A Peach Perfect Day

One of the fundraisers for my church’s men’s group is selling Palisade peaches in August. The peaches are delicious, but I’ve always been hesitant to buy because they sell them by the crate, and WOW that is a lot of peaches!

However, it doesn’t matter that I avoid buying the peaches, because the men’s group likes to give a box of peaches to each of us on staff! So there I was that day, holding a ginormous box full of ripe, juicy peaches, knowing we still had some frozen from last year, wondering what to do.

But something was different this year. Instead of asking, “How are Terra and I going to eat all these peaches?” I asked, “How are all these peaches going to get used?”

As it turns out, there are a lot of folks in our community who appreciate a free peach (or half crate of them.) We handed them out at the library one day, and then I brought the remaining 7 home to bake in a cobbler. And then we brought the cobbler to share with some friends that evening.

This shouldn’t have been so mind-blowing for me. I’ve been learning this lesson over and over for decades at this point.

I recognize that my worst moments of spiraling anxiety are incredibly self-centered. In contrast, the moments when I feel calm and empowered are times when I can look past myself and really value other people.

It’s embarrassing to admit how often I have to re-learn the simple lesson that practicing compassion (or just thinking about other people) helps me at least as much as it helps anybody else. Maybe if I write a public blog post about it, the lesson will finally take. 😉

Whether the challenge is not enough resources or an overwhelming resource, the solution is to connect with people. We don’t have to do this life thing alone.

In my mind, I will be financially free when “I always have enough to share.” While I don’t usually imagine peaches as the currency, I am grateful for the chance to embody that dream for a couple days.

The men’s group is now taking orders for a second delivery of peaches. Next time I receive a box, whether that’s next month or next year, I will relish the opportunity to share some joy with my neighbors!

Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

Local friends, want to buy some peaches (or pears) and support church ministries? Order here: https://secure.myvanco.com/L-ZECN/campaign/C-13V14

Creating My Fearless Future

It’s been a minute! I’m settled in Colorado, working in a local church here and with Creating a Culture of Renewal virtually. I’ve changed my name to Faryn, I’m getting married in October, and my life is more colorful and adventurous than ever before.

This summer has been a season of creating the world I want to live in. At the beginning of June, I launched a holistic self-defense group called Fearless Future that’s especially for trans- and gender-expansive folx. It’s been a good, if rocky, road, and we are starting to find our footing as a group. I will gladly write more about Fearless Future in future posts.

Then in July, I officially became Apprentice Faculty for Creating a Culture of Renewal (CCR). I’d love to tell you more about the program if you’re a faith leader of any sort, but for today I want to share a bit of my personal transformation.

CCR changed my perspective on what’s possible. I dream big with churches, social groups, and my own life. This is how complaining with a friend about how awful the world is could transform into the first phase of launching Fearless Future.

I can see the potential in all kinds of people. I’ve collaborated with people I used to avoid. Some of my greatest leaders in church are folks I would not have given the time of day before my experience with CCR.

The coolest thing, though, is that I can see the possibility of myself. I really believe that God made me good, and that the things I have to offer are things that make a difference in the world. And I don’t just mean typical ministry things; I’m talking everything from sermons and small groups to art projects.

And that’s why I’m back at this blog again after a 2 year hiatus! I love writing, and the blog gives me some external accountability, so it’s a gift to myself. And here’s my prayer: May it also be a gift for you and the sign you’ve been looking for to go ahead and be the person you wish you were.

Learn more about (not affiliate links, but things I love)…

Creating a Culture of Renewal: https://rebekahsimonpeter.com/creating-a-culture-of-renewal

Fearless Future: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100091882656907

My awesome chaos hat (get the pattern if you want one, too!) https://www.etsy.com/listing/857615558/pattern-pack-fae-elf-hood-beanie-and?ref=yr_purchases

A Prayer for General Conference

Fair warning: There is just too much in this post that requires background information. If you are unfamiliar with The United Methodist Church, I apologize and I thank you for your effort to figure out what on earth I am talking about. I really don’t mind if you sit this one out 🙂

(That sentence is a Jethro Tull reference. Most of you probably missed it. Now you know how the non-Methodists in the room will feel if they try to read this post.)

