Kirkepiscatoid

 (Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)


Proverbs 8:32-36:

And now, my children, listen to me:
happy are those who keep my ways. 

Hear instruction and be wise,
and do not neglect it. 

Happy is the one who listens to me,
watching daily at my gates,
waiting beside my doors. 

For whoever finds me finds life
and obtains favor from the Lord;
but those who miss me injure themselves;
 
It all sort of started when Forbes had a recent article about "The ten happiest jobs and the ten most unhappy jobs."

In this article, clergy were listed as #1 in terms of "the ten happiest jobs."  I posted (rather tongue in cheek) on Facebook that I was sure my clergy friends were snorting liquids all over their computer screen after seeing that.

I did not expect the variety of directions the comments ran.

Predictably, several clergy and clergy spouses jumped in to affirm how happy they were.  (Hmmm.  The speed and emphatic-ness of that makes me wonder if a little guilt in being unhappy now and then weren't involved.  Probably the most realistic clergy answer I got was "I think with lots of clergy, you'll find high job satisfaction in a job that makes them crazy"--which, I'd say, is true in many of the "helping professions.")  Another person pointed out many of the "happiest" ones were in "helping professions," and that helping others seemed more important than money.  Another person tag-teamed that the "unhappiest" ones were very well paying, but had feelings of worthlessness attached to them.  Someone else pointed out that several of the "happy" jobs also, paradoxically, carried low pay and increased risk of alcoholism.  Still another raised the question of whether "happy" was really happy, but, rather, "content."

Now, in reality, I think most of the clergy I know are relatively happy.  Oh, I think there's some "situational unhappiness" out there, and I think there are good days and bad days for them, but I raised the question, "How much of the "happy" is the job, and how much is the person?"  I think there's a certain commensal relationship in the helping professions there.  People who feel that what they do has value, will be happy about that even when they are not happy at the moment.  (For instance, I don't think vestry meetings are a favorite clergy activity--and in contrast, I would be really concerned about a clergy person who was unhappy presiding over the Eucharist.)  I certainly see that in medicine.  I love what I do and I love that I am serving in an under-served location--but I can spit nails at the insurance companies and go medieval on them in a heartbeat.

What it seems is that knowing oneself and giving to others is a positive combination, no matter what one's vocation.  If there is one advantage clergy have on the happiness track, I believe it is the heavy emphasis placed in various forms of discernment throughout the process towards ordination, and the carry-over from that is that they tend to be life-long "discerners."  Oh, it's not that any of us can't do that, but it is not inherently built into the process.  Most secular vocations involve goals to a much greater degree.  But the amount of "know thyself" that happens in the process is staggering compared to most other vocations.  I can't recall a single time in my process of medical school and residency that ever addressed my feelings about being a physician.

I think the bit I posted above from Proverbs sums it up nicely.  Happiness is about hearing God's call for our lives, and that call extends far beyond calls to ordained ministry. 

("The Parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard," by Rembrandt, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Matthew 20:1-16:

For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard. After agreeing with the laborers for the usual daily wage, he sent them into his vineyard. When he went out about nine o'clock, he saw others standing idle in the marketplace; and he said to them, 'You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.' So they went. When he went out again about noon and about three o'clock, he did the same. And about five o'clock he went out and found others standing around; and he said to them, 'Why are you standing here idle all day?' They said to him, 'Because no one has hired us.' He said to them, 'You also go into the vineyard.'

When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his manager, 'Call the laborers and give them their pay, beginning with the last and then going to the first.' When those hired about five o'clock came, each of them received the usual daily wage. Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received the usual daily wage. And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner, saying, 'These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.' But he replied to one of them, 'Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?' So the last will be first, and the first will be last.

The parable in this coming Sunday's Gospel is one that always punches my "not fair" button. There's a part of me that chafes that one group worked like a dog all day, and another group did hardly anything and got the same amount of money. I totally get the anger and jealousy of the group in the parable who worked all day.

