new to you friday–peace and quiet

Phyllis Tickle, founder of the Religion department at Publishers Weekly and author of many books including the Divine Hours series, a collection of prayers for seasons of the year and of church life, spoke at this year’s Q conference in Chicago. I wasn’t able to attend (by the way, if anyone wants to pay my way to next year’s event, I won’t say no) but based on the tweets coming from my friends who did, she had a number of good things to say about spiritual practices like fasting, communion, sabbath and fixed-hour prayer.

As I noted in the original post, there is a growing desire for more reflection, more liturgy and more structure in worship. Growing numbers of evangelicals participate in Ash Wednesday services and Lenten fasts. Ancient hymns still connect, although the musical arrangements may vary. And the same generation clamoring for new iPhones somehow, at the same time, realizes the need to pull away, disconnect, and seek stillness.

First Friday at Christ Cathedral continues to be one way I find this sacred quiet. Of course, participation in spiritual disciplines must be long-term and multi-faceted—one service once a month won’t produce wellsprings of peace. I bet Phyllis Tickle said as much in her Q presentation……..which I’d know if I could have gone……..

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Authors like Brian McLaren and Robert Webber have written about “ancient-future” worship and spiritual practices. Many churches have added more contemplative vespers or chapel services in addition to the guitars and SermonSpice videos on Sunday morning, and Taize prayer services have started to pop up everywhere from the Unitarians to the Presbyterians.

Clearly, there is a growing desire for simpler, quieter worship options, even (especially?) among the younger generations. Is this symptomatic of larger doctrinal shifts, or simply the inevitable pendulum swing after years of the other extreme in American worship?

I’m guessing both, but for me it’s simply an opportunity to be still and to reflect, and I join hundreds of others the first Friday evening of each month at Christ Cathedral in downtown Nashville. Although all of the services offered at this Episcopal congregation are open to the community, they created the First Friday services as a “sacred space” especially for the city.


To pursue this mission the cathedral also offers violin and organ concerts, choral music performances, quarterly evensong services, and even something called “Liturgical Floral Design.” I’ve attended several of these events (not the floral one) but my favorite is First Friday. Each month the 90-minute service combines traditional elements of Episcopalian and Anglican liturgy, including a complete communion service, with surprisingly modern touches.

For instance, this past Friday’s service focused on the value of story as a way to communicate deep spiritual truths. A guest speaker shared several parables throughout the service (one accompanied by a dance from the church’s Epiphany Dance Company), and songs included not only the expected staid hymns but also a swinging version of “I Love to Tell the Story.” This being Nashville, the music at First Friday is always top-notch, and always different; this service had a jazz and piano feel while other Fridays have featured a bluegrass combo or a children’s choir.

The services include so many simple but effective elements, many of which—like the uptempo “Sanctus” sung three times before communion and accompanied by hand motions—don’t fit the stereotype. And each one also features something different to reinforce the theme; this month the church provided a basket of fabric scraps and encouraged each worshiper to take one and write a word or symbol on it to represent the story of his own life.

“At the offertory, you are invited to bring your cloth forward and attach it to a larger cloth that will be placed on the altar in preparation for the Holy Eucharist as a way of offering your life to the One who redeems and makes all things new,” they wrote in the order of service.


Don’t worry, I’m not about to become Episcopalian–the incense alone is enough to put me off that idea. But I do love entering this sacred space every month or two and finding an oasis of quiet where I can slow my racing thoughts and think about that One in a new way. I’ll leave it to our contemporary authors to explore the theological implications of these trends, although Webber’s work is on my should-have-read-a-year-ago list. For now, I’m content to sit in the back of Christ Cathedral, soak in the calm, and appreciate all those liturgical flower arrangements.

finding myself stuck

Somehow I have reached the age of 34 without knowing who I am.

Remember that scene in the movie “Runaway Bride” when Julia Roberts’ character Maggie realizes she doesn’t even know how she likes her eggs? I can relate.

For instance, I spent Memorial Day weekend in New York City with my brother and sister-in-law. I adore New York: the subways, the museums, the food, the parks, the newsstands with beautiful flowers, the ability to buy 14 kinds of olives at 2 a.m. I found myself wondering if perhaps I should have moved there, instead of Nashville, a few years ago.

