by Father Keating, I began to see more clearly how He works. The question Fr. Keating poses is: what illness did Lazarus die from? And his answer is: his false self. Jesus did not intervene sooner because Lazarus' false self had to die before he could be transformed. The false self is the part of us that hangs onto "security, survival, affection & esteem, power & control, and from overidentifcation with a particular group or role." Lazarus represents me, living in the "Night of Spirit who feels imprisoned and forgotten by God." So what does God do? He lets the false self die and then "calls to me to come out of the darkness, confinement, loneliness, dereliction and grief." I was beginning to think God wanted me stuck here, in this place that is so NOT me doing things that make my spirit so sad, when really He didn't. So, He turned my life inside out and called to me, "Come out!" I'm excited and ready to respond.

"Banana Moon"

Banana Moon
Banana moon slicing through bare branches
Peeking around winter-brittle twigs,
One dead dangling leaf.

I want…
To paint a face on you, Laury-style,
Sliver of gleaming silver
Giant comma punctuating the pre-dawn sky,

I see…

You diminishing, shrinking,

Weary of lighting the

Way for the dark-travelers.

I wonder…

Where do you go to sleep?

Are there jumping cows and fiddling cats there?

Why does no one ever fall in love

By the light of the waning moon?

St. Timothy's has a rector, Mary, and an assistant rector, Elizabeth. They share duties and alternate presiding over our weekly services. Depending on which one is preaching the homily, I listen with a different side of my brain. Mary begins with one of the Scripture readings and then begins to build. She adds layer after layer of thoughts, insights. She carefully crafts each layer to build upon the previous one until by the end of her sermon, she has constructed a strong wall of ideas based on her original foundation, but ending up at a much different place. Her homilies remind me of the wonderful stacked stone walls I saw all throughout southwest France, each stone selected to fit perfectly with its neighbors, each important to the strength of the whole wall. I listen to Mary with the logical, data-absorbing, left side of my brain.


Elizabeth, the storyteller, begins with Scripture as well. Then she tells the stories that reveal its meaning. She circles and twirls around the word, looking at it from different angles, embellishing and enlivening it. Her homilies are full of movement and color. They remind me of this unfolding bud or the spirals of a shell. I listen to Elizabeth with the creative right side of my brain.

Which side of your brain to you listen with in church?

The Holy Birth

Joseph holds Mary's hand, her fingers gripping tight and hard as she begins the final work. She pushes. Every eye in the stable is on her, even the animals seem to hold their breath. The Babe comes--bloody, purple, mottled, his little fists clenched, his legs drawn up tight against his body as he squeezes through the narrow birth passage. As all watch, he takes his first breath of life...and cries. His legs kick, his arms flail, the purple mottled skin begins to turn pink with every breath. Quickly Joseph wraps him in a rough blanket to keep him warm. Another contraction, another push--the birth is done. The innkeeper has supplied a clean knife and the cord is cut. As Joseph runs to the inn for water, Mary brings the Babe to her breast; he eagerly suckles. The animals sigh deeply and go back to sleep, comforted that life has begun anew and that they were blessed to be its witness this cold night in Bethlehem. Joseph returns with a jar of warm water and the servant girl, Iscah. He busies himself with cleaning up the wet, bloody straw and replacing it with fresh, as Mary and Iscah bathe the Babe and Mary washes herself. Joseph pulls a clean robe from their travelers' pack and soon Mary and the Babe are clean, warm and dry. Iscah sits with the innkeeper's dog at Mary's feet and watches as the holy family embraces God's mystery. Joseph passes her the jar of wine after he and Mary drink. "Thank you, child, for helping us," he says as she drinks to the wonder of it all.

I'd like to think that the family had a few hours of rest and sleep then. That Joseph lay down with Mary, and they snuggled the Babe between them to keep him warm. That Iscah returned to the inn, but the dog remained, faithful in his watchful duties. And that...as they slept, the great star hanging high over the little village of Bethlehem began to guide the world to this Babe. From lowly sheperds to great kings---all were called. Life for this holy family, indeed for the whole world, would never be the same.