I promised my Facebook friends I would blog about the letter I wrote to God during General Conference 2012. When I wrote it, I was two weeks from finishing my first year of college as a music production major, and I would have laughed (or maybe groaned, honestly) at anyone who told me that for next General Conference, I would be not only a delegate but also a first-year seminary student.

This prayer came in the midst of an emotional roller coaster that first week of conference. I sat in on the Local Church committee, so I was not directly involved in the most heated conversations that week. I think the night before I wrote this was the night I participated in my first protest. I stood with several friends and people from Reconciling Ministries Network, holding hands and singing to the delegates as they left the plenary hall. That night, we sang “We are a gentle angry people, and we are singing, singing for our lives” but as far as I was concerned, we could just as easily have sung “Jesus, Jesus, can I tell you how I feel? You have given me your Spirit. I love you so.”

The following morning, I sat in the prayer chapel and wrote:

Oh God,

Even in the midst of this conference’s labyrinth of church politics, help us remember that You are here. Thank You for the Floridian volunteers you inspired to create this beautiful space. Thank you for those who have decided to sing during legislative meetings, reminding us that all of this process and legislation should make evident our faith in You and our love for all that you love.

I fear I may be becoming some kind of very quiet activist simply by standing up for friends. That scares me. Thank You for reminding me last night of my connection to this, my church. For all its stumblings and blind continuance of justice problems (based on language, the term “central conferences,” the oversight that neglected the need to provide generously for those with physical disabilities, the ignorance in dilemmas of how to share in worship with those with mental disabilities, and all the ways we knowingly or unknowingly fail in our commitment to reach out to the margins of society,) I Love My Church. Please give my beloved family church the wisdom to see how all the different lives and personalities can worship together, and through that to live together as a community.

God, you are good. Life is meant to be good, but right now I can’t see that it is good for many of those participating in this conference. Please change that. Let the evening worship each night work a change in all our hearts. Help us become more focused on You and Your people than on our rules or budgets or rituals or public relations.

And Jesus, hold our hands as we all work together to learn how You want us to live. Give every one of us a heart for those we keep away, those we gather with, and those we have known ourselves to plot against, plus everyone in between.

May this General Conference become a worldwide revival.

Please be with my church.

Let me continue to be conscious of my love for all the people in this conference center, and thank You for giving me that taste of the love you feel for us and the heartbreak we cause You when we hurt each other.

Love,

A devoted ‘claity’ member of the United Methodist family

I said I would write a post about this prayer. That was before I decided that I really should not be the one to silence a college student’s voice in the church, even if she is me. I think perhaps I’ll just let younger me speak for herself, and I’ll pray her prayer again for this conference and every one that will follow.

Oh there you are, Jesus.

I have a knack for missing really obvious things. There’ll be a pole right in front of me, and I’ll notice a lovely bush on the other side of the parking lot and walk straight into that pole. When I began preparing for my first sermon at St. Luke’s (oh by the way, this summer I’m a church leadership intern through Calling 21!), I was asked to share my call story and connect it to a call story in the Bible. For some reason, this was a difficult process to begin. I pondered it for hours, going through a number of stories and wondering if any of them were close enough.

Samuel? That’s boring. Everybody uses that one. (It was a brainstorm session, so I went with gut reactions, not so much careful consideration.)

Josiah? He’s young and …eh, not really. Maybe.

Timothy? He’s certainly got the family connection and the “no pressure!” level expectations.

Deborah? Just because she’s a woman and pretty awesome doesn’t mean I can be her.

Mary? Wait, that’s an option? What…no…what? This is taking too long.

Isaiah? Yeah, a little bit, but there’s got to be something closer.

Esther? Stop it. That’s just an ego trip.

Eventually, I remembered that I have a blog called Road to Emmaus. I’m telling you, the obvious stuff is really hard for me!

Here’s a link to that sermon, if you’re interested.

