About Timothy Brown

A pastor. A writer. A dreamer. Occasionally a beer brewer.

Every Easter I Wonder How Churches Who Don’t Ordain Women Get Around the Resurrection Account

resurrection-womenEvery Easter I have this ominous feeling that my colleagues in churches who don’t ordain women are skipping part of the resurrection story.

They have to be.  They must be. There’s no way that they can be reading the Gospel account and still not see the need to ordain women into the pastoral office.

Because here’s the truth of the resurrection story: women are the first to proclaim the resurrection.

They are the first ones entrusted with it.

They are the first preachers to those scared disciples in that upper room.

So how can they defend not ordaining women, especially on Easter, when on Easter they hear the women are entrusted with the sacred news first?

I really wonder.

Is it because of Paul’s letters, where he tells women to sit down in church (and he only writes that once, by the way)? Are we to believe that Paul has more authority than the risen Jesus?

Really?!

If we hold Paul’s letters as equal to the example of Jesus in the scripture, we need to honestly re-think our identity as “Christians,” and perhaps just fess up that we’re “Paulians.”

I mean, except for the rampant misogyny of the ancient world, it’s a wonder that women weren’t the first and only pastors of the church!  They were the only ones who stuck around through life, death, and resurrection.

And that rampant ancient misogyny still shows itself today, of course.

And you know it does.

Because there are tons of churches who will read the Easter text and not get a whiff of irony in it all as their all-male clergy dominate the roster.  Oh, sure, they’ll lift up the role women play in the world. As “helpers.”  As “good and faithful.” And at least good enough to teach Sunday school.

To the little children.  Not the older children. Or adults.  Women can’t have authority over men. 

And just when do men become men, by the way?  I’m a man. But I can’t really tell you when it happened…

And trust me, teaching Sunday school? That is no small thing.

But if that’s the extent of what women are empowered to do, it’s also not large enough.  Not large enough when the Gospel witness clearly shows, in all four Gospels, that the women are the first to know (and in most of the Gospels to tell) the resurrection good news to the scared and hiding men.

Perhaps this Easter some denominations will be raised from their ban on women clergy into the resurrection life of full participation.

You never know.  Crazier things have happened…like people being raised from the dead.

Esteban and the Importance of Not Walking Away Too Quickly

TreadmillFeatureI’m at the gym, running, and minding my own business.

I have earbuds in, and I always choose a treadmill at the end of a row if I can.  The fewer people around me the better.  Especially at the gym.  Part of the reason for this is because I sweat.

A lot.

Like, an embarrassing amount of sweating happens with me, especially when I run.  My elbows literally just fling sweat every which way.  You might think that’s too much information, but you’d be mistaken because that little sentence doesn’t do the reality justice.

The second reason I want few people around me is because I hate talking at the gym.  I go there to be alone with other people.

Yeah, you read that correctly.  I go to the gym to be alone in a crowd.  Because in my work I don’t get a whole lot of “anonymous time,” and I crave it.  I’m not famous or anything, but the circle of people who recognize me is large, much larger than I expect, sometimes.

Coffee shops, hospitals, even the local watering hole…I see people I know there all the time.  And that’s all well and good!  I’m not saying I don’t want to see people I know at these places.  I enjoy the chat, the pint, the moment of connection.

But I also enjoy moments of disconnection, too.  And I find I have to schedule them.

Anyway, I’m running at the end of a bank of treadmills, and suddenly I notice this presence at the machine next to me.

My eyes stare straight forward.  I’m one mile in.  My earbuds are in, but unfortunately only one of them works, so I can hear pretty well.

“You know,” the figure next to me says, “a lot of people don’t like talking to other people.  But not me. I’m a social guy.”

I keep running.  I’m praying he’s on the phone.

“I lived in Costa Rica for a while, which is why I call myself ‘Esteban.’ Stephen’s the name my momma gave me.  Esteban is the name the cab driver in Costa Rica gave me.  I go by either…”

I finally look over at him, and sure enough, he’s talking to me.  He’s walking on the treadmill, and is of some considerable size.  Maybe mid-30’s.  I keep my pace, and he’s just walking…sweating…like two travelers on different journeys who, except for the machines governing their paces, wouldn’t travel together.  I was running. He was walking.  We wouldn’t be side-by-side in any other world except for the gym: that unicorn of a place where everyone goes a different distance, together.

