Oh ya, I can say this here now!

I used to shy away from writing things on this blog about women in ministry.  That was when I worked at a church that professed views on women different from my own.  I do not work there anymore.  This blog may move into some of those previously off-limit places, especially with the things I'll be thinking about this fall and winter. 

This semester at Regent I am taking two courses.  One is Greek (I am most excited about all the words and all the meanings of all the words) and the other is Women's Issues on Faith and Development.  In the Women's class we began by reading the book Women in the Church: A Biblical Theology of Women in Ministry by Stanley J. Grenz and Denise Muir Kjesbo.

This book and I have been friends for a few years.  When I first picked it up, I was the needy friend who followed it around a lot and hung out in its pages so desperate for the arguments it examines and the egalitarian conclusions it makes.  This time through the book I found myself to be less needy, and more sure (but not sure in an "I knew I was right!" way . . . more of an "Ahhhh there is something more settled in me now" way).

There is a satisfying chapter on "Women in Creation" and the words that capture my imagination are these:

The debate over Genesis 2 verses 18 and 20 hinges on the meaning of the phrase 'ezer kenegdo (helper fit).  Egalitarians not only dispute the complementarian claim that helper means "subordinate," but they also claim that Hebrew designation clearly indicates the equality of the sexes.  Alvera Mickelsen, for example, notes that in the Bible the word 'ezer (translated "helper") is never used of a subordinate.  Of its twenty appearances in the Old Testament (in addition to the Genesis reference), seventeen are references to God as our helper.  (The other three refer to a military ally.)  Rather than indicated that God is secondary or subordinate to us, speaking of God as our helper acknowledges that he is our strength or power.  Similarly, the Hebrew word kenegdo indicates equality.  On the basis of an examination of all the Old Testament uses of these words, Semitic language specialist David Freedman concludes, "When God creates Eve from Adam's rib, His intent is that she will be - unlike the animals - 'a power (or strength) equal to him.'"

The last bit of the section that follows this quotation notes that "the creation of woman 'for man' or as his 'helper' means that she rescues him from his solitude."

She


rescues


him.

I know this as I read and reread these words:  I live out this strength as a woman.

Women, we are that woman.

William Blake, The Angel of the Divine Presence Bringing Eve to Adam
c. 1803
Watercolour, pen, and black ink over graphite on paper

"Nobody's Crying"

No matter where I am when I hear this Patty Griffin song - most recently working on a research paper at my creaky kitchen table with my music on shuffle and the sunset occupying my peripheral vision - there are words in the later part of this song that cause a bodily reply.

May you dream you are dreaming in a warm soft bed
May the voices inside you that fill you with dread
Make the sound of thousands of angels instead
Tonight where you might be laying your head

This verse of blessing calls on me to hope for those who have not been particularly good to me. In some instances, I may even call these people "my enemies." Though they aren't necessarily sword-swinging enemies, they have slashed at some vulnerable places and left me to do some bandaging.

As the music shifts towards this benediction, I find myself closing my eyes, picturing those little shits who did some damage, and holding my hands out for mercy: for them and for me. I know that behind these flashes-of-faces in my imagination there are sad reasons for the sad things people do to other people. Sadly.

Patty sings of the wishing and the working out of forgiveness; I so often need other people's words and wishes in matters of remission.

Patty Griffin and Doug Lancio at Edmonton Folk Festival.


Patty Griffin, Emmylou Harris, Buddy Miller, Shawn Colvin at Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle. Song: No Bad News.

Cooler Breezes

I am contemplating making a firmer commitment to blogging this fall. I plan to study harder at Regent while working close to full-time. Without a little more creative expression and play, I think I'll turn into a cranky, exasperated grad student.

I know that the demands I put on myself could disconnect me from the ways I like to connect with those who like to connect with me. I know I could bury my noise in books and hide out behind blinking computer screens, forgetting to take time to put words together for fun. I know that this little blog means something to some people and I want to honour that.

Add to that: there are so many beautiful details to share.

