My friend, Marc, wrote this piece a few years back. (You might know Marc Ostlie-Olson from his guest theologian appearances at Skinner’s and Shamrock’s. Or from his juggling at Wild Summer events, or maybe as a pastor at Saint Anthony Park Lutheran). He gave me permisson to include it.

An Incurable Wound

“But we, little fishes, after the example of our ΙΧΘΥΣ Jesus Christ, are born in water, nor have we safety in any other way than by permanently abiding in water…”

Tertullian – On Baptism (193 A.D.)

My tattoo is revolting.  I mean this in both ways.  It turns out that I am among the human beings of the world whose bodies react poorly to some of the metal salts used in some of the pigments for some of the inks that people pay other people to stipple into their bodies with an electric needle and no small amount of pain.  Red, specifically, and the mercury that provides the color.  And my tattoo, located on the inside of my right forearm was drawn with a lot of red.  So now, while others’ ink remains submerged beneath the smooth surface of their skins, my salmon’s swirly body ripples and surges upwards, its red parts pushed by the stubborn flow of my alerted immune system as it attempts to clear the stream.

Three years ago, while living in Seattle and on internship (a great time, btw, to get a tattoo), I went ahead and transformed a watercolor I’d painted the year before Dane was born into a tattoo.  I spent a fair amount of money and several days of discomfort in late spring having the bright colors and smooth lines of a spawning sockeye salmon injected into the deepest layers of my skin by a chunky and dazzlingly drawn-upon woman from Wisconsin called Erica.

I wanted to have an icthus, the ancient Christian code-symbol, but not so abstract as the two-line kind that you find on bumper stickers and devotional jewelry.  The scandal of the incarnation is the scandal of particularity.  It entails complexity and resists abstraction.  Witness to this scandal and this specificity can rightly be borne in the perishable and perishing (and complex) body. I chose the salmon for its particularity (each species has its own river) for the dramatic and self-sacrificial life cycle, and for its ongoing significance as a not-fully-understood metaphor for my own journey of faith.  I had it engraved in so visible a spot on my body so, like the coptic crosses tattooed on the right-hand wrists of some Egyptian Christians, it would do some talking.  It did.

I had envisioned a spawning salmon, but perhaps a bit earlier in its journey home from the sea.  The fish I intended to carry was to be further downstream than the one that buckles below my elbow and spots my shirts – more sleek and glorious and smooth and whole.  And for a couple of years, that’s what I had.  Today my poor tattoo looks scabby and ancient, like those battered and hook-nosed monsters in the nature shows, their skin and scales sloughing away against the unrelenting backwards blow of the river as they press on towards the headwaters of both death and life.  It’s revolting, but it’s still mine and it still speaks.

When you inscribe a metaphor into your skin, it doesn’t cease being a metaphor, even when things go bad.  And when your metaphor is theological, it doesn’t cease being theological, even when it itches and cracks and bleeds.  Metaphors, if they’re worth their salt, are made of sturdier stuff than that.  I think theology, to be at all helpful or relevant, must be too.

My research suggests that I am experiencing what some medical professionals have dubbed “The Red Reaction” or “The Red Effect”, and what I believe many tattoo enthusiasts describe as “The Sucks-to-be-You Effect”.  The green and black portions of my tattoo are fine – smooth and detailed, while the red parts appear to have been traced by an angry toddler armed with a burning cigar and a scratch awl.  There is no topical cure for this histamine response, and laser tattoo removal is not recommended because it only breaks up and disperses the pigment into an already-inhospitable bloodstream. Surgical excision is suggested as an option.  Someday, when I have the money and time and nerve, perhaps a plastic surgeon will follow the lines of my red with one of those wire-loop pottery trimmer tools (though sharpened and sterilized) and replace the defeated tissue with scars.  In time, these will fade a bit.  For now, I carry a more or less incurable wound.

Though clucked at by some as a trendy (and vulgar) phenomenon, tattoos and their more primitive equivalents have been around as long as human beings have been self-aware.  To identify, honor, attract, or frighten, people in nearly all cultures have adorned their bodies with patterns of cuts and burns and drawings and paint.  Some even knock out strategic teeth and trim away portions of their genitalia. The markings and maimings of many tribal cultures often accompany rites of passage and rituals of initiation – life stages thought to entail outer transformations with the power to communicate inner ones.    

