What if?

What if we've got this all wrong?
What if it's about becoming small instead of becoming big?
What if we actually need less rather than more?
What if the least is really the greatest?
What if success is measured by stepping down the ladder rather than climbing up it?
What if we became acquainted with the poor rather than with campaigns with pretty pictures of the poor?
What if we spent time with our neighbor rather than theologized about our neighbor?
What if we lived where we could make a difference rather than where we felt the most comfortable?
What if we chose to be participants rather than consumers?
What if the one guy in the front who talks the most really doesn't have the answers?
What if the one talking doesn't have to be a guy at all?
What if the last one was first?
What if we have big questions and live them out loud?
What if we've been lulled to sleep by the drone of mediocrity?
What if we wake up?
What if we wake up?
What if we wake up?

Education Station

I'm a huge fan of education.  Like in a big way. Clearly, I would never have endured the lunacy of getting a doctoral degree if I didn't feel a deep commitment to the educational process for better or worse...and it IS sheer madness to even wade into these dark and dreadful academic waters (anyone who tells you differently is trying to get you to apply to their doctoral program). My love of education is not about the degrees that ensue or the letters I find strung behind my name like some unintelligible caboose at the end of a train.

Because it's Funny

I posted something snarky on Facebook the other day after receiving this nasty and biting email (names and identifiers have been changed):

Sarah,

How many times does it take to get you to change my e-address from this one to iamajerk@gmail.com???? Maybe "third times a charm."

Curmudgeon

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The Light of the World

I spent an hour on the phone yesterday with a foul-mouthed, rockabilly, former-comedian-turned-pastor who does church by feeding homeless people in a park and having drinks with the local riffraff in neighborhood bars. I was at the end of my rope with many things about how people do "church" and "christianity" and needed an infusion of reality. Ask and ye shall receive.

We talked about how sermons suck and how neither of us could give one hot damn about what some white, middle-class dude says from a shiny pulpit. We talked about how we don't want to hear about Three Steps to Finding Your True Self, or Why Jesus Wants You to Have a BMW, or How To Feel Comfortable in Suburbia. It's empty. And our generation knows this in its core, but it seems that our lethargy and desire for comfort get the best of us.

You see, everyday I work with people who are literally, LITERALLY fighting for their lives because they lack safe water and food. Because their government is corrupt and 13 year old children carry around guns. Because they are ridden with malaria and typhoid and hepatitis and HIV/AIDS and there is no medical care. My job centers on not only helping to provide water and food and safety and medical care, but also asking WHY these people don't have water and food and safety and medical care, and working to change this system. One step at a time. My sincere hope (and ALL of my eggs are in this freakin' basket) is that our FAITH tells us something about how to do this. That the Spirit is the catalyst to changing our world. That somehow, light will shine in the darkness, and darkness will not overcome it. I need a faith that speaks to these realities. I need it. I'm desperate for it.


What I want to see from our "churches" is how faith compels us to live differently. I want strategies for loving radically and living out loud. I want people to learn not just how to give their money, but their lives, and their hearts, and their time, and their energy. This world is dark, where is the light? How, in God's great name, do we shine??  What does this man called Jesus, who hung out with sinners and drunkards and prostitutes and people who are poor have to say about all of this?? My hunch is that I'm more likely to find answers to these questions while talking with a foul-mouthed pastor who hangs out in bars than in a pew in suburbia-land.

Between F-bombs and crass jokes, my rockabilly pastor-turned-dear-friend seemed to be on to something. Maybe it's not about a new flat screen TV, and light shows, and great sound boards, and perfect sermons. Maybe it's more about simply hanging out with people who are lonely and poor. Maybe it's about being church, as opposed to going to church. Maybe it's about living church, as opposed to attending church.

When Wrinkles are Roads

Here's a selfie taken just one day ago.  I snapped this pic in the midst of a mini crisis that I was having as I observed in the mirror the newly developing crows feet around my eyes as I prepared to go out for the evening.  One more year passing.  A few more wrinkles.  Sigh.  But in this moment, I opted not to let vanity get the best of me, but to turn it around...I realized in this moment (captured here by my iPhone) that the lines forming, ever so faintly, at the corners of my eyes and around the edges of my mouth are facial records of all of those unforgettable experiences that have found themselves lining up to be counted on my skin.  The deep belly laughs that have danced their way across my face over the years.  The countless times I've furrowed my brow to think deeply about an issue that I needed to wrap my mind around in new ways, the kisses of the sun on those warm and rare days when this landlocked, Midwestern girl gets lucky enough to be caught up in the beauty of a sandy beach.  These lines are my personal road map available for all to see.  These are the visible impact of the roads I've traveled.