Then I returned home and spent two lovely days planting my first-ever garden full of heirloom tomatoes, peppers, berries and herbs. I hosted some family and friends for the weekend and enjoyed having a house large enough to play hostess and the fun of introducing them to the Tokens Show, contemplating which carb-laden southern eatery to visit and admiring magnolias and dogwoods at the botanical garden. Maybe Nashville was the right choice after all?

Someone of a more optimistic bent might say I’m simply adaptable, able to be happy in a variety of circumstances. That’s probably true, but it doesn’t answer the identity crisis questions I should have grappled with 15 years ago.


Or take the conversation I had with my brother, who very kindly said, “Your freelancing life looks good on you,” and affirmed my self-discipline in working from home and my ability to accept the uncertainty of a varying monthly income. And I thought, yes……what is that about? I dislike ambiguity in anything. Worry is my life. How am I so worry-free about cash flow?

Or there was the friend who remarked, after I shared some of these thoughts, that I seem like an outgoing, career-oriented person with very clear goals. In reality I am a shy person who would love to work less and whose primary goals are paying the bills on time and staying thin by eating less cheese. I’ve been completely authentic in my friendship with this person; how am I projecting a persona so different from the real me? How much is the real me?


More years ago than seems possible, I graduated college on a Saturday and entered the work force on Monday. I jumped right into a job, a place of my own, a car payment and a 50-hour week. Unlike many of my contemporaries, I took no time between high school and college, or college and life, to travel and experiment and discover………and now I’m feeling it.

Is it too late to backpack through Europe? Can I be an honorary Millennial even if I have a mortgage?


If you think this is the navel-gazing of a spoiled 21st century American, you’re right. Previous generations—those great ones—had wars to fight and countries to build and pennies to pinch. “Finding themselves” meant deciding which company to work at for forty years.

But I’m willing to work hard, too……have been, in fact, for 12 years. I just want to work with greater focus, toward goals of my own. I want purpose, not laziness. I want to want something.

I dream of having a dream, and the time and space to figure it out. In the meantime, I know one thing: I like my eggs scrambled. With cheese.

flooded with blessings

This post brought to you by Facebook and a flood.

My friend Amy recently wrote, “Jen, I would love to read your thoughts on this: if we live happily and comfortably, should we be thankful to God for it or should we be on red alert because it probably means we’re not sacrificing enough? And I’m not talking about being ‘rich,’ per se, I’m talking about simple stuff like having a refrigerator and clean water and an extra set of sheets and towels and more than one pair of underwear…that sort of thing. I never know if I should be joyful or nervous when I realize I’m comfortable and happy…!”

And then Nashville received almost 14 inches of rain in two days, flooding streets, destroying homes and businesses, and killing 18 people. Suddenly it did seem only the luckiest had extra towels and uncontaminated water.

And I got to thinking about “stuff,” and the things we say about stuff.

How many of the following have you heard?

1. “Compared to 95% of the world’s population we are ALL rich, just by being born in this country.”

2. “It’s not wrong to have money, it’s about the condition of your heart and what you do with the money.”

3. “The person who dies with the most toys still dies.”

4. “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.” – Jim Elliot

It’s true we have won the global lottery just by being Americans, especially those of us who are white middle-class Americans. Should we feel guilty for that?

It’s true that love of money, not the money itself, causes many evils. But rich is relative; if I shop for secondhand clothes before lunch out with friends and my sister buys clothes at the mall but packs her lunch, who’s a “better steward”? And how do I know if my heart is right?

It’s true we can’t take it with us. But God put me on the planet—is it so wrong to want a few vacations and a food processor?

It’s true our treasures in heaven vastly surpass our treasures here. But is anyone else in the universe as spiritual as Jim Elliot was?


Discussions of money and our faith often raise more questions than they answer, because—like so many things—we want black and white answers, and—like so many things—the answers are as muddy as the Cumberland River water swamping downtown Nashville. The problem is the fall affected this aspect of our natures just as it warped every other part of us, so something God created as good—sharing and giving—now includes guilt and manipulation and comparison.