I consider ending the run early, or moving to another machine.

“I got stabbed in the neck once,” he continued.  I turned my eyes forward again, but now have to stay because, who wouldn’t after an opener like that?

“I lived.  Obviously.  Maybe I’m a Warlock or something.  Who gets stabbed in the neck and lives?”  I took his question as rhetorical. I’ll stay for the conversation, but I’m not taking any questions at this time.

“When I go to the doctor they always wonder if they’re reading my blood pressure correctly.  I have a great heart.  Good genes, I guess. My grandmother lived to be 103.  We’re all big people in my family.  Good genes.”  His pace, both in walking and in talking, stayed steady.  I continued to look ahead, smirking a bit.  I think he saw that.

“The nurses always take that blood pressure,” he laughed, “and then ask if I jog.  Do I look like I jog, lady?!” I smiled bigger.  That was funny.  Especially because he was the embodiment of “second-hand smoke.”  I could smell it on him the minute he walked up, and the tobacco smell only intensified as his pores opened.

2.9 miles in.  I’m not sure I want to get off at 3, though.  Esteban, the large hulking beast next to me was on a roll and I had yet to say a word.

“I like day drinking,” was his next statement.  “Not a lot, of course, but there’s something about having a beer in the middle of the day that changes the second half of anything.”

He wasn’t wrong.

3 miles.  I stopped my treadmill.

“Thanks for talking, man.  I’ve got a bit more to do,” he said.

I nodded, wiped down the machine that now looked like it had taken a swim, and walked out.  He turned his attention back forward and kept walking.

And even though I go to the gym to be anonymous, I guess some don’t.  Some go to not be anonymous anymore.

And somehow Esteban and I both figured out how to make it work.  I was alone with him.  And he was not alone anymore.

 

Why I Say “I Love You” A Lot

I-love-You-Letters-Text-HD-Images-e1474133154736-1024x427My wife picked up my phone and saw the latest text exchange with one of my best friends and colleagues, now in New Mexico.

As the sign off I said, “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” he texted back.

She started making kissy faces and saying, “Aww…so sweet. You and your boyfriend.”  We laughed, and she was right: it was sweet.  It was meant to be sweet, and endearing, and real.  Because we mean it.

My son, likewise, stops by my office every day to tell me he loves me.  He’s 4, and it’s part of our routine.  “I love you, too!” I say, and he trots down the hall with his class.

Unlike some fathers, I say “I love you” to my sons all the time.  They regularly get kissed and hugged by me, too.  They need to know that I love them, that I’m on their side, that I’m for them.  They’ll be detached from me one day, in those sulky teen years, but they’ll never wonder if I’m detached from them, because they’ll remember these years and know.

They’ll know.

Another friend of mine is going through a tough time.  I text him just about every morning these days and say, “Hey, love you. We’ll get through today.”  He needs to know that I love him, even if he can’t love himself.

I say “I love you” a lot, and it’s only increased as I’ve gotten older.

I think part of the reason I say it a lot is because I’ve watched the news these past ten years, and with the number of reports of people texting “I love you” right before the active shooter takes their toll, I’m not willing to have a text be the only time I’ve said it.

I think part of the reason I say it is because I’ve had too many kids sit in my office and tell me that, since they’ve come out, they don’t feel their parents love them anymore, or they say they “love them” but “don’t like their lifestyle,” as if those things can be parsed so simply.

Orientation is not a lifestyle, by the way; it’s a life.  And they need to hear that someone, maybe even someone who looks like their parent, loves them for them.

I think part of the reason I say it is because when a friend loses their spouse they don’t hear it much anymore, and they need to. We all need to hear it.

I think part of the reason I say it is because with all the abuse in organized religion, and with so many so-called Christians spouting things that sound nothing like love, hearing someone who works in the faith say it, and mean it with actions, is pretty important.

I think part of the reason I say it is because there are too many boys and men in this world who want to say, “I love you” to their best friend but don’t think they can because “boys don’t say that to one another.”