And this year of journeying was no exception.  2013 brought with it a number of significant wrinkles that I have incurred through what can only be counted as an extremely strenuous but memorable year.  And so if we cross paths this year and you notice my newly acquired wrinkles, here is a little legend, a legend to the map of where I've come from this year, and where I am headed.


The Furrowed Brow:
This year, I kicked my dissertation's ass and came to the end of five long years of a doctoral program, which I am still seeking to understand.  Ultimately, I am grateful for the experience, I learned a lot, including the fact that I would like to stay as far away from the academic ivory tower as humanly possible.  I fought, tooth and nail, to survive the beatings I received by power and ego, and I struggled with everything in me to rise above the system of control.  Not because the work was difficult per se, although indeed it was a challenge, but the shock of how power is abused for personal gain left my soul reeling a bit.  I was scarred by what I can only call abuse upon reflection, and I lost a piece of myself back there.  But I also gained resolve that they cannot take away from me.  I learned about priorities.  I learned about right.  And I learned about wrong.  I learned that I like getting my hands dirty more than I like thinking about getting my hands dirty.  I learned that God is among the poor more than among the powerful.  I learned that every valley will be lifted up, and every mountain and hill will be made low.  I learned that the length of your CV does not matter, but in fact, the last shall be first, and the first shall be last.  And I survived.  And I am thankful.  And I know what is important, and what is not important but guises as such.


The Passion Pleats:
This year, with the help of my amazing producer, Tony Esterly, I recorded, mixed, mastered, and sent to press my very first solo album.  I poured my heart and soul into this project over the course of months and months and months.  This project was my creative energy, my outlet, my first masterpiece, and this year was made epic by the completion of this work.  The time and effort that I invested into this was huge, and the feeling of living into an artistic calling caused elation that I cannot even describe.  I have always know that music is ingrained in who I am called to be in the world, but I found a new part of this voice for the very first time through this album.  I came to know myself in new ways.  I was also lucky enough to have the album discovered by a small label out of Tokyo and the album, Both/And, was distributed across Japan.  This led to a music video and all kinds of fun adventures that involved toting a piano around the city of St. Louis. I'm not sure what else to say about this process other than it was worth every line of passion that it etched across my face.  This was an experience that I will never forget and only the beginning of the exploration of this piece of my heart.

The Sun Spots and Laugh Lines:

There are lots and lots and lots of these, but most of them this year come from my journey around the world this summer, where I spent time on the beaches of Pemba, Mozambique, the cobblestone streets of Seville, Spain, and the warm patios of Faro, Portugal.  And I was blessed to travel alongside some of the most amazing people in the world.  I had the amazing privilege of traveling for 40 days and 40 nights, and I reconnected with parts of me that had been lost.  I grinned from ear to ear as I realized that I have the best, most meaningful job in the entire world, I laughed deep belly laughs as I reconnected with my best friend from New York in a beautiful Spanish city, and I felt the elation of making music with new, lifelong soul mates.

And so as I watch another year fly past me and I think about the impact of these years on my body, I choose to not look down upon the wrinkles with vain judgement, but to thank God for each one.  To attribute each new line to a path that I have traversed, to trails that I have had the privilege of blazing.  The wrinkles are roads, and I am the humble traveler with a map.

Chicken Bones and Sea Urchins

On this cold and snowy day, my mind wanders back to a warm, beach afternoon in Mozambique, where I sat content, eating a home-cooked, picnic lunch of chicken and rice and drinking 3/4 of a Coke before becoming too full to finish.  Only minutes after tossing my trash, I saw this little boy rooting through the garbage to salvage and eat the meat left on my chicken bones, and drink the swallow of cola that I had neglected to finish.  We locked eyes and we both felt embarrassed for being found out by one another.  Me being caught in my gluttony and waste, he being seen in his hunger and poverty.  I immediately felt like a selfish asshole for leaving this little boy to wallow in my waste as opposed to seeing him, being aware of his need, and being willing to share.