As my dad once wryly observed, if we give all our money away to care for the poor, we’ll be poor and people will have to take care of us. (By the way, my dad is one of the most generous people I know.)

On the other extreme, What Jesus Would Not Do is spend more on iTunes downloads and Diet Coke than he gives away.

So what’s the answer?

Well, Amy, since you asked, here’s my opinion: God asks us to give 10%, which may not have been hard for Jim Elliot but which I hate. And that’s as much black and white as he gives us. Beyond that, we ask him if we’re doing enough and if we’re doing the right things. We keep asking, every week or every month, and obey the best we can.

And no, you should not feel guilty about being happy or having more than you need. Guilt is not helpful. Instead, let the gratitude for these blessings prompt you to do more so that others can also have a warm place to sleep, dry clothes, enough food. Keep asking God to let you know if you should do something else, or something more specific like giving time, and be prepared to not always like his answer. Keep asking God for humility, too, so that when you sponsor a child in Africa or volunteer at a soup kitchen it remains a gift to God, not a cause for pride. And then, if you and God are at peace about your checkbook and your motives, be at peace. Enjoy a week at the beach with your family or a vanilla latte or a new sweater and thank God for the blessing.


And if you want to help Nashville, click here.

new to you friday–seasons of love

In the last 12 years I’ve lived in four different states (for those of you playing at home: Pennsylvania, Ohio, California and Tennessee). This wanderlust + lots of friends and family members who also move around = a community of loved ones around the country (and a really messy address book).

Two years ago I wrote about the gratitude I feel for these friendships. I still feel that way—there is simply nothing like old friends who knew you then and still love you now.

Problem is, that was two years ago. I am now two years older, I’ve lived in Nashville two years longer, and I have two more friends here than when I wrote this.

Lame.

I also work almost two times as much, travel about two times a month and have 200% fewer reasons to step foot in a traditional office environment. So I try to remember my current lifestyle makes it harder to connect with people, and I shouldn’t be too hard on myself.

But it’s time to make some changes. My community is supportive and loving…..and, except for a few wonderful people, mostly in other cities.

I’ve allowed myself to cross the line from independence (good) to isolation (not good) without even realizing it—after all, I’ve never had to “work at” making friends before. Now I do, and this coming year I plan to be more intentional about building a new community in Nashville. No one will take the place of older friends, but it’s time to create some seasons of love down here. Or move again, and I just finished unpacking from the last move yesterday.

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Last year I traveled to San Francisco with some of my favorite people to celebrate a friend’s completion of the SF marathon (and to ogle the firemen giving away jewelry at the finish line).

Last weekend I attended the long-anticipated college graduation of one of my closest friends; the super fun celebration included a Ford Mustang Convertible (yes, we rode with the top down and the heat up), several late nights, a dinner party for 11, lots of laughing, and a full-on Santa costume. (Long story.)

Last night I listened to another good friend share her struggles to understand and accept a medical diagnosis.

Today I cried with a new friend here in Nashville who’s facing Christmas while grieving the recent death of her best friend in a car wreck.

In the 1996 musical “Rent,” the company sings,

How do you measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In 525,600 minutes—how do you measure a year in the life? How about love? Measure in love.

Every bone in my cynical body wants to avoid sounding all after-school-specialish, but the older I get the more I value the friends who have become a second family. This year we navigated a couple of moves, a few graduations, an engagement, some kids starting kindergarten, some new babies on the way. We shared a year of midnights and misunderstandings and also some moments of laughing so hard those cups of coffee almost spewed back out our noses.

Ugh—I’m getting sentimental in my old age. But this Christmas I’m so grateful for all 525,600 minutes.

pray anything?

I haven’t received one “yes” to a prayer in five years.

Clarity about whether to leave California? Guidance about which professional avenues to explore? Opportunities to be proactive and positive in a negative situation? Improvement of my physical health? A spiritual breakthrough with an atheist boyfriend?

Nyet.

On the other hand, I’ve received many blessings I never asked for: the health and safety of my loved ones. A good church and new friends in Nashville. More freelance work than I really have time for.

Needless to say, this causes me to ask questions.