The story, though, is not really about the workers, in my mind. It's about the owner. It was the owner's prerogative to be as generous as he chose to be. The first group agreed to the stated wage. They didn't dicker or argue before hand. They and the owner entered into a covenant together. The workers agreed to work all day, and the owner agreed to pay them X amount of money. Their covenant has no effect on any future ones. The next one is between the owner and the next group.

What's interesting is the grumbling group didn't take it out on the nine a.m. group of workers; only the 5 p.m. group. So really, their grumbling was selective. Perhaps they were willing to ignore the very same "slight" in the 9 a.m. group in the hopes of gaining allies to the 5 p.m. group.

This past weekend, I was reminded of a variant of this story, but a bit in reverse.

For our church work day at Trinity-Kirksville, we needed mulch. Another person and I went to buy 20 bags of mulch at the place it was on sale, for $2.27 a bag. The guy inside did not know they were out of the $2.27 mulch. When I got out to load my truck, the workers outside told me that they were out of the $2.27 mulch--the next cheapest one was $2.77. So I trudged back in and waited in line to deal with the register about it.

Now, I'll admit...I was hoping the guy at the register would say, "Oh, gee, that was our mistake, you can have the $2.77 mulch for $2.27." Nope. No such luck. I had to make an exchange, and re-run my credit card, and pay the $10.89 difference after sales tax. Granted, it was only $10.89. But I won't lie, I was irritated I had to pay extra. But I also didn't want to run around town mulch shopping on a day I had done enough.

As I drove back to church, I thought to myself, "Well, you know, the guy inside simply didn't know they were out of the cheap mulch...and really, I agreed to buy the $2.27 mulch--not the $2.77 mulch. The mistake was pointed out to me prior to loading the truck. They did exactly as they were capable of doing--selling me the mulch on hand. I guess I should not be irritated because I didn't get the deal I wanted, and I got the deal that was there. Yeah, I think it would have been good business sense for them to eat the $10.89, but it is not in my control because I did not get a special deal."

Here's a pair of facts: We don't always get what we want. We do, however, get what's there.

Or as my late grandmother used to say, "It ain't what you want that makes you fat--it's what you get--and sometimes that don't make you fat. But it always makes you fatter than what you want and don't get."

What God promises is to always be with us. We did not enter a contract that it would always be good, or be easy, or always seem fair. But we won't be abandoned.

The other thing I thought about, in the whole "last shall be first and first shall be last" business is that God's love is limitless, and how that limitless-ness plays out is God's choice, not ours. Now, those people in the parable who showed up at 5 p.m., it wasn't like they were sitting around outside saying, "Hey, let's go work late in the day because we know we'll get paid a whole day's wages." They admitted they were looking for work. Had they gotten their way, they would have been hired by someone early in the day. Their ending up on the short end of the job-hunting stick was not of their making nor by their control. They were most likely not expecting to be paid a day's wages. What they got was grace. We don't control grace, and we don't control the jealousy of others if grace is doled our way but not theirs.

When we find ourselves jealous, we need to remember we don't always know the other person's situation. We shoud, instead, invite ourselves to a place where we accept that the recipient of grace has a need for it, rejoice in it for their sake, and trust that our needs are simultaneously being fulfilled--because we never know when we might end up on the short end of the stick, ourselves. We are one paycheck away, one freak of nature away, one loss away from being the 5 p.m. laborers ourselves.

(Photo of cross-shaped debris that was discovered in the center of the U.S. Customs House at 6 World Trade Center, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.)

(This post originally appeared on Speaking to the Soul, Sunday, September 11, 2011)

Psalm 24:

The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it, the world, and those who live in it;

for he has founded it on the seas, and established it on the rivers.

Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord? And who shall stand in his holy place?

Those who have clean hands and pure hearts, who do not lift up their souls to what is false, and do not swear deceitfully.

They will receive blessing from the Lord, and vindication from the God of their salvation.

Such is the company of those who seek him, who seek the face of the God of Jacob. Selah

Lift up your heads, O gates! and be lifted up, O ancient doors! that the King of glory may come in.