Yes they do.  They need to.

I think part of the reason I say “I love you” a lot is because I’ve buried a lot of people, and I have a really deep and ever-present awareness of time, and you don’t have forever to say it, so say it, by God.

So, if you didn’t know, I love you. Mean it.

When I Think About My Children on Ash Wednesday

636239814887137802-Ash-Wed-5I know I write and talk a lot about my children.  They have totally changed everything about my life, and even much about me.

Like, just now, my younger son, who attends preschool at the church I currently serve, popped his head into my office and said, “I love you, Daddy!”  It’s totally changed my work day.

He does this every day, mind you.  It’s one of the things I wait for in the morning.  “I love you, too,” I respond.  He always waits around until I say it, letting his class go on down the hall.  After he hears it he’ll run to catch up with them.

We wait for love.

One of the most moving and meaningful things as a pastor is Ash Wednesday. On Ash Wednesday we get to do some public art: the public act of remembrance that you place on the foreheads of everyone who comes, from the oldest to the youngest, that we are dust.

That time is fleeting.

That the world buries us one minute, one hurtful act, one sinful offering at a time (much of which we participate in), and there is very little that we can do to stop it, so we should wait around to feel love whenever we can get it.

A few years ago on Ash Wednesday I was walking through the neighborhood in Chicago when a well-known gadfly said incredulously to me in my formal collar, “Gonna peddle some superstition today, eh Father?”

I ignored him.  But as I thought about it, I realized that if I was going to speak to him on one day, Ash Wednesday would be that day, because Ash Wednesday is the day where religion offers something that speaks to everyone, regardless of what they do, or do not, believe: you will die.

Dying is the leading cause of death.

The knowledge of our mortality is too much to bear sometimes, though. And as I mark my own babies with that cross, I always choke a bit. It is too much for them to bear, too.

And yet, with their bodies, they do.  Because cells grow cancer. Because heart disease and car accidents and suicide don’t seem to care about your age.  And my babies are made of cells, and ride in cars, and live, and it happens. To all of us.

But instead of being depressing, Ash Wednesday is like the day when we all communally hug the cactus of our mortality, hug the cactus that we do wrong and harm in this world, even when we do want to (but also, sometimes, we do want to) and remind ourselves that we are not gods.

We are not God.

And once we get that fact out of the way, somehow we start to truly live.  Like the cancer patient in remission who realizes that life is better spent on love than arguing.  Like the near-death experience that increases are thirst for life rather than makes us more fearful.  Like the person living with depression who, because the meds are finally working, smiles and laughs and realizes that they are worth it, by God.

When I think about my boys, my babies, my children on Ash Wednesday, I am full of hope.

I hope that they will embrace life, and death, and all of it with a gusto, with a big bear hug, as confident as they wear that cross, that sign of hope for Christians, on their brow.  I hope it reminds them to love really freely, and really intensely, and to wait for love, and stick around for it.  I hope it reminds them that they don’t have to do it all, they don’t have to be perfect, that nothing is unforgivable, and that they can admit that sometimes life is too much to carry alone, and that they aren’t alone even when it feels like that.

And, sure, my eyes will tear up, and I’ll choke a bit, but not because I will think of their death, but because I will think of how they can, they will, with their lives, and their love, overcome all that tries to bury them in this life, by God.

 

Marie Kondo for the Soul

blog-image-2Watching Netflix’s new show about tidying up a house the “Marie Kondo way” is fascinating to me.

Part of the fascination is seeing how much fighting the couples featured on the show do about household work.  And it’s not fascinating in an “I can’t relate” sort of way, but more like, fascinating in the way you watch an old video of yourself and notice things you didn’t in the moment.

I relate. A bit too much.

Her now well-known practicing of taking out each thing from each drawer, closet, nook, and cranny, and asking yourself, “Does this bring me joy?” is practiced again and again by weary people just looking for a bit of sanity amidst the clutter.

And it got me to thinking of how freeing it was for these people to give up some things, and how I interact with people every day who wish they could do this same thing with the things they feel bad about in their life.

Like, I talk with people every day, who pick up that memory, that “time I didn’t call my mother back, and she died unexpectedly, and I never got to say goodbye,” and they look at it, the sadness of it, the hurt of it, and they just put it back in the drawer of their soul.