But here, I want to talk about my experience of giving that sermon. There’s an episode of Phineas and Ferb (Disney show about creative kids and a secret agent platypus) where one of the kids freaks out because Perry (the platypus) is missing. Perry always turns up again at the end of each episode, but in the 20 minutes before he came back, this kid does everything in his power to try and find that platypus because he doesn’t want to have to tell Phineas and Ferb that he lost their pet. His last attempt is to make a substitute platypus out of household objects including a baseball cap and glove. He sadly goes to greet his friends and share the bad news, but before he can tell them, they comment on how he made a friend for Perry. Perry is right there beside the fake platypus, growling at it apprehensively.

I was nervous about today’s service. I wasn’t too worried about the sermon; what really concerned me were all the parts of the service that I can’t control. In this case, I did not get to see the powerpoint at all beforehand, there was a youth choir whose music would be selected by the group with no input from the church worship planning people, and someone besides me was in charge of the children’s moment. As a control freak worship planner whose biggest goal in life is to have everything in a service center around a common thread, I worked hard this weekend not to stress about those things that I couldn’t micromanage.

And then the youth sang “Here I Am, Lord,” and on the screen I saw the very same painting of the road to Emmaus story that hangs in my grandparents’ house. That was more than enough to help me trust God and the rest of the community to handle all those elements beyond my control.

God may not be nearly as predictable as that cartoon platypus, but the Holy Spirit certainly doesn’t need my help with worship planning. Often I have the privilege of planning powerful moments in worship, but even then it’s up to God what speaks to people.

Praise God that the Holy Spirit is not limited by my imagination or planning capabilities.

If you are a control freak like me, I invite you to try something this week. Let things happen. Look for the ways God moves when we aren’t expecting it or can’t control it, and look for the moments when things logically should fall apart, but they work out. Even when things do fall apart, see if you’re still standing afterward.

And see if there’s a moment this week when you are able to move from feeling like things are out of control to thinking, “Oh there you are, Jesus.”

While I was gone

Hello again everyone! I hope you’re having a wonderful Advent season and getting ready for Christmas!

I haven’t been posting lately because school takes up a lot of my time. While this means I had to put my blog on hold for a while, it does not mean I stopped actively exercising my faith. (So the faith’s fine, but the physical body’s another story because I kind of did stop exercising that…)

Last month, I was part of a panel discussion in the United Methodist Church talking about homosexuality. (Eek! Hot topic! Run away, run away!) If you’re curious about that, you can watch the livestream here: http://new.livestream.com/VAUMC/HolyConversation

or you can read a wrap-up article here: http://www.vaumc.org/pages/news/2014vanews/2014vanews_holytalkwrap

or you can check out the Advocate when it comes out in January. I probably would have a post-event quote in there, but I got bogged down in final projects and never replied to the editor.

Speaking of final projects, here’s the liturgy I created for my Gender & Religion class. I’m going to step out on a limb and say it’s pretty awesome. And how cool is this method? Virtual liturgy needs to be a thing! It certainly is no substitute for live in-person community worship, but it’s a really cool way to enhance that experience and bring the global community into the local church. Imagine the possibilities!

That’s all for now. Depending on how much time I have during winter break, I hope to write a bit during the next month. Have a lovely December!

(Who me, overexcited about the light at the end of finals week? No way….)

The hardest thing about studying my own faith…

…is making sure it’s still there in the end.  Imagine you’re dissecting a frog for a grade school science class. But this isn’t just any frog; it’s your pet. Somehow it is still alive while you’re dissecting it, but it probably is in pain, and because you care so much about this frog you’re trying to carry on a conversation with it even as you play Operation with its vital organs.

There’s a reason surgeons aren’t allowed to operate on family members. When logic and love try to work together, typically one or the other wins. In the surgeon’s case, the worry is that love will take precedence and become a fatal distraction.  In my religion class, the fear is that I will study God so much that I can’t take God seriously outside the realm of theory.

How can we simultaneously worship a God and study a religion? There’s a reason I find more cynicism in worship leaders than I do in Christmas-and-Easter Christians.  It’s not because their faith is weaker; it’s because that faith has fought through so much more to reach that point. The Christian who continues to study the art and the science of faith is always struggling to maintain a relationship with something that must, at times, be treated like a specimen on a dissection board.