Who is the King of glory? The Lord, strong and mighty, the Lord, mighty in battle.

Lift up your heads, O gates! and be lifted up, O ancient doors! that the King of glory may come in.

Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory. Selah

One of the wonderful mysteries of lectionaries, whether we are talking Daily Office or Revised Common Lectionary, is when the lectionary readings for the day seem to have been given a whopping dose of divine serendipity. Anyone who does the Daily Office or RCL readings as part of his or her spiritual practice has witnessed this. A reading "jumps out" in relation to a certain day or event.

I am incredibly struck that one of the Psalms for September 11, 2011--the tenth anniversary of events in three locations that struck us dumb with fear and grief--is the Psalm from which a portion of Handel's Messiah is derived. On the tenth anniversary of one of the most horrible days in our nation's history, we are told (in King James English,) "Lift up your head, O ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors! For the King of Glory shall come in..."

This Psalm, on this day that will be commemorated with speeches and prayer and a certain amount of controversy a decade later, a day where people on the East Coast still feel acute pain and people in other parts of the country feel, at times, secretly bewildered about the intense feelings of their East Coast neighbors, is speaking loud and clear:

"The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it."

Time has a way of bringing the world closer to the Realm of God. Not too long in the future, and maybe, in some situations, already, September 11, 2001 is slowly moving to a place where much of the acuteness of our pain, grief, and fear has dissipated, and is becoming relegated to the world of "Where were you when (fill in blank with tragedy of choice.)" Someday, the gut-wrenching fear we felt at the collapse of the World Trade Center, the events at the Pentagon, and the crash of a plane in a lonely field in Pennsylvania will fade as surely as the celluloid prints of the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the sinking of the Arizona in Pearl Harbor have. Grass already grows in a field in Pennsylvania, I-beams from the Twin Towers placed as memorials oxidize and rust, and the Pentagon has been physically repaired.

Much of it, frankly, will die when we die, and when the last person who was there at these events dies, these events will become dessicated versions of what we remember, stuffed away in dry history books for seventh graders to remember right answers on exams they don't care to take.

We say "never again," over and over, but our psalm reminds us that all of our "never agains" will randomize into the entropic leveling power of God making all things new.

A Psalm we sing during Advent, in the melodies of Handel's Messiah, heralds the stark truth that "The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle," fights his battles with the love of a helpless child born in a dirty stable to parents whose own premarital story was, in the eyes of local gossip, sketchy at best. To borrow from another portion of the Messiah (and from Isaiah,) "Every valley shall be exalted, every mountain and hill laid low, the crooked will be made straight, and the rough places made plain."

Today, as we commemorate the events of this day, ten years ago, let us remind ourselves that the most powerful weapon against evil is not fear-based retaliation, but love. May we lift up our heads and "be ye lift up"--and when we do, may we see the King of Glory come in.

(Photo of William Stringfellow from Wikipedia)

"I believed then, as I do now, that I am called in the Word of God --as is everyone else--to the vocation of being human...Within the scope of the calling to be merely, but truly human, any work, including that of any profession, can be rendered a sacrament of that vocation. On the other hand, no profession, discipline, or employment, as such, is a vocation."

--William Stringfellow

One of the books I've been reading lately is "A Keeper of the Word: Selected Writings of William Stringfellow," edited by Bill Wylie Kellermann. My vicar, almost casually, asked me if I'd ever heard of Stringfellow. As a relative newbie to the Episcopal Church, I had not. She sort of dryly said, "Well, he was probably one of the most influential lay theologians in the modern history of the church, you ought to read him."

When I started Wiki'ing him, I realized I'd been had. She knew that I'd be absolutely captivated by this iconoclastic, yet very orthodox Anglo-Catholic persona. When I confronted her with that in an e-mail, she replied back, "I stand guilty as charged on all counts," followed by a smiling emoticon.

I've been reading this book "a tiny piece at a time" because I want to hear each of the short essays in the book in their entirety, each standing alone and not getting mixed up with each other.

The essay from where my quote today is from, made some things fall into my head like interlocking puzzle pieces.

