Red Wagons
Hi Friends - I hope you’ll read Lucinda Perera Isaacs’ essay Come Sunday - excerpted below; and we’re delighted that Jasmin Pittman who had to cancel her session at the Porch Gathering due to illness is reconvening that session online soon. Details below.
I’m reading an amazing, enlightening book called How to Think Impossibly - by the philosopher of religion Jeffrey Kripal. It’s not easily summarisable, but maybe it can suffice to say that it riffs (elegantly, compassionately, sometimes hilariously) on the notion humans are much “bigger” than we typically think. Not merely in the sense (in a quotation often attributed to Nelson Mandela, but actually from Marianne Williamson) of denying our own “brilliance”, but the bedrock truth of spirituality:
One tradition has it that we are made in the image of God, “a little lower than the angels”; but as I’ve often said, even the most purely secular claims (or attempts at making such claims) elevate the human by naming how we’re made of stardust. To me, the grace and majesty of the human being can’t be comprehensively named. Some folks think that made in the image of God and made from stardust are mutually exclusive propositions - but I just don’t see the conflict. The poetry of what it is to be a person has room for both stardust and angels. And the politics of being a human among humans would be radically transformed if we insisted on this ineffable worth - not as a selfish act, but one tender toward ourselves while also calling forth the magnificence of others.
I recorded a wee meditation about this for the good folks at the Nomad podcast - you might enjoy listening.
Anyway - in one of the many paragraphs of How to Think Impossibly that I’ve had to read twice or more because it contains so much treasure, Kripal speaks about a friend with a favorite story,
“long forgotten. The story involves two nation-states at war and a little boy who keeps crossing the contentious border with different things in a. little red wagon that he pulls behind him. His father, it turns out, makes little red wagons for a living. First, there is nothing in the wagon, then feathers, then bricks, then complicated boxes. But the border guards can never find anything suspicious, and the boy is just a boy, so they let him go each time. One day, when the little boy gets out of the reach of the border guards, he calls back to them that he has in fact been smuggling things into the other country all along: Little red wagons.”
It may be that embracing the existence of the imagination matters more than the stories we tell with it. Or that may be a self-duplicating statement: if something is truly in “the realm of imagination”, then it can only be life-giving.
So - smuggle your red wagons across the borders where there are people who need their imaginations to be awakened too. Dunk your pail deep into the well of story-telling, story-shaping, story-birthing, story-imagining. Be generous with imagination itself. Don’t be boxed in by the idea that angels and stardust, “spirituality” and “science” don’t belong together. Push the red wagon to the top of a hill overlooking a valley down to a crystal lake. Get in. Take off the safety break.
The Porch Gathering Dream Work
Jasmin here. Can you believe The Porch Gathering was almost a few months ago? Unfortunately, I had to cancel my Dream Work session — illness struck at the most inopportune time — and, let’s just say, my FOMO was real.
So, to make it up to the community, I’d like to offer a dream circle via Zoom, on Saturday, May 17th from 10:30am-12pm. If you’re interested, you can let me know by simply replying to this email or use the contact form linked here.
This group will be limited to 8 participants, so be sure to email soon. If there’s enough interest, this may become a semi-regular offering, so if you can’t make it on Saturday, stay on the lookout for future dates.
Lastly, if you’re wondering: “Jasmin, what’s dream work anyway?” you can find the original description from The Gathering below:
Explore the terrain of your subconscious through dream work. In a facilitated container, participants will be invited to share a dream and gain insights from the group. While not everyone will have the chance to offer a dream, everyone will have the opportunity to get in touch with their intuition and find meaning by engaging the symbols and themes that fuel us and the stories we hold. It's helpful if you keep a dream journal in the weeks prior to the group, but it's not necessary to join the circle--all you need is a willingness to be present and listen respectfully and with an open heart. Email me soon if the Dream-maker's been calling.
Come Sunday (excerpt) - Lucinda Perera Isaacs
“Look down and see my people through.”
-Duke Ellington, “Come Sunday”
The jazz trio offered their riffs. I had finished my sermon and collapsed back into the fancy chair hidden behind the pulpit. Meanwhile, the piano, bass, and drum kit kept exploring Duke Ellington’s Come Sunday.
