I have a confession to make: I talk to myself. I even wrote a poem about it, called “Nuts”:

If I tried very hard
I could probably find
a way to get by
without losing my mind.
But where would the fun be
in keeping my sanity?
Nobody else
would be able to talk to me.
I’d have to cope
with the very small hope
that my own conversation
would be quite enough for me,
knowing full well
that’s the worst kind of hell
because who in their right mind
could actually unwind
listening to something
they’d much rather tell?

What strikes me funny about that poem is the concept of talking to myself, which I have obviously over-thought. Why do I say I talk to myself? Why don’t I say I listen to myself? If I’m not listening to myself, am I any better at listening to others? I could also say, if I don’t listen to myself, how can I expect anyone else to listen to me?

It’s enough to make you nuts. Hence, the title.

I still find the poem funny (is that wrong?), but now also consider it theologically flawed because I really don’t believe I’m ever talking to myself.

My Constant Companion is listening.

That Companion of mine hears every word, every rant, every insecure utterance, every mean-spirited comment, every crude joke, every smart remark, and every bad poem. Some days, I may wish I were talking to myself, but I have a Constant Companion with whom I converse, intentionally and unintentionally.

What if I talked to everyone else—even the people I believe have lost the battle to preserve their sanity—as I talk to my Companion? What if I spoke to humanity as if it were part of the Sacred, one of the Holy threads that connects all creation? What if every conversation were a prayer?

Dear God, my Constant Companion, please listen to my conversations and help me consider them all dialogues with you—even the conversations I have with myself. May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight oh God, my strength and my redeemer.

Amen!

I had a dream last night that my best friend died. I woke up sobbing, breathing with difficulty, bathed in sweat. Then I heard it—that sound that keeps me awake at night and causes me to shake my blissfully slumbering buzz saw until he stops making that nerve-shattering racket. The man who had just died in my dream was alive and well, sleeping next to me and snoring to beat the band.

Only, last night, after my terrifying nightmare, that wall-shaking cacophony was the sweetest sound I could possibly hear.

How often does that happen in our waking lives? Through a tragedy or a simple twist of fate, an act that previously sent us into fits of intolerance is suddenly a welcome event. A neighbor who makes our life a living hell comes to our aid in a way we never could have imagined and miraculously is transformed into a friend. Getting laid off is no longer a career tragedy, but rather an opportunity to pursue a calling. A ride in the back of a police car becomes a moment of clarity.

What would our world be like if we did not require those tragedies or twists of fate to see foes as friends, to believe antagonists can be allies, to turn mourning into dancing? Unrealistic? Perhaps. We are, after all, human, and humans can be notoriously selfish and short sighted. Humans fail to love their neighbors. We do not always see opportunities when they appear. Sometimes, we even resent our best friend’s snoring.

I don’t know that my nightmare will elicit in me a miraculous transformation. There might come a day—or night—when I shake my best friend awake so that I may get to sleep. But for today, I am looking at my beloved with appreciative eyes. I will not wake him tonight when he snores. And today, I will greet my neighbor with a smile and actually stop in my busy-ness to hear her answer to my sincere, “How are you?” Today, I will look for ways to not only find allies, but to be one.

And maybe tonight I will fall asleep to the sound of my beloved’s nocturnal music and I will have sweet dreams of us dancing in each others arms.

There are only four more days until Mother’s Day. Have you ordered her flowers? Have you mailed her card? Close on the heels of Mother’s Day is Memorial Day, the annual remembrance of those who gave their lives for their country. One weekend hardly seems enough.

One day for fathers, one weekend to remember the revolution, a weekend to honor those who labor, another day for soldiers (this time for those who survived), four days for Thanksgiving, and a day or two, or seven, or eight, for religious celebration. We begin the new year with its own celebration, then give a day to Martin Luther King, St. Valentine, presidents, and carve out an entire week for the High Holy Days, capped off by Easter Sunday.

These are the days of our lives.

But what if they were more than days? What if the religious spirit that possesses us in December was celebrated the whole year through? Can we show up at the cemetery more than once a year? Would our special love be shocked if we sent an “I Love You” card when it wasn’t Valentine’s Day?