Edmonton Folk Festival
My new fav Canadian Artist on stage and on screen: Joel Plaskett

Kindness in a Cup of Cranberry Tea

I have been welcoming new friends into my life. They are women and men who meet weekly over a warm and beautiful meal at Out of the Cold in East Vancouver. My church cooks one of the meals once a month, but once a month does not meet my craving to get acquainted with some of the guests. So, I go a little more often.

Last night I was warmly greeted by some of my new friends. Over the weeks they've slowly offered me parts of their stories and I've been metaphorically and then quite literally embraced. There are so many things that are brewing inside of me after a few months of showing up and sharing a meal with people at Out of the Cold; here's a little list of them:

++ Listening, truly listening, is an uncommon practice. Distraction reigns in our short attention spans. But oh! to be heard and to give the gift of hearing to another. The discipline of focused listening means I have to fix my eyes, narrow my ears for the one sitting right beside/before me, shut down my leaping desire to speak, and grip patience with fierce tenacity. When I let my eyes drift away, or I jump in too quickly to speak, I lose and I discourage. I don't like that. I don't like that one bit.

++ People who are marginalized hold a bit of my story, too. I can dress it up, put some eyeshadow on it, but I can not rub out times when I've been isolated, I've been shut down, I've been trivialized.

++ Hospitality goes both ways. Just when I think that I am a part of the movement of hosting, I am met with a hot cup of herbal tea and a chair is vacated so I can take a seat. Why do I take time to go to Out of the Cold? Why do I cross the street to say good morning to a woman fumbling to make sense of her crack pipe? Because there is a gift in each encounter. I have something to give and there is something to receive.

Those are some of the things I'm thinking of as I nudge my little life in new directions. It's fun, heavy, lively, and smells quite holy.

Semi-Colon Club

;

This week I have had my eye balls buried in books about Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of Uncle Tom's Cabin. In the mid-1800s HBS was a member of the Semi-Colon Club: a group of influential writers in Cincinnati, OH.

I have had a punctuation crush on the semicolon for a number of years. This discovery made my semicolon loving heart do a little jig; if you love the semicolon too, you can join right in.

The Spiritual Discipline of Riding the Bus

I don’t take the bus
everyday,
but last week I rode
and wondered
what I might be missing
staying alone
in my car
not cramming myself in the masses of
transit.

It can be a pain
people can be mean
and pushy,
but with graced-up eyes,
cleared out ears,
there are moments
to be alive in.

Moments of Kindness:
Many (unseen)
gestures of good
neighborliness.
One woman says to another,
“There is something dripping from your bag.”
Another leans over and asks,
“Is this your red elastic?”
So many people offer up piles of
“I’m sorry.”
They mean it.

Moments of Wonder:
On a new bus line
I saw the city
through neighborhoods
I had never
wandered around in
before.

Moments with Messages:
I quieted down
critiques in my mind,
slowed down the speed of
my impatience,
just sat
and listened.
The automated voice
announcing the next bus stop
became a gentle woman's voice
reminding me
of real life.
Live Out Grace Ave.
Rest in Beauty St.
Listen to the Story St.
Find a Silent Place . . . Pl.
Move Forward with Sensitivity St.
Don’t Be Afraid Ave.

There is so much,
She said.

The CBC (Still) Saves

I often joke that God speaks to me through CBC radio. Only, I'm not really joking.

This week I have been tuning into the Canada Reads discussion with Canada's BFF, Jian Ghomeshi. Earlier in the week I tuned into its evening airing. I found myself in my car, trying hard to ignore my full bladder, listening to the last ten minutes of Tuesday's discussion.

What is Canada Reads? A panel of Canadian "celebrities" chooses books, they are unveiled months before the discussion, and then the discussion is aired on Radio 1 as each panelist defends her or his choice for a book for all of Canada to read. A lesser fairing book is voted off each day for a week until one book is left victorious.

I adore this discussion. It swells with heated conversation about story, humanity, community, family, race, hardship, justice, history, and love. I love found phrases like "novelistic terms," "meet it with humour," "writes brilliant dialogue," "truly titanic task," "larger sense of compassion," and "tales of survival and struggle."