The cynical faith is not ideal, but it’s where we spend the bulk of any journey towards a deeper faith.  I’m reminded of a hiking trip with a few friends last spring.  At first, we just walked for like an hour. Our surroundings were nice, but not particularly exciting.

Eventually we reached a point where we had to navigate through some rocks that pretty much made the trail disappear for several yards, and after that we were on the mountainside.  It was an exciting transition, but then we spent probably the next 2 hours trudging up the mountain.

The slippery mud everywhere meant we had to keep our eyes on the ground most of the time. The bulk of my view from that portion of the hike was just mud with the occasional stone or twig.

During this part of the hike, I remember tromping along in my own little world of mud when someone exclaimed, “Look at this view!” To look, we had to stop moving forward. But it was so worth it. We weren’t near the top yet, but we were up high enough to see neighboring mountains and marvel at the beautiful world.

A few minutes later, my eyes returned to the mud. But that view carried me on up the hill because now I knew we were going somewhere great.

On the journey to Emmaus, I bet most moments weren’t all that glamorous. For starters, there was the whole depressing conversation that went on before the stranger joined the travelers’ party. He didn’t jump into their conversation until they were pretty close to the end of the trip, and while I’m sure listening to him was amazing, they probably had to focus on the road every so often if they wanted to make it safely to their destination.

I’m not in my favorite faith ‘mood’ right now, and that’s okay.  The long, muddy walk is absolutely worth it; I just need to remember to stop and look at the view every so often.

Keep the banana! …It’s an excellent source of potassium.

My inner Whovian is showing in this post, but it’s really about an experience that happened in 2009, before I knew Doctor Who existed.  It just happens to involve bananas.

I was traveling, and stayed the night at the home of one of my new friends from the trip.  Her parents asked ahead of time what sort of food I like for breakfast, and I mentioned bananas in that list.  Sure enough, when we arrived at their home, there was a bunch of bananas on the table.  I later learned that neither my friend nor her parents eat bananas.

This was by far the least impressive house I encountered on that trip. We’d stayed in places with pools and ping pong tables, lake houses, places where the living room has a super high ceiling, homes with multiple guest bedrooms, and one pretty odd house where our hostess sent us off with little jars of local jam in the morning.  Here we had open plywood flooring on one side of the trailer, and I shared a twin bed with my friend.  But they bought an entire bunch of bananas to welcome me.

One of my favorite shows is about a man who has lost everything, but offers total strangers his hearts and the experience of a lifetime without even stopping to think about it.  They become his lover/wife/in-laws/best friends, and life is amazing.  But oh, there’s hell to pay afterward because inevitably he loses everything all over again.

This is a level of generosity that bewilders me.  People give more than they can afford, they suffer because of this choice, and then they give it all over again.

I have one more story for you today.  The greatest painter who ever lived created a masterpiece, The World.  Like any great work of art, The World took on its own life as the painter poured all hir heart into it.  But as The World became a thing of its own, it was no longer completely in touch with its creator.  The people in it had their own personalities and opinions, and more and more these ideas did not grow out of the painter’s heart.  Bits of the painting grew ugly, some sections darkened, and many of the tools the painter had added morphed into weapons.  Often the painter tried to clean up a scene, knowing the work would just find a way to ruin it all over again. Hatred fought the painter’s love, and the painter spent many nights weeping for the beauty that could have come to The World if the creation would only accept it.

It would have been easier to throw the canvas away, or to take away a little of the life the painter had given the work, but the painter couldn’t fathom destroying hir beloved art and loved the The World far too much to take away the very thing that made it so special.

One day, it was too much.  The painter thought, “How can we show them love?  We’ve painted messages everywhere, but the people refuse to read them.  We’ve done all we can afford to do for The World.”  And then, the painter realized that there was something more to be done, costly though it would be.  “We can step into the picture, and I will make our love incarnate.  They will blot me out, I’m sure, but not before I can give that to them.”