Stringfellow was a Harvard trained lawyer, and also a graduate of the London School of Economics, who practiced law in Harlem and lived in a tenement. He could have had the pick of any plums in the world of high powered law practices. Yet that was the life he chose. He devoted his whole life to parts of what we now call "the social Gospel," and he lived out in the place where he was needed. He sort of mixed and matched with all the personalities on "the block" (the part of Harlem where he lived) without ever losing his own sense of self. He saw no higher calling than to live out our lives according to God's call for us as baptized individuals.

I guess you could say I "get" a lot of where he's coming from, since I am a person who lives far below my own means.

Stringfellow also acquired diabetes later in life, and this forced him to shift his priorities. He was a person who thrived on "living in the tension" and this life had taken its toll on him. In this sense, theology became a piece of his therapy.

Although disease didn't push me into a corner, middle age and a few psychic tensions, likewise, made me turn to theological blogging as therapy. I "got" that, too!

This has been an interesting time in my life (and yes, I do know the Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times.") In Feb. 2010, I began to start the ball rolling to the possibility that I was called to ordination by obtaining permission from our Bishop. I had no idea how big a ball it was and how slowly it rolls. As of today, my committee has still not been finalized, trained, or met. I have come to realize part of it was because my parish (and I) were all in a dozen "odd places." What started out as a giant frustration for me (in the world of healthcare, if I'd taken this long to start a process, I'd be castigated, frankly) I have come to realize has actually been for me "a period of formation."

"Formation" is not something we talk about much in the secular world. Our secular world is all about "goals." Formation is the process of letting something cook, like a stew, and letting the batch have its own unique flavor, with no expectation of what that flavor will be. I have come to realize that for me, part of this formation has been simply understanding how I've been called to be me, no matter what the outcome of this discernment and possible ordination process is. Had we plunged headalong in it, the stew would not have been as flavorful. We would have taken it off the stove too soon.

I've been captivated by Stringfellow and his ability to hear his own call at these various stages of his life. What I discover, by reading his first person accounts, is that no matter where we're called in the life of our church, one of the most grievous errors we can commit is to abandon our fundamental priesthood as one of the baptized. Oddly enough, the church can probably cause us to do that in a horrible way. Lay people can abandon their fundamental priesthood to please clergy as an authority figure. Ordained people can abandon their fundamental priesthood and hide behind the authority of their collar and the psychological power differential it can impose on the laity. Even bishops can hide behind their ecclesiastical authority to everyone under them on the ecclesiastical food chain.

I've come to realize that the paradox is that the institution we have created to worship God, should never become our God. This period of formation has taught me that in an odd way, I feel both lucky and blessed. Some of the most profound moments in my spiritual self have happened during worship or doing some of my tasks in the life of the church. Yet, at the same time, some of the worst psychological beatings I've received have also come within the sphere of the life of the church. I am in a strange but wonderful place. I have been given the gift of seeing the church as human--and just as I see the divinity of Jesus in his humanity, I realize I now see the divinity of institutional worship in the sphere of its humanity. I feel blessed that this gift was given to me, and I feel lucky that I was formed by this experience, not torn to shreds.

I believe this formation will continue, in some ways, for the rest of my life. May I be open and brave enough to sit in the tension of it.

(Two of Kara Hobbs' goats, named Eudoia and Syntyche. BTW, Kara does some amazing things with yarn, and how many people can attribute their sweater or hat to the animal that produced it?)

Philippians 3:17-4:7:

Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have in us. For many live as enemies of the cross of Christ; I have often told you of them, and now I tell you even with tears. Their end is destruction; their god is the belly; and their glory is in their shame; their minds are set on earthly things. But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that also enables him to make all things subject to himself.

Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved. I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion, help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my co-workers, whose names are in the book of life. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

One of the things that started intriguing me both in the Acts of the Apostles and Paul's Epistles are the various folks who hold "cameo roles" in these books. They are often mentioned once, and we never hear anything more about them. Eudoia and Syntyche are two rather intriguing characters to me in this way. Sometimes, it's a disappointment to me that we know so little about these people, but I have come to the conclusion these people exist in the Bible as a window to our own spiritual imaginations--to take what we know about human nature and our intuitions about people in general, and combine it with our own life experiences to come up with plausible scenarios for how their situation must have been. I have found when I reflect on these cameo players in the Bible, "reflect" is the accurate statement, because it always bounces back to me, and my life, and I almost always can see another situation in my life that parallels it.

Well, let's start with what I know about the church in Philippi.

Philippi, in Macedonia, was, in a lot of ways, a retirement town for Roman Army veterans. The church there had a distinct "episcopal" way of overseeing itself, which made sense, because that was the "military way." It had overseers and deacons. It was probably a rather culturally diverse church, and Paul spoke often about the need for them to be like-minded. It seems from his Epistle that Paul had a fondness for the church there, and it was mutual. But it seems there might have been a lot of strong willed people in that church. My guess is Eudoia and Syntyche were two of them. It seems that they were not subservient people in the church at all, because Paul gives them the same consideration he gives men in his letters.

I imagine Eudoia and Syntyche were two women in the church in Philippi who were, in their own ways, movers and shakers. Perhaps they didn't have all that much in common with each other except their love of the church, and that each of them was rather strong-willed in their own way. They probably each took their role in the church very seriously. Perhaps too seriously at times. I wonder sometimes if they were wives or daughters of military men--brought up in a rigid way to do things. (I can just hear them say, "But that's the way we've always done it!" or "We've never done it that way before!" Maybe they were the first Episcopalians!)

My guess is Eudoia and Syntyche were both beloved people in the church there, and there was certainly room enough and love enough for both of them. Perhaps the other people in the church saw each of them as women of great faith and leaders--which makes me wonder if each of them, sometimes had the burden of "appearances." When things were rattling in the church, they had to look not rattled. When no one knew what to do, they had to look like they knew what to do when they really didn't. There were times they had to be leaders when they were secretly scared to death, or people didn't have a clue what stresses were going on in their real lives outside the church.

My guess is they developed rather high and unreasonable expectations for themselves in times of stress, and somehow, they projected those unreasonable expectations on each other rather than dealing with their own stuff.

We don't know what caused them to go at each other. They might even had been a close "dual force" once upon a time. They might have both been duped by another leader in the church that they were opposites, when, in fact, they were more alike than different in their love and desires for the church. But my guess is, whatever it was, it made them incredibly suspicious of each other, and they probably never gave the other slack when they would have given slack to anyone else in the church. I bet they "counted coup" on each other's transgressions and even made book on anything that even looked out of line. In a parallel universe, each was blaming the other for things of their own they were not addressing in themselves. I would bet my house payment that they had "seen" transgressions in each other that were not actually happening anywhere but in their minds, and no matter what the other did, it was "wrong." "Damned if you do, damned if you don't" is one the oldest recipes in the world for driving people apart.

I also bet neither of them was truly "the culprit." I bet they both were in some things, and neither of them were in others. I bet over time, even when things were going well, people in the church at Philippi would say to one or another of them, "What's up with you and Eudoia/Syntyche? You're both such good people in the church and we love you both. Why can't you two just make up? It's like an elephant in the room." They probably sat way far away from each other. If they had to sit together, you probably could have driven a Mack truck between them. But to the casual observer, everything was "fine."

We never know if they ever made up, either. If they did, we are not shown how they did.

If they did make up, it probably looked like two porcupines mating. I can just imagine the two of them dancing mental circles around each other, both actually wanting to make up, but not knowing how to start. I imagine in their hearts what they really wanted was to hug each other and cry and even yell at each other a little bit, but how in the world could either of them be the one who said the thing that "broke the ice?" If what drove them apart was something that damaged their self-worth to a mere shred of what it used to be--or they chronically struggled with their self-worth--how did they ever reveal their vulnerability to each other?

How can any of us make up to anyone when one simultaneously fears being attacked by the other, or attacked by the image of what drove them apart?