For one, was I asking for the wrong things? They all seem like healthy and God-honoring requests to me.

And was I asking with the wrong motives? I don’t think so.

If asking is okay, and I asked for good reasons, and still I receive no answers (or “no” answers), we arrive at my latest question: Should I bother?

Perhaps I’m just going to get what I’m going to get—which is certainly more than I deserve, and certainly God’s prerogative. In that case, the goal becomes gratitude in spite of his apparent silence. And that means daily opportunities to grow in patience and maturity……which is probably what I should have been asking for the whole time.

My dad once told me God’s no answers are often the prelude to a yes we never could have imagined. If that’s true, I’m more than ready for the next movement.

home page

After dating Nashville for two years, I’m making a commitment and buying a house. Look, isn’t it fun? This is the back yard, complete with a sunroom and mature elm, cedar and maple trees. I get the keys in just a few weeks and will spend much of my summer hauling stuff across town and getting settled; I hate moving but after two cross-country versions this will be a cinch.

Ironically, the down payment for this commitment comes from the money saved for my wedding. Not all the money—my mom insisted we hold a little back so there’s enough for a dress and some butter mints on the off chance I still meet one of the six remaining 30-something normal Christian men in the country. I’m not worried about it—if he really loves me, we’ll get married in the back yard.

easter dress

I have learned a few things during my two years in Nashville: Vegetables are not considered “done” until they are cooked to the consistency of baby food. The correct pronunciation of that major street downtown is Dee-MON-bree-un. Some people actually enjoy NASCAR. And Easter Sunday calls for new clothes and a big hat.

I’ve also learned about Tennessee’s rather unusual attempt to cut down on DUIs—these “I am a drunk driver” vests. Three years ago we became one of the few states to vote a “shame law” on the books requiring first offenders to clean up litter from busy roadways while announcing their crime. I saw several while driving around this past week.

There aren’t many things I despise more than drunk driving—it’s stupid, unnecessary, and potentially deadly. But when I noticed these people along the road, the punishment bothered me. For one thing, I’m not sure embarrassing offenders out of the behavior will be that effective. Instead, I agree with recent task forces which recommend simultaneously stricter and more solution-oriented penalties like revoking licenses or lowering the blood alcohol count which triggers a jail stay.

But the law also makes me uneasy for another reason: if we’re passing out orange vests for wrong-doing, I deserve a closet-full. Drunk driving is dumb and destructive, but so are many of my own choices. Laziness, jealousy, bitterness, anger—I could have vests for all of those. My Easter outfit could have been covered with signs reading “I am a grudge-holder” or “I am impatient” or “I have little faith.”

However, yesterday we celebrated God’s great victory over the original shame law.  To paraphrase Galatians 3, there is neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female, drunkard nor sluggard, adulterer nor gossip. There isn’t even Yankee or Southerner.  Because of Jesus, all who repent and believe are clothed with Christ, on Easter Sunday and on every other day—hats optional.

read letter

I’ve already written about the scolding note I received in response to a recent Buzz column, and the magazines that appear even though I never subscribe. (I now receive Fortune magazine, too, for no apparent reason. It’s like there’s a contest among publishers to send the periodical with the least relevance to my life. Next I’ll start getting Bowhunting World.)

Yesterday the mail-pattern-weirdness continued when I returned from Christmasing and found a two-page letter hand-addressed to me and signed by someone named Olu.

“I am a brother here in Nashville,” he writes. “My motivation for writing you today is simply to pray for you. I am a member of a prayer team and I’m inspired to pray for three people this month. I am glad you are one of them. God knows your every need, sees your circumstances and is aware of your every burden. Please let me pray for you and I believe God will surprise you.”

He then invited me to email him with my prayer needs, call him on a Sunday morning to pray together over the phone, or visit his church. “Once again, let me say that God loves you and whatever you are going through is temporary,” he concludes. “If you can pray, He will answer you for there is nothing too complicated for Him. God bless you. Olu.”