But more than this, what killed me, what absolutely slayed me dead, was that after "stealing" my garbage and being discovered, the little boy immediately felt the need to return the favor and repay his "debt".  He took off down the beach on a short jaunt, only to return with a small gift presented to me in exchange for what I had considered my garbage.  He extended his hand and bowed his head in a humble offering, the deep violet spines of a sea urchin in the palm of his hand, as a small token of his appreciation.  Glancing up, we grinned at each other, laughed a little, and shook our heads in recognition of how life is brutally unfair but unexpectedly beautiful, and how we can be gifts to one another if only we open our eyes and make ourselves available.  The spines of the sea urchin were a representation of his gratitude-laden heart, my chicken bones a symbol of indifferent excess.  His was, without question, the greater gift.  The two of us gestured and nodded our agreement to walk down the beach a bit together, him showing me all of the unseen beauties lying beneath the sand and hidden just under the rocks, gifts waiting to be given, reflections of his huge heart waiting to be revealed to others.

This Christmas, as I ponder the idea of giving, I am convinced that the gifts that really matter aren't those found in a mall or on a shelf.  They aren't things that can be bought or sold.  I want to give gifts like this little boy gave to me, wide-eyed, in gratitude, and in recognition of the beauty that is hiding just below the surface, peeping out between the nooks and crannies of God's great big world.  I want to stop giving the "chicken bones" of excess sold on commercial shelves that cost me nothing and are given as a last thought, but instead, give genuine reflections of my heart that portray openness and gratitude.  I learned what it is to give from this little hungry boy on a beach, and I will never give the same again.

40 Days, 40 Nights

"Earth's crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes..."        
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning


I've recently returned from a 40 day journey around the world.  A journey about intentionally taking time to stop, breathe, and reconnect with my heart.
I had intended to write a lot, everyday in fact, but I found myself so caught up in unwinding the cobwebs in my head that I was rendered almost completely unable to put words to the experience, which is not like me.  And I apologize to all those who were hoping to follow my blog during these travels.  #fail.  From meeting Mozambican mamas to taking long Spanish siestas to playing music on patios in Portugal, I was unable to write or say much of consequence in response to these experiences other than the occasional quiet mumbling of gratitude-laden mantras under my breath...simply thank you, thank you, thank you....

This year has indeed been an epic one.  I was looking back through my earlier blog posts and saw the January post entitled A Year to Harvest, which detailed all that was to be finished, completed, tied up this year.  After successfully defending my dissertation at the end of June, sending my debut album off to press in July, and completing the second of two epic trips to Mozambique in August, I can say with confidence that the harvesting happened.  And I was left standing speechless and in awe of the beauty that permeates my life.  At the dreams realized.  At love, and how it sparks, catches, and sets the world ablaze at every turn...and it's really an issue of opening our eyes to see the fire, and taking off our shoes in humble awe.

This was a summer of taking off my shoes.  You see, I'm a doer.  I get it done.  I accomplish.  I reach goals.  If it's hard, or if someone says that I can't, I'm all the more likely to try.  So when I couldn't write, at first I felt as if I was failing.  This was amplified by the fact that I had no deadlines to meet or goals to achieve for nearly six weeks.  It felt like detox in some ways and I wasn't quite sure how to handle myself.

But a wise guru reminded me that we are human BEINGS.  Not human DOINGS.  In the words of the brilliant (and somewhat hippie-ish) Franciscan Father, Richard Rohr:

"God is always choosing people.  First impressions aside, God is not primarily choosing them for a role or a task, although it might appear that way.  God is really choosing them to be God's self in this world, each in a unique situation.  If they allow themselves to experience being chosen, being a beloved, being somehow God's presence in the world, they invariably communicate that same chosenness to others."  

For 40 days and 40 nights, I practiced being.  Just being.  And to my astonishment, I met lots of other people who were just being and who wanted to just be, with me.  Just being jazz musicians in Portugal, just being soul mates in Spain, just being my extended family in Mozambique.  And of all of the beauty - the beaches in Pemba, the winding cobblestone streets in Seville, the picturesque patios full of jazz music in Faro - the most overwhelming beauty was seen in the eyes of those with whom I was able to journey.  It was the people who stole my heart.  The biggest blessing came in the people who were willing to tolerate my wanderings and muddle through my musings.  To just be.  And to just be together.  It was miraculous.  It was transformative.  It was gratitude inducing.  And I seem to have lost my shoes.