We may debate the benefits of the more extreme among these practices, the problem of their ambiguity, as well as the way they are often perpetrated on the unwilling, but they continue even into this postmodern age.  The emergence of tattooing and piercing into the mainstream of Western culture over the last decade comes from the same human urge behind the ritual scarification and ear cutting of the Maasai: to tell a tale and send a signal about what is personally and corporately true or beautiful or real.

As a rule, Christians don’t cut as part of our initiation rite; we drown instead.  Sometimes we even put babies under the water, joining them with the death and resurrection of Jesus as they scream and cry and don’t understand.  Usually its described as a bath or a washing, but that’s only part of the story and the symbol, and overlooks the fact that we also wash corpses.  Each of the sacraments has something revolting about it: the watery grave of baptism, the cannibalism of communion, the patent injustice of absolution.  We Christians are a funky bunch, and it’s not too hard to see why we can gross out the Unitarians and make our Muslim brothers and sisters so uncomfortable.  

We carry baptism as an incurable cross-shaped wound on our foreheads, traced not superficially, but deeply and permanently.  This cross is a foreign substance, and deadly as mercury, against which our natures revolt, but we bear it nonetheless.  It is a pattern and a wound, both inner and outer, that demands daily return, like a missing tooth or stinging scar that pulls the tongue or the touch. 

Our baptismal marking and maiming coincides with our inscription into the palms of God’s hands.  And though it will cost God pain and bitterness and itching and bleeding and maybe even some regret, God will not forget us, and we will not be washed away.  It’s terrible – revolting, even – but it’s also true.  And it’s beautiful.  And it’s real.

Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.  See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands…

(God, to the exiles.) Isaiah 49:15-16

Guess what? This was my third time through the whole Holy Week drama with Humble Walk. And I have to say…perhaps it was my favorite. Not because it was bigger and better. Not because we have somehow improved. It’s actually much simpler than that. I realized I was slipping into a rather life-sucking place as a pastor. A place where I want to control everything. A place where I forget I’m not God.

It begins innocently enough. It starts with a wild love for the events from Palm to Vigil at Humble Walk. Oh, the week is intense and beautiful. (Come next year.) It transforms people. It transforms our entire community. I love it so much that I internally start freaking out about wanting every person I know to be there. Which, you know, is impossible. And then I start worrying that no one will come. (To be fair, this is a real possibility at Humble Walk). Somewhere between everyone and no one–the joy of leading, the prayerful attentiveness to individuals gets drowned out by my need to control outcomes. As if it’s me who gathers the community. As if it depends on me. It’s a bit embarrassing when you lay it out like that. Who would even need God in this equation?

So, I asked a small group of clergy friends to pray for me. To pray that I might be able to let all that go and just allow the Holy Spirit to gather and do the work. Every time I felt myself heading down that freaky deaky control hallway, I turned around and reoriented myself. Because honestly, it’s a small miracle that anyone is Humble Walk at all. I mean that. For cryin’ out loud, we don’t even have a trumpet player for those Easter hymns!

As you might suspect, Jesus rode into Jerusalem and landed smack dab in the middle of our Holy Week. I’m not kidding. Then things quickly spun out of control. Some teenagers helped set up for the Maundy Thursday dinner party–then went off on their bikes to round up more friends. There among the disc golfers toking up in their cars and the broken beer bottles and Fuck Cops graffiti–people walked the prayer stations of Good Friday at Highland Park. Easter Vigil was the noisiest, on the verge of chaos, joyful event of the year.

In light of all this, I’m going to give control up for Easter. And I’m going to add more waffles.

So, Palm Sunday is nearly upon us….actually, just two Sundays away. I’m sort of stumped by what Palm Sunday looks like at Humble Walk this year.  In the two previous years, we did a corner clean up prelude. Thinking, if this day is about Jesus riding into the midst of us…a Holy Week kickoff…it would makes sense to pick up the beer cans and cigarette butts for his arrival. It seems to make more sense than waving palm branches. Although, come to think of it…we did that, too. We gleaned them from Gustavus Adolphus one year…and from St Anthony Park another year.

Palm Sunday is also the first Sunday of the month…which means a Feast Day Potluck for us.

What does Palm Sunday look like this year? Beyond singing All Glory Laud and Honor and waving palm branches? Don’t say bringing in a real live donkey–I know some big churches do that and it just seems a bit too…precious?