I submit that we turn it around, that we take a holiday from holidays and celebrate these events and occasions that are important to us every day. What would that look like? Imagine a world where we don’t need to restrict our celebration of Black History to one month because we celebrate Black history—and Asian Pacific American heritage, and Native American culture, and Hispanic heritage—every day. Imagine a world where Disability Awareness is a 24/7 event. Imagine a world where we call our parents, or people who have been role models for us, every time we think of them. Imagine a world where we honor God every day of the week, instead of one hour on Sunday morning.

The good news is that God has not relegated us to a day—or an hour—on the calendar. The eternal God is a real and active presence in our daily lives. God is with us always, even to the end of the age. God wants to share this existence with us. What if we shared all the days of our lives with God?

Well, a girl can dream. In the meantime, I’m going to call my mother—before Mother’s Day—and tell her I love her.

Today, the military descended on Iliff School of Theology.

Okay, they were military chaplains. And they didn’t so much descend as walk in. Through the front door. By invitation. And they were there to help us understand PTSD and its effect on enlisted personnel and their families and friends. Actually, it wasn’t so much a coups as a class.

So much for a sensational blog.

While I can’t deliver on the sensationalism, I can offer a little insight on what it was like to share field communion, the kind of sacrament offered to our troops before they board an armored vehicle that will carry them into battle. Not all soldiers partake of the Lord’s Supper, but those who do stand in the presence of the Holy for no more than ten minutes, take a wafer, dip it in grape juice, receive their blessing, and go to war.

It is a disconcerting balancing act between life and death, just as the service today was a disconcerting mixture of reality and imagination. As I watched the chaplain don his camouflage stole, it occurred to me that a stole with any color on it would make him a target. That was real. As he carefully laid out the communion elements, I found myself thinking about the soldiers who lined up to receive the blessing and give the traditional response. That was imaginary. In this mock field service that was no mockery, the chaplain began to talk to us as if we were soldiers. That was imaginary. He talked about the danger of the mission on which we were about to embark. He remembered our fallen comrade, a woman who had recently died in action. As the chaplain prepared us to share the body and blood of Christ, he also reminded us of another body broken, other blood shed. That was real.

As I stepped forward to receive the elements, I noticed that the chaplain had extra communion wafers in a pill box, the kind of amber plastic container the pharmacy uses to dispense medication. There were no labels on this container. No dosage or frequency were delineated and there were no contraindications for what was inside this pill box. My heart was full as I realized that the pill box is the perfect container for the communion wafer, because Holy Communion is the kind of “medication” one can take any time, anywhere, under any circumstances—even on the battlefield—and receive God’s love, grace, mercy, compassion, forgiveness, and presence.

And that’s real.

Communion in a pill box. Refill as needed.

It seems that for most American missionaries, the language of love is english. Some make the admirable effort to learn the language of the region to which they travel, but most also insist that the people they encounter learn to speak english. After all, don’t most industrial nations teach their children english? We take that fact for granted. What if other nations did not learn english? What if we could not just travel to other countries and be understood, get what we want, go where we please? What if other countries insisted that, in order to cross their borders, we must speak their language? I wonder if we would be as eager to travel, or if there would be as many missionaries.

But what if there was a universal language? A language that could be understood and embraced by all, that did not have to be taught by Americans, but could be taught by anyone? What if there really was a language of love?

I think there is and, for me, the real language of love has no words. It shows itself in a thousand acts of kindness, in helping others and expecting nothing in return. When we speak love, we seek to empower rather than control, to serve rather than be served, to live in peace rather than create discord. Jesus said, “Feed my sheep,” not, “Feed my sheep, but only after you have taught them foreign customs, church doctrine, and english.”

Jesus spoke the language of love and that is the language we should share with each other.

I love a good transformation story. Most of the movies I enjoy center around some form of transformation. But what is transformation? In Hollywood, transformation usually requires hard work and sacrifice, but provides a big payoff. Rudy loses his girlfriend but achieves his college football dream. The little mermaid loses her voice, but then gets it back, in addition to gaining the love of her life and mobility on land (which, unfortunately, society seems to privilege). The nerdy high school girl becomes a beauty and is crowned queen of Genovia.