It's been my experience that something else comes into play when people in this situation finally make up. Something that neither of them planned. Something that neither of them can control or cause. If it happens, it's because the willingness for them both to let that thing be revealed and use the opportunity happens. I have found that particularly true when the inciting "cause" of the rift was a third party. It's almost like "An outside force caused this division; it takes another outside force to heal it." Something from the outside has to be bigger than the "You started it/No, you started it!" dynamic.

But just as we never know how the rifts in our own lives turn out until the end of the story, we will never know what happened with Eudoia and Syntyche. However, we can use their story to ask God for the awareness for the windows of opportunity in which we can heal our own rifts with others.

"The one who speaks dispassionately about the sins of a companion speaks for two reasons: either to reform the friend or to benefit another. If the person speaks outside of these reasons either to himself or to another, she speaks either to reproach or to ridicule. That person shall not escape divine abandonment, but rather he will in every way fall into the same or another error, and, being reproached and put to shame by another, will be dishonored." Maximos the Confessor, Centuries on Love III, # 72

We must be careful when we criticize other people, especially noting our reason and rationale for criticism. Maximos cautions us about criticizing others. He acknowledges that there is a "dispassionate" critique of other whose aim is to assist the other in the reformation of his or her life or to assist others in the reformation of their lives. This is a legitimate basis for criticism. The goal of our relationships is the nurturing of others to grow and develop in a divine way, fully connected to the divine energies and struggling to be united to God in action, word, and thought. So we assist one another in the endeavor by critiquing each other for reformation and mutual benefit.

But there is another side of criticism of another, which ends in ridicule or reproach. In this mode of criticism the one criticizing stands completely apart from the other by assuming a more superior status or achievement. The result of such criticism is not to reform or benefit the other but to show his error and foolishness. We have all experienced this sort of humiliation in criticism, especially those who have gone through advanced or doctoral studies at a university. The problem with this kind of negative and ridiculing critique is twofold: it breaks the union of people in the divine energies; and it creates more emotional problems for both the one criticizing and the one criticized.

The wisdom of the ancient contemplatives tells us that the one doing negative criticism will at some point fall. It is not divine energy that informs the critique, but a kind of personal obfuscating of interior dynamics and flaws that will eventually result in the negative critic's own sin and error. This is how I understand the term "divine abandonment" in this saying. It is not that God abandons the negative critic, but that the negative critic ceases to cooperate with the divine energies moving people toward reformation of life and divinely healthy benefit. By cutting the self off from the flow of divine energy the negative critic sets the self up for a fall similar to those the critic criticizes. And the end result will be a dishonor and reproach of the negative critic.

So we must be careful in our critique of others, being very much attentive to our motives and to the divine energies. Our care does not mean that we do not critique others, but that in our critique of others we aim to assist others to live in the divine energies and to find their place in the divine economy. We cannot criticize in order to enhance our own status or to advance our own ideas, because that kind of criticism will eventually lead to our own failure and fall. But working together for the greater glory of God, working together for the mutual divinization of all people, we may criticize as a means of assistance for others. We criticize for the sake of divinization, and such criticism will in the end make us all divine.

--Richard Valantasis, Institute for Contemplative Living's "Thought for the Week," Sept. 5-11, 2011

I snapped this photo on my way to Edina, MO to get my hair cut (the person who cuts my hair moved there, and rather than deal with the hassle of finding a new person for this relationship, I started taking a road trip to get this done.)

I came around the bend and was transfixed by the breadth of this field of gold--tickseed sunflowers everywhere. After taking the picture, I just stood and took it all in. It was one of those situations where I just happened by, the right week of the year.

On the other hand...

If I were a person who was farming for a living, and this was my field, I'd see it as a failure. A nice spot of tillable land or pasture land was being overtaken by weeds. After all, in the world of arable land, tickseed sunflowers are weeds. It would not be a thing of beauty but a threat to my livelihood or a failure of some sort. It would evoke an entirely separate set of emotions in me.