It’s a bit unnerving to receive this kind of letter at home from a stranger, and I have no plans to contact the guy, but something about the note made me smile. It was well-written, it asked for nothing, and I’ll take all the prayer I can get. Besides, God really might surprise me. If not, the mail probably will.

peace and quiet

Authors like Brian McLaren and Robert Webber have written about “ancient-future” worship and spiritual practices. Many churches have added more contemplative vespers or chapel services in addition to the guitars and SermonSpice videos on Sunday morning, and Taize prayer services have started to pop up everywhere from the Unitarians to the Presbyterians.

Clearly, there is a growing desire for simpler, quieter worship options, even (especially?) among the younger generations. Is this symptomatic of larger doctrinal shifts, or simply the inevitable pendulum swing after years of the other extreme in American worship?

I’m guessing both, but for me it’s simply an opportunity to be still and to reflect, and I join hundreds of others the first Friday evening of each month at Christ Cathedral in downtown Nashville. Although all of the services offered at this Episcopal congregation are open to the community, they created the First Friday services as a “sacred space” especially for the city.

To pursue this mission the cathedral also offers violin and organ concerts, choral music performances, quarterly evensong services, and even something called “Liturgical Floral Design.” I’ve attended several of these events (not the floral one) but my favorite is First Friday. Each month the 90-minute service combines traditional elements of Episcopalian and Anglican liturgy, including a complete communion service, with surprisingly modern touches.

For instance, this past Friday’s service focused on the value of story as a way to communicate deep spiritual truths. A guest speaker shared several parables throughout the service (one accompanied by a dance from the church’s Epiphany Dance Company), and songs included not only the expected staid hymns but also a swinging version of “I Love to Tell the Story.” This being Nashville, the music at First Friday is always top-notch, and always different; this service had a jazz and piano feel while other Fridays have featured a bluegrass combo or a children’s choir.

The services include so many simple but effective elements, many of which–like the uptempo “Sanctus” sung three times before communion and accompanied by hand motions–don’t fit the stereotype. And each one also features something different to reinforce the theme; this month the church provided a basket of fabric scraps and encouraged each worshiper to take one and write a word or symbol on it to represent the story of his own life. “At the offertory, you are invited to bring your cloth forward and attach it to a larger cloth that will be placed on the altar in preparation for the Holy Eucharist as a way of offering your life to the One who redeems and makes all things new,” they wrote in the order of service.

Don’t worry, I’m not about to become Episcopalian–the incense alone is enough to put me off that idea. But I do love entering this sacred space every month or two and finding an oasis of quiet where I can slow my racing thoughts and think about that One in a new way. I’ll leave it to our contemporary authors to explore the theological implications of these trends, although Webber’s work is on my should-have-read-a-year-ago list. For now, I’m content to sit in the back of Christ Cathedral, soak in the calm, and appreciate all those liturgical flower arrangements.

This month is going by in a blur. I’m only home in Nashville for two weeks of it, much of that time in two or three day increments, and I was bummed to miss the meditative service at St. Bart’s and the Festival of Lessons and Carols at Scarritt-Bennett. Although I still regret missing those worship experiences this year, Thursday night more than made up for it.

18 months ago a group from Fellowship Bible Church visited Kenya and left wishing they could do more for the people there. Because FBC is home to many of the top artists, studio musicians, and producers in Nashville, it wasn’t long before they decided an original CD could be a catalyst for raising money. This December the church released Ring the Bells: A Christmas Offering, with new songs written and performed by Christy Nockels (formerly of Watermark), Cheri Keaggy, Geoff Moore, Cindy Morgan, and others.

Amazingly, everyone involved not only wrote or played for free, but the church is donating every cent from the CD to their African mission partnerships.

Thursday night they took it a step further, and performed the music in two sold-out concerts—and all the money from ticket sales also went back to missions.

The thing about this project is these aren’t just nice people doing something for free—it’s one of the best Christmas CDs I’ve ever heard, and the concert was amazing. By the end, when Ronnie Freeman and Cindy Morgan sang the title track, the room was on its feet clapping, raising hands, and dancing along. There was such a spirit of celebration in the room—of the child born in Bethlehem and the children who will be helped in Africa.

So I’m resigned that Christmas 2007 will be hectic. But in the blur of travel, events, and work, Thursday night is one moment that will stand out in clear focus.