Sometimes, Hollywood, as a reflection of real life, reveals that transformation can be fatal. Richie Valens and Buddy Holly transform themselves from small town kids into rock and roll legends, who lose their lives too soon. Brandon Teena emerges from an ftm* transformation and the cost is death.

This is a more realistic picture of transformation. While Rudy may show us that transformation takes effort and hard work, his story perpetuates the harmful myth that the result is always positive. In real life, we discover that transformation can be devastating. A woman is beaten and loses any sense of self she may have possessed.  An entire city is flattened by an act of nature. A culture falls victim to consumer capitalism. A person becomes sober and finds that some relationships cannot survive the transformation.

Christians often talk of the transformative power of God, which sounds like a great thing, right? God can transform us from hurtful, prideful people into loving, sharing beings who recognize and respect the connective tissue that runs through all creation. But is that always the case? What about the transformed Christians who insist that everyone else experience the same transformation? Or those who murder in the name of a transformative God? Or those who experience a negative transformation, such as the father who becomes a pedophile?

Romans 12:2 tells us, “And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.” This view of positive transformation suggests that it is an ongoing process that requires thought in addition to experience. It also suggests to me that a person who experiences a negative transformation may still be positively transformed through that renewal of the mind.

2 Corinthians contains other variations of the word “transformation,” reminding us that Satan was transformed, “therefore it is no great thing if his [Satan's] ministers also transform themselves into ministers of righteousness, whose end will be according to their works.” It is interesting to note that the Greek word for transformation, “metaschematizo” (forgive the lack of appropriate accent marks), can also mean “disguise.” Transformation may not even be authentic.

What is Transformation? Transformation is a change  of heart and mind that may be positive or negative, authentic or a disguise. It also carries with it the responsibility of constant vigil for active renewal. This vigil is the real price of positive, authentic transformation. May we all be willing to stand watch with each other!

*female to male

It occurs to me that conversion is no longer a strictly spiritual endeavor. PC users are told that they really should become “a Mac.” Sprint users are encouraged to switch from blue to red and try Verizon. Conversion decisions abound. Comcast or Direct TV? Fox news or CNN? Yes, these businesses are vying for customers, but this competition has seeped into individual thinking. Remember the debate over boxers or briefs? What began as an ad campaign became part of the dating vernacular, a tool for selecting a boyfriend.

I recall George Carlin saying he preferred football to baseball because in football the players wear helmets and march to the end zone, but in baseball they wear caps and run home. The implication is that football fans are somehow more masculine than baseball fans. Should real men, then, not only convert from quiche to meat, but also from baseball to football? What are these conversion conversations really all about? While the motive for businesses is surely the bottom line, for individuals, I think it is the need to believe that what we love, use, choose, or prefer is better than anything else out there.

I wonder why? Are we really so insecure that we must justify our preferences by denigrating the preferences of others? Or are we simply afraid of being wrong? Perhaps there is something more sinister at work here. Perhaps it is not fear of being wrong, but rather an unreasonable certainty that we are the only ones who are right.

Where does this kind of hubris originate? I can’t imagine. While it is funny to hear someone say that putting fruit on a pizza is just wrong, the humor quickly disintegrates when human beings are told that they are an abomination simply by virtue of their existence. Christians point fingers at gays, lesbians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, and other Christians, proclaiming who is wrong, who is right, and especially who needs conversion. I don’t know how to answer that kind of elitism, or to combat intolerance without becoming intolerant myself.

Well, maybe I do. One of my all-time favorite lines from the silver screen comes from the movie “Rudy,” about the young man who dreamed of playing football for Notre Dame. A priest befriends Rudy on his quest to become part of the Fighting Irish and when Rudy experiences a crisis of faith, the priest delivers the classic line: “Son, in 34 years of theological studies, I have only come up with two hard incontrovertible facts; there is a God, and I’m not him.”

Sexist language aside, the priest makes a lot of sense. If we followed his advice, we could set the conversion conversation aside and spend our spiritual energy proclaiming the good news that God is love and because God loves us, we must love one another. Period. End of conversion.