I am reminded of a recent conversation with my friend Renz. We were discussing how certain animals evoke certain emotions in us, based more on iconography than ecology. In particular we were talking about the re-population of wolves, and how people seem to want that, but not to the point that sheep rancher's lambs are eaten. Part of the discussion is the "threat to one's livelihood" aspect, but part of the discussion was that fish farmers work under the assumption that raptors will eat a certain percentage of their "crop" because that's what raptors do in nature. We mused about the iconography and cultural thoughts of "wolves" and "lambs" and wondered how much that plays into it. What we criticize or who we criticize has a certain amount of cultural iconography to it, whether it is a geographical, ethnic, or internal personal culture. One wonders if we ought to take the tack of the fish farmers and accept a certain amount of disappointment or loss in our life as the result of the actions of others as a "given."

But the fact is, my beautiful flowers are someone else's weeds, and that's where looking at "criticism" comes in. The concept of "dispassionate criticism" is a place I've been trying to take myself lately. Do I criticize to assist others to live in the divine energies, or do I criticize because I see something as a threat? Historically, it's usually the latter.

I've seen a similar problem with my medical students in terms of having them do peer evaluations in lab exercises. They rank a person's participation in the exercise from 1 to 5 where 1 = was disruptive to 5 = very productive. I discovered right off the bat that the students who got anything but a 5 had a fit. Almost to the person, they said, "It's not fair I get marked down because someone doesn't like me." They equate anything but perfect as being a personal thing. They seem blind to the concept that what they didn't do perfectly might be something they need to work on, and not a personal attack.

It's hard to remember, I think, that the person who marks the other one down may truly like and care for them--but they still don't get a perfect score because there is something they need to address that could help them in their career.

Unfortunately, it only took them a quarter to learn to write down a 5, no matter what, and trust that everyone will obey "The code of the west" in the endeavor.

I'm pretty sure a loving God, at times, criticizes us. But in this criticism we are usually shown something better, not chewed out and put down. We are loved unconditionally, but that doesn't give us a Get Out of Jail free card for being shown the error of our ways. Like our medical students in my story, we tend to go personal. "Why don't you like me, God?"

Can we be brave enough to accept God's dispassionate criticism, or God's love in the midst of turmoil?

(Photo of skunk courtesy Wikimedia Commons)

Psalm 45:

My heart overflows with a goodly theme; I address my verses to the king; my tongue is like the pen of a ready scribe.

You are the most handsome of men; grace is poured upon your lips; therefore God has blessed you forever.

Gird your sword on your thigh, O mighty one, in your glory and majesty.

In your majesty ride on victoriously for the cause of truth and to defend the right; let your right hand teach you dread deeds.

Your arrows are sharp in the heart of the king’s enemies; the peoples fall under you.

Your throne, O God, endures forever and ever. Your royal scepter is a scepter of equity;

you love righteousness and hate wickedness. Therefore God, your God, has anointed you with the oil of gladness beyond your companions;

your robes are all fragrant with myrrh and aloes and cassia. From ivory palaces stringed instruments make you glad;

daughters of kings are among your ladies of honor; at your right hand stands the queen in gold of Ophir.

Hear, O daughter, consider and incline your ear; forget your people and your father’s house,

and the king will desire your beauty. Since he is your lord, bow to him;

the people of Tyre will seek your favor with gifts, the richest of the people

with all kinds of wealth. The princess is decked in her chamber with gold-woven robes;

in many-colored robes she is led to the king; behind her the virgins, her companions, follow.

With joy and gladness they are led along as they enter the palace of the king.

In the place of ancestors you, O king, shall have sons; you will make them princes in all the earth.

I will cause your name to be celebrated in all generations; therefore the peoples will praise you forever and ever.

Ok, I admit, I burst out laughing this morning on verse 8 when I did my Daily Office readings: "your robes are all fragrant with myrrh and aloes and cassia."

That's because my house, my yard, and my dog Boomer faintly smell like skunk.

So reading a psalm about the wedding and love of a prince and a princess, complete with beautiful sights and smells, has a hilarious irony to it this morning.