What else is on the playlist for the day?
Psalters: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kyzVZvmPpQ&feature=related

Nate Houge: http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/becoming-liturgy/id336673481

This Sunday, our worship space will look a bit differently. Or maybe this is your normal. If you were with Humble Walk in early January, you may already be familiar with the form we call Holding the Space. Meaning, we are creating a space for you to pray, settle in, listen, set down your backpack. We begin with communion, then the youngsters are invited to walk to Subway with Michelle for dinner (provided) and age-appropriate Weight of the Word. Everyone else, sticks around. During the rest of the time, you are welcome to do any (or none) of the following:

• Sit or knee (we bust out the floor canvas we all painted together)
• Light a candle as you pray
  for someone or something
• Write a prayer on a strip of cloth and tie it to
  the prayer tree
• Sprinkle yourself with water
  in remembrance of your baptism

  (A holy collision of water,
  God’s Word, Spirit)

• Listen
• Reflect upon the last week

  (High points? Low points? Where
  did you see God at work?)

• Take some deep breaths and
  rest in the knowledge that you are beloved
• Read today’s Gospel
• Pray through the newspaper.
• Dig out your phone. Text your
  people and ask them what they want you to pray for.
• If you wish to sent with an
  anointing of oil and a blessing, find Jodi in the back before you
  leave.

A few of you have asked for a copy of last Sunday’s sermon. I don’t normally post my sermons. Partly because there is usually interaction during my preaching–so posting what I’ve written wouldn’t really give the whole sermon. But this week was different in that I just preached. I threw out the first edition of this one on Saturday afternoon (ouch). Thankfully, a conversation with Nadia Bolz-Weber moved this one into a different direction. So, thanks for that, Nadia.

Humble
Walk Lutheran Church

Sunday,
March 4, 2012 (Lent 2)

Mark 8:
27-37

Jesus went
on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and on
the way he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that I am?’And
they answered him, ‘John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still
others, one of the prophets.’He asked them, ‘But who do you say
that I am?’ Peter answered him, ‘You are the Messiah.’And he
sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.

Take
up your cross and follow. Lose your life.

I suspect that what you might hear in this invitation is
“blah
blah blah.” Or blah blah church blah blah nice idea blah blah.

Aside from that rather graphic movie by Mel Gibson a while back, we have
domesticated the cross. When you see it in Precious Moments
figurines, it’s hard to think about it as an instrument of torture
designed by the Persians. Let’s pause there. Think about how the
Persians came up with this design. Giant instrument of torture think
tank? Trial and error? A night of hard drinking and creative
brainstorming?

In any case, the Romans were mighty happy with the Persian’s crafty
design of the cross and adopted it’s use to torture political
criminals. Which, you know, when you think about Jesus dying as a
political criminal on a device used for political criminals—it’s
sort of hard to make the argument that you can separate faith and
politics.

In any case, back to the Precious Moments.

So,we have this cross. And Jesus tells the disciples to pick theirs up
and follow. Not quite the sexy discipleship training program they
were looking for. For these poor disciples, this would have been a
terribly ridiculous, offensive, unimaginable  symbol of discipleship.
They likely looked at Jesus like he had lost his mind. (Like us
hearing, “Pick up your electric chair and follow.” Or “Take up
those lethal injections and follow me.”)

It is also just a bit of anti-common sense: those who wish to save their
life, must lose it.

And here is where I actually get stuck as a preacher. The whole Gospel
today is nearly everything I hang my theological hat on. It’s the
bread and butter of my faith life. It’s why I even try and  follow
Jesus. 

So, you would think that would make for an easy sermon. But, it’s
actually feels impossible. Because this isn’t one I can teach. Or
maybe even preach.

I for sure can’t make you believe it.

AND we have to recognize the real baggage around this Gospel. The church
has used this passage  in terrible ways…with messages like: We’d
like you to take up your cross as soon as you are not so gay. Or
losing your life for my sake means quietly suffering abuse at home. I
can tell you with certainty that the Jesus that spent the first seven
chapters of this Gospel alleviating suffering and cross boundaries
would never make those claims.

So, what DO we do with this Gospel? Losing lives, saving lives. I can’t
tell you what this Gospel means in your life. I can tell you what I
see…what I have experienced.

It is about death and resurrection. It is dying and rising. It is Jesus
meeting you in the most broken places. You can’t get any more broken
than the cross. And this is where Jesus finds us. And then he says,
go on, pick it up. This is where you will meet others, too.

When you are suffering. When you are an emotional wet bag of groceries.

It is the moment that you realize that you cannot by your own strength
get sober.