Language is tricky. While it helps us communicate, it is often a source of misunderstanding, frustration, and divisiveness. What we hope is an attempt to connect with people can be viewed as offensive—unintentionally so, perhaps, but still offensive. Even the language in our church can be exclusive, making people who did not grow up hearing those strange sounding words feel uncomfortable and unwelcome. Why do we have to call it a narthex? We could just as easily say, “that area just outside the sanctuary.” I often wonder if everyone in a Chancel Choir knows what a chancel is. The point is not that they live in blissful ignorance, but that we often use words that get in the way of spiritual understanding and community.

A child once asked me, “Why do we do that juice thing? You know, Holy Common?” She was referring, of course, to Holy Communion. And what about the Lord’s Prayer? I’ll never forget a friend in school writing the words from memory, “Our fathers with art in heaven. Holy be thine aim. Thy kings are coming. We’ll be done on earth’s tin heaven.” It occurs to me that if we truly desire to invite and inspire folks to seek God, we might try using language that is more accessible, not just to children, but also to adults. With that in mind, I have fashioned a new version of the Lord’s Prayer, or what I now think of as, “The Hey You Prayer”:

Hey you up there, or wherever you are, whatever your name is, believe it or not, we think you are special.

We want to do right by you because you have done right by us, even though we don’t always understand how, or why. So, here we are, singing and praying together, just for you.

Please, don’t let us starve. Keep giving us what we need to survive, and don’t worry, we will share what we get so that everyone can survive.

Oh, and by the way, we have really messed up some things. Forgive us and we will remember to forgive our friends and enemies when they mess up like we did.

We know that there are many things in the world that are bad for us. Would you please help us recognize those things before they harm us? And if we don’t recognize those things and we walk right into harm’s way, will you please get us out of there as soon as possible?

We are asking you to do these things because we know you can do it. Like we said before, believe it or not, we think you are special. Very special. Always.

Please do these things for us. Please?

Inelegant? Absolutely. But we’re praying this one tonight.

I have a love/hate relationship with my family. I hate the fact that we have not been able to be the Nelsons or Cleavers and have only manufactured the facade of those “perfect” TV families. But I also love my family. I love that, though we wound each other in impossible ways and the relationships get messy, we continue to gather, to celebrate with one another, to help each other through the tough times in whatever way we can, to tolerate difference when we have not yet learned to embrace it, and most of all, to continue to shoot for more than the facade of the perfect family.

It is the same in the family of Christ. We wound each other in impossible ways, sometimes even in the name of Christ. We fail to live up to the image of the perfect Christian family given to us in the letters of Paul. We fail time and again to love each other as Christ loved us, and yet we continue to gather, to celebrate God’s love with one another, to help each other through the tough times in whatever way we can, to tolerate difference when we have not yet learned to embrace it, and to continue to aim for the perfection of Christ, although we know it is unattainable.

Today, Good Friday, Charles Wesley’s words come to me and seem especially poignant:

There for me the Savior stands, shows his wounds and spreads his hands. God is love! I know, I feel; Jesus weeps and loves me still.

This is the good news of the love of Christ. We are all loved! In spite of our imperfection, in spite of our inability to love others as Christ loves us, in spite of the wounds we inflict, we are still loved! As we move from Christ’s death on the cross to the Easter resurrection, may we feel that love in the very depth of our beings, and go forth and share that love with the world.

As I prepare for my last quarter of grad school, I am being challenged to learn new levels of technology: blogging, twittering, Skyping, Google-siting, and Elluminating. I am aware of Internet and virtual churches and see how technology helps the Word of God reach millions who would never cross the threshold of a church.

But I can’t help wondering, if Jesus had the benefit of this technology, how would he have used it? What would Jesus blog? Would Jesus have given the Sermon On The Mac? If someone had sabotaged his message, would he have shaken off the virus from his hard drive? Would he have made his disciples fishers of facebook friends?

If Jesus could have blogged, would he still have travelled near and far to bring people into relationship with God, or would an online chat room have sufficed? Would he have gone out to feed the 5000, or would he have invited them to eat virtual food from his virtual farm?

I can hear Jesus praying now: “I do not pray that you should take them out of the worldwide web, but that you should keep them from the evil spam…I do not pray for these alone, but also for those who will believe in me through their websites.”

Perhaps Jesus didn’t need to blog about the love of God because he has us to do that. Just a thought.