God gave more than God could afford to give, time and time again, and finally Jesus gave so much more than he could afford that logically he really should have regretted putting so much into a lost cause.  And something crazy and amazing happened. It’s almost like God encourages irrational, loving generosity beyond one’s means.

I accepted the bananas graciously.

So what now?

That’s really the end of the Iona/Taize portion of my journey. Sure, we had the trip home. I found out that one of my friends actually had the exact medicine I’d needed all week with him. I watched the Lego Movie (which was surprisingly enjoyable) on the plane, and enjoyed one last non-American airplane meal.  Then we were on the ground and I started texting the important people (parents, boyfriend, best friends) on the way to customs.  A couple hours later we were at the school, and then I was in my apartment sitting on my bed listening to a friend fill me in on the last two weeks.

But my mind was still in Taize. I was listening, probably more attentively than I usually do, but my mind had a Taize chant playing on a loop.  I walked through the next few days in a sort of daze.  My 2-mile walk beside a highway became a makeshift garden where I could again walk with God. I packed what I could and moved a few things into my apartment for next year, but I also did a good deal of nothing.

Iona changed me. Taize changed me. How? There’s a peace at the core of my being that I don’t think was here before.  I’m more sure of my decisions while also more aware of how quickly my desires and other factors that go into those choices can change.  And there’s more, but I don’t know yet. Care to figure it out with me?

“But for them it was only the beginning of the real story”

(FYI: The title is a C.S. Lewis quote from the end of The Last Battle)

I mentioned earlier that Communion got me out of bed in the morning.  Thursday morning that was honestly the only reason I got up, so I was greatly disappointed when there was no Eucharist at the end of that service.

That evening, we had a full Great Thanksgiving with a celebrant and everything! I loved it. Even though the liturgy was in French, I could follow along. The introductory greeting lines were the same. Then quite clearly, the celebrant continued “It is right, and a good and joyful thing…” I knew for sure when he reached “On the night in which he gave himself up for us…” I loved playing in the service; it was a dream come true, and yet I honestly was more excited in that moment by Holy Communion.

But I didn’t think about that until the following night.  Friday night was our final chance to attend a service in Taize.  My heart was not fully in the worship that evening because I was distracted by the sinus congestion that had become a growing problem as the week progressed. (It seems I’m allergic to France, unfortunately.)

As the service ended, they brought the cross forward as usual, but this time they laid it down. Before they made it back with the cross, a huge line had formed. Seven people at a time can approach the cross and kneel with their foreheads on the wood. This comes from the orthodox tradition and can mean a lot to many of the young pilgrims at Taize. I left after I learned what was going on, initially just to leave but on a whim I went and changed into pants instead. I returned to the church and headed straight to the back of the line. The line took forever. At one point, the line passed under a great arch and I got the feeling that I was entering holy ground and should kneel, so I did. The sound there of the singing was divine. We moved forward again, and eventually I stood back up. At some point, suddenly everyone from my row forward knelt down in one accord.

More and more, I began thinking about the intent I had stated for this trip way back in April.  I wanted to discover and become sure of God’s calling for me.  During that semester, more and more it had seemed like God was calling me to ordained ministry, which scares me because I do know a good deal of what that entails in the United Methodist Church.

In the line I only traveled as far down this line of thought as I had gone before, recognizing that I am called to worship. At other points in the line I recalled encouraging the recorder player in Iona, prayed for a couple friends from my small group, and periodically wondered what exactly I intended to do with this ritual.

When I finally approached the cross, I put my forehead on the wood and prayed. I thought more and more about how the sacrament had literally called me to church that week, and I felt a little more scared. I stayed there a little while with my forehead and sometimes my palm on the wood, praying without a lot of words. Eventually I knew I needed to go and tell Rhonda my realization because that would keep me accountable. As soon as I stood up that seemed harder. Michelle reached me first when I sat down with them, welcoming me with a wonderful hug. I cried without explaining why. At that point the need to claim what I believe is my calling was both terrifying and absolutely necessary. I sat for a very long moment, the words burning in my mind but feeling immobilized. I finally tapped Rhonda’s shoulder and said, “I’m called to sacrament; I don’t know anything else.”