The discussion is now over; the champ is chosen. Pick it up with the Canada Reads podcast.

Colours of Canada Reads: greys and black.
Welcome home, Bobbi.

A Lasting Impression

My good friend Louanne sent me this story over the weekend about her nephew's brilliant memory, the Farmer's Market, and the fact that kids dig me. Enjoy.

Last night at the dinner table, Ryan says to me - "So Auntie, do you get emails from Bobbi very often?"

Totally random. We were talking about Jared and Willingdon Cub Scouts etc. So I reply, yes we try to stay in touch but that we didn't see each other as much since we had moved away. Adding, why do you ask?

"I was just wondering how she was doing!" is his reply. I wish you had been there. It was so sincere and beautiful and you would have loved that moment.

My sister, trying to figure out where the question came from - asks him why he was thinking about you.

It gets even better! He gets a little smile on his face and says - well, we were talking about scouts which made him think about a trip they had made to the pumpkin patches in the fall, which made him think about the farmer's market, which made him think about you and our trip together!

So, for a Friday encouragement, a very sweet almost 7 year old is thinking of you (and your farmer's market)!! He hopes you are doing well and that you like your new job at Mackenzie's church. (Seriously, that's what he told me to tell you.)

Songs for a Tuesday

Don't be afraid to move a little like Jian.

Mending

I could see the day fraying at some of its edges today.

Three times this afternoon I heard the kind of yelling in the neighborhood that rattles safety. I was not afraid for my safety, but I was surely afraid for someone's.

Twice I caught sight of a man hauling his belongings down the ally: dumbbells and plastic containers. His walk was heavy. His packing poorly planned, hurried, and spilling out.

Once today I took some time to stare at some of the things in my life that hurt.

And then . . .

I ran.
I had good coffee with a friend.
I washed dishes.
I watched The National.
I got good-chills about Obama.
I did my laundry.
I read a wordy text book.
I read John Milton.
I listened to Over the Rhine.
I reminded myself to breathe more deeply.
I gave some clothes away.
I boiled a free-range, organic egg and put it on my salad.
I drank peppermint tea with honey from this weekend's Vancouver winter market.
I said hello to my mom.

Fake Friends of the Truest Kind

Today I came home and put all my Patty Griffin albums on shuffle. Her music settles anxiety, she sings my ache, and her lyrics put wings on wishes.

Who are your friends in music?

Tables and Chairs

This weekend I got my listening ears swerving around an older Andrew Bird album (Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs - yep, it's delightfully odd). The song 'Tables and Chairs' has this built-up section in the middle where A. Bird paints a don't-you-worry picture of the end of the world.



Besides loving the hospitable images of tables and chairs, calling friends who aren't too busy to talk, and drinking roses from a can together, there is this brilliant end to one of the verse. A. Bird declares that the apex of such a vision is that among the dancing bears, the band, and the part where we throw away our survival kits THERE WILL BE SNACKS THERE WILL, THERE WILL BE SNACKS, THERE WILL BE SNACKS.

This pleases me. Food for all. And not just any sort of spread: SNACKS!

This year I am trying to weave back into my life the gentle moment of bowing my head to give thanks for a meal. My good friend Lisa brought a beautiful book back from Iona for me: Blessed Be Our Table. I've been inspired by real prayers like this one:

Prayer
O God,
you have made us creatures of this earth,
hungry and thirsty and needy,
that you might satisfy all our longings with your abundant love.

Satisfy the hunger of our bodies
for food and shelter, health and human touch.
Satisfy the hunger of our spirits
for dignity and freedom
in giving and receiving.
Satisfy the hunger of our minds
to understand our world,
the reasons for its pain,
the ways we are connected to each other.

Satisfy the hunger of our hearts
that all who share this loving earth with us
shall share our satisfaction.
And satisfy the hunger of our hands
to help you make it so

Through Jesus Christ,
Amen.
- Christian Aid

And this one:

Cornflake grace
O Lord, grant that we may not be like cornflakes: lightweight, empty and cold; but like porridge - warm and comforting and full of natural goodness.
- From Scottish Churches House

Yes and amen. There will be snacks.