Pastors often bemoan that it’s hard to find a quiet moment on a Sunday morning. I’ve always felt able to worship while leading worship, but it was an extra level of comfort having the jazz trio that day.
My sense of panic had grown every day throughout the week. I was unsure how I was going to get through each day, but Sundays come with muscle memory. I could lean back and take a breath. I relaxed for the first time in days. The jazz staple offered respite to my soul, even as the steel brushes scraped across the snare drum. The bass thumped along as the pianist’s fingers danced on the high end of the keyboard.
I looked over the congregation at the faces of the people who entered this space by the white pillars outside to sit in pews lining the sanctuary. Consistently, this is a moment of incredible joy and responsibility for me. The jazz was a departure from an otherwise traditional service, and their faces swayed more than usual. Their expressions tell all kinds of stories that I’ve learned to detect over the years—what people are hiding from one another, what they are stuffing deep down from their selves, the relief they seek, the delight they are afraid to name, the quiet sacrifices they make for loved ones, and the incredible way they value their faith. All these faces gather here each Sunday morning grappling with something mysterious and sacred that knows each of them by name.
At first, I saw what I always saw—a smudge of make-up trying to conceal age, a woman bending her knees pretending to crawl with a grandchild between the pews, and a man pulling out a handkerchief to smother the same sneeze he has each week. Then I looked down at the bulletin to make sure I didn’t miss my next assignment. When I looked back up, I saw someone that I had not seen before: I saw me.
I am not making this up. It is not a dream. I can’t explain it: I saw myself.
I was slowly proceeding down the center aisle. I stopped to greet people and acknowledge the hopes and fears they brought with them. I appeared bright and outgoing, but not quite effusive. I was wearing the shoes that I was hiding under my bed with black tights extending up my legs.
I blinked to bring me back to the chair. Wiggling my freshly polished blue toenails inside my black Oxford shoes, I realized that even my mannerisms were changing. My long, almost gangly, fingers covered the razor burn of my otherwise smooth cheeks. I was trying to hide my face, but my hands kept sliding toward one another as if I were praying. Certainly, I looked prayerful, but I kept looking down the aisle at this image of myself.
As the trio ended, I returned to muscle memory. I stood and walked to the center of the chancel, turned to the congregation, and said, “Grace and peace to you in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ…” I listed a few announcements and invited the congregation to join me in prayer. A few minutes later, I said, “Our Father…” Everyone joined in with “…who art in heaven.”
As I returned to the oversized preacher’s chair, the drummer clicked his sticks together four times. The ensemble began playing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” I intended to rehearse the benediction in my head, but instead I looked back down the center aisle again. There I was swaying along, mirroring the pianist’s passion for jazz. I was wearing a charming gray and navy panel dress that I’d never seen before. Then I saw myself approaching the communion table with open hands. My shoulder-length hair was smooth and straight.
The piano played out the words one last time: Carry everything to God in prayer.
That was my cue to offer the benediction. I straightened my grey suit jacket and plain navy tie—late August is no time for a black, polyester preacher's robe—and felt myself facing myself in front of the table. My image, draped in a lovely dress, was standing there looking over the table into the chancel, while I stood facing out towards the congregation.
I occupied the same place twice.
I stood in desperate need of grace, acceptance, and inclusion. And I faced this gathered people to offer an assurance of a steadfast love beyond my understanding.
I looked back over the faces as I am prone to do, but that day I spoke mostly to myself.
Following worship, I drove home in my pickup truck, and I knew that I needed to carry my whole messy self to God in prayer.
The self I saw at the table was pleading for bread and wine. My face looked tender and gracious—expressing deep relief to be in this place. Yet a lingering hunger called me forward to receive the compassion found at God’s table. How do I make this happen? Do I drive to Lexington? Or how about Indianapolis? Louisville? Columbus? How far would I have to drive to find a church that would be willing to feed me at their table while wearing a dress? If someone found out, it feels like I could lose my whole livelihood.
Lucinda Perera Isaacs is a Presbyterian minister living in Cincinnati, Ohio, and she often writes about belonging and belovedness. This essay is from her manuscript on gender and spirituality. She has contributed to Justice Unbound, Presbyterian Outlook, and Journal for Preachers.