The Mystery Begins...

The morning feels mysterious--wrapped in darkness, fog, quietly illuminated by the gleaming candles. Snug and warm, I ponder the wonder that comes tonight. I think of Mary & Joseph who will be this night in Bethlehem....

They awaken to begin the last day of travel... weary, dirty, cold. Does Mary feel any signs of the impending birth? Or is she so exhausted that she doesn't feel anything at all? In my mind, they begin their trek walking alongside the donkey who carries their supplies for the journey--blankets, a skin of water, some bread. By day's end, Mary's labor has begun, and she can no longer walk. Riding their donkey now, each contraction causes her to grab his mane tightly; her water breaks as they enter Bethlehem in the dark. Wet,cold, trembling with exhaustion and fear, she's uncomplaining, but Joseph knows he must find her a place to lie down for surely his child will be born before dawn. He knocks on door after door. As each opens he catches a glimpse of the warmth and conviviality of the families gathered inside; he watches as other travelers relax, laugh and eat. For him and Mary, though, there is no room--except in the stable. Will that suit? It doesn't, but there are no other options, and Mary's time is very near. I'd like to imagine that the innkeeper took a moment to help them get settled, that he knew Mary was about to give birth, so he tried to make their meager lodging a bit more comfortable. Perhaps he left a lantern, a jar of wine, an extra blanket? Perhaps he told Joseph, "Come to the inn whenever the Babe is born, and I'll send a jar of warm water to bathe the Babe and for Mary to cleanse herself. My servant girl, Iscah, will help." I can see Mary slowly slide off the faithful donkey and sink to her knees on the stiff, prickly straw covering the stable floor. "Oh Joseph," she softly cries, "has God given me a burden too big to bear?" Then she remembers the words of the angel Gabriel, and her heart fills with God's warmth, her 'soul magnifies and her heart rejoices' because tonight--very soon--her Babe will be born, blessed by God. Joseph cares for the donkey while Mary spreads the blankets. As the darkest hour of the night wraps them in quiet, the only sounds are Mary's muffled cries and the soft breathing of their stablemates--the cow, the sheep, the innkeeper's dog who has come to stand guard. A tiny black cat peers down at the scene from her perch on a rafter and purrs; the chickens ruffle their feathers and settle again on their roosts along the wall where the cow eats her hay. As Mary's moans become more frequent, all awake to watch and wait....

A Visit from Sainte Foy

As I sat in this morning's pre-dawn darkness journaling by candlelight and listening to the pilgrimage music of the great organ at Conques playing on the CD, Sainte Foy came to visit. She took my hand and lead me back to her Abbey Church. We sat there together on the hard wooden pews watching the votives flicker against the shadows on the creamy stone walls of the church. She pointed to St. Jacques keeping her company in the west transept and to Mary's chapel on the east. We listened as the pilgrims gathered there sang "Ultreia," their anthem, accompanied by Brother Jean-Pierre on the grand piano made small by the high walls and vaulted domes. Altar, choir, hard backless benches lined across the nave for small Masses...all protected by lacy ironwork, delicate from a distance, deadly spiked on closer look, forged from prisoners' fetters shattered by the Little Saint.

"Sainte Foy, Little Saint, Virgin Child, martyred for your love of Christ...free me from the fetters of my life that keep me tethered to things that don't matter. Free me to come again to your great Abbey Church to sing praise to your Creator, my Creator, our God, our Christ. Sainte Foy, Little Saint, as you are a child, so love all the children. Hold them in your care and keep them under your watchful eye. Teach them faith, teach them love, teach them to have fun, O Little Martyr. Teach me these things as well. Whisper my prayers into God's listening ear. Whisper His divine will into my listening heart. Bless me, Child Saint. Offer me to God, our Creator."