Limping Out of 2008

Today was the second day in a row that someone asked me why I was walking with a limp. It seems that my usual uneven stride is a bit more pronounced because I fell marvelously on some ice just four days ago. The fall left a bruise on my hip that is a breathtaking piece of purple artwork. I wish I could show it off, but it might be a strike against my virtue to whip off my pants for any old Joe.

Something that makes this bruise so peculiar is that it is sharing skin with a scar. When I was just a little baby Bobbi Jae I had surgery to correct a congenital condition called hip dysplacia. The orthopedic surgeon's work of temporarily placing a pin in the troubled hip left me with a scar that has stretched as I grew and walk that is a bit out of step.

This year, 2008, has left me limping a bit as well. There has been loss, there have been mistakes, there has been failure. I have had some unexpected falls.

But there has been life, and that life has placed its warm hand on my bruised scars. I have known healing, I have had adventure, I have worked to take care of myself, I have risked, I have welcomed, I have asked questions, I have stood for justice, and I have eaten well. I have begun to roll around in the love of God again and I wonder if, in this new year, that love might take my breath away.

On the Shore of Lake Ontario

The second Canadian Youth Workers Conference took place last weekend in Toronto. This was my second trip to this great Canadian city.

I was invited to host the "women in youth ministry" section of the weekend: a dinner out one night and an affinity group one afternoon. There was a patchwork of women who attended, and I was grateful to take a peek into some of their stories. I was reminded, though, that in the world of youth ministry in the church across Canada things don't yet look as diverse as they should.

In order to combat some of this discouragement I did some fun things.

I made a pilgrimage to the CBC Building; the CN Tower stretches up behind it.


I got as close to Jian as I could.


I stood in awe of the real Mr. Dressup tickletrunk.


I enjoyed the beauty of a great meal with women in youth ministry.


I lived in up in my swanky hotel room.


I visited the newly opened Art Gallery of Ontario one cold, snowy night.

Midrash

I wrote a poem this summer for a Regent class. I got it back a couple of weeks ago with an excitable "Yes!" written in its margin by the brilliant poet Scott Cairns.

It has been graded; I am now offering it to you. It grew from an experience I had riding the "8 DOWNTOWN" bus on my way to do some gardening with Jacob's Well on a Wednesday afternoon in July.

THIS, THEN, IS HOW YOU SHOULD PRAY
Matthew 6:11

And there it is, sandwiched right in between
the kingdom, God’s will on earth
and the confusion of forgivenesses.
I pray, “Give us this day our daily bread.”
Jammed in between a student
and a steel worker on this city bus.
It snakes from the south suburban slope
into the downtown.

Riders on their way to office towers,
holding tight to hand bags and brief cases.
Riders on their way to their next fix,
money stuffed into their dirty socks.
We all sit side-by-side
or we stand
shoulder-to-shoulder, almost.
Try not to touch each other.

Caught up in keeping my well pressed pants
clean, the dirt and crumbs
have found their way into the aisle
where I stand, a shiny gadget in the palm of my hand.
A woman got on the bus just two stops after
mine. Distracted from my virtual business,
to see her. Her buzz draws my stare, then
locks it.

She digs deep into her stuffed purse.
Rhinestone charm clashes with
grimy sweat shirt. She is wasted,
skin cracked with addiction. Finding make-up,
she kneads it into her cheeks,
never really looking up.
Her chatter finds it’s way to the bus driver.
He doesn’t seem to mind. He just
listens to her. She’s been here before.

She is churning out stories of bad friends and a man with
(can you believe it?) ten thousand dollars in his pocket!
She chases a dime under the seat,
finds a sweater left behind, tries it on, she likes it.
She is ragged. I am well tailored, put together
with red accessories and rings.
Prayers somersault in my mind.
Remembering the words of my priest, “The duty of every Christian
is to share.”

Maybe if I could super-power see beyond this time
this place: Would I find a banquet?
Help set the table? Invite her to take a seat (near me)?
Here, I don’t even have lunch to share.
Arriving downtown, I leave out the back door of the bus.
Her need is daily bread, now!
Passed around a table. I pause
mid prayer. It is a wonder I even pray at all.