I am reminded of a common admonishment that my grandparents used to tell me when I'm a kid, regarding things that are bound to cause trouble: "Don't poke a skunk."

The problem, of course, with skunks is that one can deal with the lingering evidence of the skunk's ire for days or weeks. Poor Boomer had to sleep outside last night. He might have to sleep outside tonight. I am ending up throwing all the plans for my day off to the side to de-skunk him.

But here's a fact about having dogs and living in the country. If you own dogs and live in the country, and you reside in any of several states in the "lower 48," you are going to have a dog get skunked once in a while. Dogs are kind of funny about skunks. They never seem to have a memory of being skunked. My late dog J.R. got skunked at point blank one time--so close it turned the white parts of his fur faintly green for a few days--but the very next skunk he encountered, he made a bee line right to it, with the very same results. J.R. was, without a doubt the smartest dog I ever owned in some ways--maybe the smartest dog I will ever own--but there's something about a dog's hard wired instinct of "Little critter...must attack and kill..." that even the memory of a hard lesson doesn't seem to take. I've read several articles that dogs don't experience linear time like we do, and literally retain no memory of things related to "time"--but one would think a dog would remember a critter encounter that went wrong. Interesting.

I, unfortunately, have poked more skunks in my life than I ought to have, and once in a while something totally unrelated will happen that brings to mind one of those skunks I poked, and the regret of those things will pop up now and then. Oh, the reality is that I am just as human as everyone else. I think every one of us pokes several skunks in our lives, as well as accidentally encountering a skunk who's determined to spray us even though we are not bothering it.

Regret is also a funny critter. I think the regrets in my life that are the more nagging ones, the ones that tend to pop up and revisit me, are the ones that have two ingredients to them. The first ingredient is my recognition that, as a rather intense person sometimes, I probably "turned the heat up" on the situation and, rather than being patient and letting the situation cook, like a pot of beans on low heat, I cranked up the heat and scorched it, ruining the whole batch. It doesn't even matter how much in the wrong the other person was--I cranked up the heat and ended up looking like a sick or crazy person...and really, in sick situations, we all get sick and crazy, temporarily.

The second ingredient is an incomplete sense of having made amends. That sense of having tried to apologize or seek forgiveness from the other person, and they can no longer trust me, and it all comes out hollow. I am generally über-reliable, and über-trustworthy, and to be distrusted becomes one of the strongest forms of abandonment for me. I can become obsessed with "proving" my reliability and trustworthiness, and well...we're back to that looking crazed and sick thing again.

Probably the one that drives me straight up the wall is the situation where there's been a "mutual hurting" between me and someone I care a great deal about, and I have been ready and willing to accept their apologies in it, as well as make a few of my own, and they'll have nothing to do with it. I'm ready to talk it out, emote it out, and truly start over, and it seems they'd rather have nothing to do with me because it's simpler. My guess is, the other person is thinking the exact same things about me, but there never seems to be a good place to start this process. So many times there seems to be a power structure attached, where the upper end of the power structure feels a need to still be "in charge" of the process, and the lower end of the power structure fears repeated triggerings of perceived slights that may or may not be real. I think that's why the rifts between parents and children are so profound, and so many times, the two parties independently, but mutually, choose to exist in this place of "fake niceness" instead, which only seems to drive the chance of true reconciliation further and further away.

But one of the things I thought about, today, as I read this psalm, and thought of that paradox of "beautiful smells" in the reality of the skunky smells in my yard, in my house, and on my dog, was just what perfume has in it. One of the ingredients in the most expensive perfumes is...yep...skunk or civet cat oil--a substance called butyl mercaptan. It's what "holds" the scent in the perfume so the wonderful smells don't disappear over time, and even sometimes enhance over time.

That odd thought gives me hope for all those things that have come in my life with painful regrets and incomplete amends. I like the idea that the same thing that skunked me has the power to hold enticing and enrapturing scents. But these things only come with time--time for the smell to die down--and they don't get improved by poking the skunk again. I can only pray for those things to reveal themselves.