It doesn’t bring them joy, but there it still is.

Or they take out those hateful words they said to their spouse in a fit of rage, the words that put that person over the edge, and they can’t take it back…it’s already been used and there are no returns on words like that.  And they look at it with tears in their eyes, and they put it back.

Or they take out that time someone told them they were lazy, or stupid, or slutty, or no damn good, and they look at it crying, and put it back in the drawer of the soul because they just don’t know how not to believe that after all these years.

And sometimes I’m the person taking the memory out.  The memory of something I said, or was said to me.  Something I did or did not do. And I just lug all of this crap around with me, constantly, and when I pull it out I know it does not bring me joy.

But I put it back in my spiritual closet, anyway.

Why?

The genius of Kondo’s work is not that it’s revolutionary or innovative.  The genius in her work is that she has a system of closure for acknowledging the relationship and usefulness of things in such a way that we can give them up.

The genius is in the ritual goodbye.

And the church has such a system, too.  It’s called “Confession and Forgiveness.”

And it works, by God.  It’s one of the things I’d say the church gets very right.  The system of saying goodbye to the hurts we’ve done or we’ve had inflicted on us, it’s a good way to get rid of them.

Of course we’ve messed up the process a bit.  We’ve said confession blesses God more than it blesses the person, thereby turning it into a demand of guilt rather than an opportunity for healing and wholeness.

But when it’s done right it can be…freeing.

Like giving away things that not only don’t bring you joy, but bring you strife.  Like letting you let go of things you argue with yourself about, replaying a terrible tape of that terrible time as if re-watching it would make anything change…

It doesn’t. It won’t.  Acknowledge you’ve lost your usefulness for that memory, and give it up, by God.

I will admit, there are some times when I’ll pull out a memory, a deep wounding memory, one that I know has lost its usefulness, and I’ll look at it, with tears in my eyes, and slide it back into my heart.

Because I’m just not ready.  For some reason or another I hold on to things that hurt long past their due dates, by choice.  But each time I do, I know the day will come when I will give it up, like that old T-shirt that’s not fit to wear anymore but I just can’t let it go.

Confession is not a fix-all, just like Kondo’s process is not a fix-all.  Honestly, her work exposes a much deeper and more insidious problem than keeping things too long: we buy too much.

Which has a spiritual counterpart, too.  Because too often before I say a hurtful word, or just after someone has said something terrible to me, I’ll decide to keep that memory, to “buy it.”

And I don’t have to. I know I don’t.  Forgiveness gives me permission to say no to carrying it around, to say goodbye to it before I ever grab it and claim it as mine.

If I’ll just do it…if you’ll just do it.

We could all probably use some Marie Kondo in our houses.

And I’m willing to bet we could all use some for our souls, too.

 

On Spiritual Heroin

6392110-depositphotos_27815151_original-1472641889-650-54cd1b8c1a-1492240092Dopamine.

That regulator of emotional response that infects our gray matter.

You get a little shot of dopamine when you see a social media post that you wrote gets a like. Or a share.

You get a little shot of dopamine when you eat a food you really love, and which is probably just a little bit (or a “lotta-bit,” as my kids would say), bad for you.

You get a little shot of dopamine when you’re involved in healthy and unhealthy sexual activity.

You get a little shot of dopamine in certain spiritual and religious settings, too.  Intense spiritual retreats or weekends that use physiology, sociology, psychology, and yes, some smattering of theology, can create a situation of euphoric high.

Not unlike a drug.

Connection. Creativity. All the feels…

The problem with the dopamine wave, of course, is that a trough follows. It always follows.  There’s no other way to make a wave.  You can’t have a wave without a trough.

And the real trouble, of course, is that if you experience a “spiritual high,” you may get the idea that “this is what God feels like.”  And so when you’re not feeling that high, you’re pretty sure you’re not feeling God.

And if you’re not feeling God, then you need to be finding God…

I have a few friends who are perpetual church shoppers.  They go from this big box to that big box, seeking out that spiritual high. Their excitement is always at its zenith when they find a new place.  But when the trough appears, or the shine wears off, or the lights fade just a bit, off they go.