Camp Rant

I don't rant a lot. I'm quite amiable and the things that piss me off pass pretty fast. But this weekend my morality was compromised: I had to eat camp food.

I want to know what in God's name so many Christian camps are doing serving children, as they retreat out of the city into beautiful alcoves of God's good creation, such shit.

This weekend I watched a camp serve eager kids and loving leaders fake eggs, apple crisp made of close-to-fake apples, fake whip cream, processed meats, Eggocrapo waffles, toxic juice, etc.

My hopeful heart had a vision of year-round staff tending the land, raising the chickens, getting their hands dirty and lovingly preparing food to set before their guests. I pray for a camp food revival. I pray that camp leaders will start reading godly books like The 100 Mile Diet and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I pray that they will engage in the rich monastic tradition of our faith and embrace their gifted place in creation: to be places of worship, teaching, hospitality, retreat, and good food passed around a banqueting table.

That's Not My Brassiere

As I prematurely pulled the pile of ALL BLACK laundry from the drier (I like to time certain parts: jeans - 5 minutes; newer black shirts - about 7 to 10 minutes; old black stuff - all the way to 50 minutes) my hands grabbed onto something strange.

I tossed the other items aside and pulled out this new texture: a much-too-big-for-me bra. And for that split mini moment my imagination flashed through how different my life would be if that much-too-big-for-me bra really did belong to me because I had that much to mold and hold. Bobbi with big boobs: it as a nice ring to it, but would have likely set me on a different course of cleavage and God knows what else.

I'll stick with my simple physique, mostly because I have to, and leave that lovely piece of lingerie for whoever did laundry in our house this weekend.

Please, Take a Peek

My friend Leah, who lives in Vancouver, has started a beautiful art/photo/life blog with a buddy who is doing aid work in Burundi.

Get your virtual butt there.

Here's a sample of its dazzling work.

Mount Pleasant

I'm sure I post about the same things over and over, but I can't seem to help myself. Tonight . . . I'm thinking about my neighborhood.

I went out early yesterday morning to walk less than a block to vote at Grace Memorial United Church. It's so close that even I can almost throw something at it from my third floor bedroom window and hit it. Not that I would, but I almost could.

As I walked down the ramp into the fellowship hall I noticed that the door had been pushed back against someone's overnight squatting gear. There was an empty shampoo bottle, a jacket, and a yellow blanket. I was a bit surprised that the voting day volunteers hadn't moved it, but then again, this is Vancouver East and that sight is not uncommon.

This morning was another early morning as I raced out with the rising sun to make my way to a First Aid course. I drove down my street and saw a woman who had been out all night. She was dressed to impress, cheaply. She looked so tired, quite at home behind the laundromat, and numb to the cold. Though, I'm sure she wasn't. We all feel cold, right?

Tonight as I tried to walk a bit of my dinner and wine off I crossed paths with a police operation complete with three staked out cars, cops on foot, and a focused sniffer dog in search of someone in some dark hiding spot.

So what makes a pretty good girl like me feel quite at home in all of this mess? Mostly, I don't really know. I just know that the broken pieces I see around me look a bit like the broken pieces I name within me.

There is loneliness, curled up in a church's dark doorway.

There is desperation, selling herself on the busy Vancouver Street.

There is heartbreak, hiding in the bushes trying not to get caught.

There is life. And hovering over all of it, though most certainly not fully realized, is a deep and promised hope.

Giving Thanks, Cutting the Crap

For Thanksgiving I am making an "I want" list.

I want to buy less.
I want to wear things until they fray.
I want to clean out my closet and give stuff away.
I want to eat what is in season.
I want to meet more farmers.
I want to run and bike in the cold.
I want to be neighborly.
I want hospitality.
I want to share.
I want to write.
I want to listen.
I want to worry less.
I want to laugh more.
I want to breathe deeply.
I want to be silly.
I want to be good.
I want to pray.
I want to be generous.
I want to rest.