It is the moment you realize that you cannot get out of an emotionally
abusive relationship on your own.

It is those twenty minutes last week when you weren’t thinking about
yourself and how freeing that was.

It is when you are so overcome with grief that you feel like you can’t
get out of bed.

It is when you feel stuck at work, or feel all alone at recess, or like
your parents couldn’t possibly begin to understand you.

Or when your nephew is diagnosed with Autism. Or you see your parents
slowly moving toward Alzheimer’s.

Or your most important relationship has slowly and painfully dissolved.

It’s in all of these places that God shows up. In the most (f-ed up)
painful places.

And we may be disappointed to find this out. At first. Because perhaps
we’d rather have a God that fixed everything rather than just showing
up. And we realize that God revealed in Jesus isn’t maybe the God we
want…but it’s the God we desperately need. Maybe God enters here—in
our places of need—because it’s at these moments when we usually
realize we can’t do it on our own. We actually can’t pull ourselves
up by our bootstraps. The illusions of self-sufficiency have faded.

And then…

God
leaves heaven to enter our hell;  God abandons
strength — so that God can join us,  hold onto us, and love and redeem us at our
places of weakness.

Perhaps this what Jesus meant by saying
that those who want to save their life.

This is death and resurrection. Bread and butter Gospel Good News. Because
it means we all get to begin again. And the starting over point is
Jesus entering in and finding us in our mess. Showing up. THIS
beginning is near.

In the last decade, mainline churches have been trying out/trying on a variety of styles of worship labeled “Emergent.” I’m not really interested in what is/what isn’t emergent. Quite frankly, I don’t think anyone around Humble Walk cares. It seems to me, Emergent is another stupid church word. Well, that’s putting it ungraciously. Perhaps more kindly, it’s a way to describe or interpret something that is bubbling up. Emerging, if you will.

In the beginning, emergent meant lighting some candles in worship. Like, beyond the altar candles. Another big trend was to have someone paint or draw during worship. I know–I get it. We are all trying to bust out of the box and think about doing church differently. But often these attempts made me roll my eyes and think, “Of course you are. So Emergent!” Snark, snark, snark.

Now, look at me. Eating humble pie. Because in the month of January, we did both candle-lit worship AND had an artist paint.

How we arrived at So Emergent!

Advent/Christmas is exhausting. My community was tired. I was tired. So, when I thought about putting aside liturgy and intense intentional interaction for two weeks…I felt a sense of restfulness. Like, the pressure on all of could be lifted. We didn’t have to work (liturgy meaning “the work of the people”)…it didn’t matter how many people were there. We could just sit. In a quiet space. Without expectation. And listen. After all the noise of Christmas, who wouldn’t want that?

Then, I started thinking about what visual people we are–and how at HW, we focus so much on audio. Songwriters, singing, music, talking, talking, talking. Plus, Matt is us. He isn’t imported. It would sinful not to acknowledge what he brings to the community or negate his vocation.

We just completed a three-week run with Matthew GG Holm at the helm of our art world. Matt filled the walls of Acme Academy of Arts with his abstracts. He painted, we painted, there was paint, and it was messy and good. I would also like to add that Matt did a tremendous amount of work for us–in prep, in hauling, in hanging, in risking, in taking down, in hauling, in putting himself out there for us. We are filled with gratitude for this work.

Want to jump the shark and import Matt? You can. For a price. (Contact him directly).

We are halfway through Advent. This Sunday, we light the third candle. John the Witness visits…pointing us to Jesus. We are on our way.

We may have to delay Christmas, however. Seriously. I know we have been waiting, with an appropriate level of expectancy. We are prayfully observing this season. We are tending to our relationships and bodies with homemade soup and bread (hello, incarnation). But how can Jesus really come if we don’t have a baby for the dramatic reading on Christmas Eve?

Once again, the good folks at Christ on the Capitol are loaning us their amazing fleet of costumes. We have a lovely, low-key worship service in the works. There will be candles to hold, Silent Night to sing, a manger to hold the Christ-child…and you can play the role of Mary or Cow or Sheep or Angel or Shepherd.

Well, truth be told, the baby in our reading might be Big Baby (on loan from Elsa). Even so, Jesus will slip into the world and once again, transform the whole thing.

We are still getting used to our new worship location and we have learned a few things. We know our new landlords show us wonderful hospitality: our place is nicely warmed, the floors are buffed, the bathroom has ample TP and the bins we store are always, always where we leave them.