 

That is where I ended the story a few weeks ago, but my life did not end when I returned to the states.  I would now like to say I think it’s more likely I’m called to the sacrament, meaning basically that yes I really am addicted to Communion.  I am a liturgist.  I’m really clearly not a pastor.  I read the vows an elder makes at ordination; that’s not me at all. Deacon, on the other hand! Deacons are called to Word and Service, not sacrament.  My confusion is coming from the conviction that the particular service I’m called to is centered in the sacrament of Communion.

Maybe I’ve finally figured it out. (Ha.)  More likely, I’ll continue studying and praying and conversing and learning more in this next year, and my upcoming summer will go in some direction I could not now predict perfectly.  But I really am sure of one thing: the path I travel is headed towards the Communion table; I can’t imagine going anywhere else.

That moment when you see the reality of the thing you loved from a distance

I love Taize. I spent weeks before the trip studying the Taize tradition and ministry beyond the music I already knew could speak to so many, and my excitement as we rode across the French countryside that Sunday enveloped the exhaustion of travel.

The ministry of Taize is beautiful. I mentioned sacrament once before; Taize is a great example of the church as sacrament.  The whole point of Taize is reconciliation: building community where before we put up walls.  And that’s what happens in Taize. People who never thought they could get along due to denominational differences or cultural differences or language barriers or who knows what else spend a week or two or more sharing life together. So that’s what I expected Monday morning.

Taize gives special priority to young people because Brother Roger, who started the order, shared his grandmother’s belief that young people have the power to change how the world works.  However, Taize is run very much like a summer camp; for many of the European visitors, that’s what it is. There are curfew rules and permanent residents who stay out at night to enforce them.  Everyone has daily tasks, like Iona, but a group of permanent residents go around to the dorms and campgrounds to make sure everyone goes to chores.  Taize welcomes 15- and 16-year-olds as the youngest guests (besides kids who come with their parents), and of course with thousands of teens and young adults the micromanagers are a necessary evil, but it came as a shock after the freedom of Iona.

Another thing that challenged me in Taize was the gender division.  Of course, the monastic order of Taize is all-male, and there are a few orders of sisters who share a community just down the road and come help with the welcome at Taize for women.  It bothered me that a sister ran the infirmary for Taize (do we have no male nurses in the order?) and that if a female guest wished to speak to someone on her own, she had to go ask for a sister to come speak with her. She couldn’t just go next door to where the monks live (well she could, but they’d redirect her to the other end of the camp to find a sister.)  In my journal, I commented, “They walk a fine line between ‘separate but equal’ and ‘women are a lesser order with lower priority,’ so I really hope they never cross into that.”

This is all setting aside any issues with non-binary genders or sexuality, and I won’t really dwell on those problems because as far as I could tell all the monks would have identified themselves as straight (or pointed out that part of their vows was giving up sexuality), and they were all cisgender.  But I wonder what their stance would be for transgender people (F-M or M-F, although I’d assume F-M would be more likely) or gender-queer people wishing to join their order. It’ll happen sooner or later, and I hope they’re ready to receive the new kinds of brothers they may find in this world.

One of the great things about Taize was the community we found in our daily Bible discussion groups. One of the brothers lead a Bible study, and then we broke off into groups of people in our age range to discuss the questions on our reading sheets.  That’s not to say the assigned scripture was always the subject of our conversation, naturally.  Everything I’ve mentioned that challenged me on our first day in Taize came up in my discussion group sooner or later. We never fully agreed on a solution to anything, but we each learned something from the other voices in our circle.  I think the discussion group conversations are a huge part of what brings the Taize community (not the order but the huge community built around that tradition) together.

So discuss, please! Have you found that talking to others can help when something about how someone else runs things challenges you?

Or if you’d prefer (because I don’t think I’ve covered nearly enough about monastic orders and gender issues), what are your thoughts on reconciling our changing definitions of genders and our growing acceptance of multiple sexualities with the rules of traditional monastic orders?