I don’t blame them.  And I’m no better, perhaps. If I weren’t a branch manager, I might do the same thing. I don’t think I would, but I might.  I don’t know…but in looking objectively at it, I see the behavior without being in it, and wonder about it.

I can’t say if I’m again spiritual highs or not, actually.  Kind of like I can’t really tell if I’m against candy bars.

Because in theory, I am against candy bars in many ways.  They’re bad for your teeth, your diet, and your overall health.  Not just bad in excess, mind you.  They’re actually just bad.  And may be as addictive as nicotine.

It certainly can get your dopamine running.

And yet I eat candy bars sometimes. And I’ve had a cigar in my life once or twice.

We must be honest about this reality: we do destructive things on purpose sometimes because we enjoy them.

But we hopefully do them with clear eyes.

I worry, though, when it comes to spirituality, that the lens is foggy and the mirror is dark.

I’m not making a case for boredom when it comes to religion. Trust me: religion is making that case for itself quite well without my help.

But I am making the case for clear-eyed analysis of how we claim to experience the Divine; an inquiry into what we’re talking about.

Because an excess of dopamine creates monsters. Religious and spiritual fanatics who are willing to do terrible things.  Even believe terrible things about other people who don’t share the high.

Because they’re not thinking clearly.  They’re literally “doped up” on religion.

Modest, regular amounts of dopamine are necessary for creativity, courage, and pleasure.  It’s not that we don’t need it.  We do need it.

But when we regularly strive to get a rush from it, a high, we fall into the pattern of the addict, surviving the trough until the next hit, willing to do or believe terrible things to get the fix.

And yet the faith says that we’re not to survive, but to live.  Not live through the trough, but in it.

I’m wondering, out loud, if spiritual highs are less about God, and more about us.

More about our brain than metaphysics.

I don’t know.

But I do think they’re probably addictive.

And I wonder if the addiction is part of what has effectively wounded the mainline.

 

 

Mary Oliver Broke My Heart

171127_r30985I don’t remember when I first read her work.  I’m sure it was in my twenties.

Because in my twenties I knew too much. Everything, actually.  And if you doubt that, just ask my 27 year old self.  I would smile demurely and shy away from your question, but secretly answer in the affirmative.

And then enter Mary.

Mary, the poet.

Mary, the theologian…though unwittingly, perhaps.

Mary, with her short stacked sentences packed on top of one another like pancakes, dripping with meaning.

Heavy, sweet meaning.

Her observations on simple things, like ducks and pipefish, made me wish I knew how to engage with the world in a way that still retained the wonder and awe and love of my young self.

And she was doing it in this way until she was quite old!

She helped me to realize that I knew not only nothing about things like ducks or pipefish, but I knew nothing about a life observed and that I better get with the program, better surround myself with poetry, if I was ever going to know anything about anything.

Let alone, myself.  My life.

Poetry helps us to observe life, and observe it intently. With feeling. With hope and a good bit of angst and…good grief.

It is something, when it works.

Poetry is the picture that prose wishes it could paint.

Poetry is the picture, mind you.  It doesn’t paint it; it is it.

Poetry is prayer both for those who are sure “prayer is perfectly fine for other people” and for those for whom prayer is every breath.  It unites the faithful and the faithless in fancy couplets where they’re forced to hold hands, at least for a moment.

It is subversive.

Submersive, if that is a word.  It doesn’t matter…that’s what it is.

It is like water, winding its way through your soul as your eyes are jarred by

unexplained breaks

and

dangling groups of letters that

just make you hold on because you’re never sure when you’re going to

jump.

And when you do jump, when you build up the courage to actually engage poetry like an explorer spelunking into the cave of words, you crash into meaning.

And your heart breaks.

Like mine did when I first pondered what I’d do with my “one wild and precious life.”

And you’re never put back together in the same way again, thank God.

Her collection House of Light sits on my desk. I crack it for inspiration quite a bit.

But my favorite of her poems is this one below. And it’s the one that I’ll end with, I think, because, well, she’s finally made the journey.

And let me tell you: with her wild and precious life she broke my heart.

And I am grateful for it.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.