We know that when the Vikings are playing, lots of people will gather at Joe and Stan’s  (next door) to watch the game. And they will likely take all of the closest parking spots. Sports!

We know that there is ample foot traffic in front of our building. People pause at our window–noses press to the glass–as they pass by. (“What the heck are they doing in there?”) We know that if communion bread is missing, the kind manager at nearby Subway will sell us a couple of uncut loaves for a buck.

For this season of Advent, we put our bike-parts thurible outside our door, on the sidewalk. About fifteen minutes before worship begins, we light the coal and pile on some frankincense and myrrh incense. The smoke pours out–and both our eyes and noses experience a call to worship.

I especially love that when I go outside to light it, there is a group of smokers huddled together outside Joe and Stan’s. I laugh and light it up.

Man, church is weird.

You know why I love Thanksgiving? Because it means that the church season of Advent is only a few days away. It’s awfully nerdy, this love I have of the church seasons. But admit it–you have your own little nerd corner that you rule. Maybe it’s fantasy football or mowing the lawn a particular way or maybe it’s something you won’t even cop to in certain social circles. Not me–I’m putting it out there for all seven of you readers. I love the drama of the church calendar…and Advent reigns supreme.

Advent marks the four weeks leading up to Christmas. For four Sundays, we surround ourselves with blue altar cloths. We light candles in the Advent wreath. We huddle together in the growing darkness. We sing songs about expectant, hope-filled longing. And we wait.

All of that is set against another story we might be living. And that story might include: addiction, incredibly messy family systems, weariness, unemployment, life-sucking employment, loneliness, depression, grief, eating disorders. Did you read that list and think, “Oh, those poor folks. I am so glad I don’t have to deal with any of those things.” Okay, then how about the onslaught of consumerism? If you breathe, you can’t help but be swept up into the Black Friday, early Black Friday, post Black Friday buy! buy! buy! It seeps into all the cracks and tells us how to have a Holly Jolly Christmas (read: spend your money on this product or experience).

A few weeks ago, a pilot group of Humble folks gathered for a simple meal and talked about what Advent offers. We listened to one another talk about the pressure we feel…to provide a “good” Christmas for our people…all the while being aware of the reality of our broken lives. What I heard was a strong voice to keep our community and worship life simple. Humble, if you will. We don’t want to do more or add more. Mostly, we want to be intentional with the relationships we have with one another.

Then, a few folks offered to make and provide soup and bread for the community. And a new 2011 Advent discipline was born. You are invited to sit with us. To sing songs of hope. To wait. To light candles. To hear the words of the prophets and that reckless Messiah. Then, if you are hungry, stick around for a bowl of soup and some bread.

I am sure it is not news to you that Humble Walk is not a bricks and mortar church. We are a church without walls. When we need walls or a place to gather, we rely on the assets of the community. Bars, parks, storefronts, alleys, your lawn, coffee shops. You get the idea. Two public spaces that have become quite important to us this month are Acme Scenic Art (where we worship) and Claddagh Coffee (where is seems that we do most everything else).

If you haven’t been to worship on Sunday since we moved into Acme, you are missing out. While it takes a bit of poking to find us (park across the street at Best Pawn and look for our icon in the window), it is worth your trouble. It’s spacious and beautiful. One person told me, “This space feels different. It feels holy.” Another said, “It feels a bit more grown up. In a good way. Maybe more serious?” There is room for mystery and you and your questions. Come and try it on.

Claddagh Coffee is down the road a bit (still on W 7th) towards downtown. It’s another gorgeous space. The staff is kind and helpful…they give you the impression that they actually want you there. The drinks and food are great. But what I love, love, love is the community that is being built inside their walls. One time, Mayor Coleman sat at the table next to us. Yesterday, I witnessed one of the owners wait on a man who was intoxicated and told the room, “I am black and I am homeless. Will you still serve me?” He was served–and the owner met him with dignity and care.  And I thought to myself, “This space feels different. It feels holy.”

Guess what? We have a created an event where you can try out both of these spaces on the same day. On Sunday, Oct. 2, kids get to be dropped off at Acme at 3PM for their own dreaming and playing (with supervision, of course). Adults and teens gather in the lower level reserved area at Claddagh. We’ll have coffee waiting for you. And we will do some reflecting and dreaming together. Then, we’ll all meet up at Acme for our Feast worship (meal provided by Heavenly Day Cafe. Word.)