Earlier today, I was supposed to be sitting in an afternoon workshop "exploring new and interactive ways to journey from the outer edges into the very heart of God through worship," the brochure promises, after attending a morning workshop for Clerk of Session, the title given to me at church.
Lunch was perhaps turkey, thinly sliced with avocado on a croissant, or maybe a savory tomato soup with a cheese biscuit. For dessert there may have been chocolate brownies which I would have had to pass up because it is Lent. I would drink more coffee and having no one to sit with or talk to I would be reading an issue of The Sun, a literary magazine, which I brought along to arm myself against loneliness in crowds, which is usually where I find myself feeling most alone.
My anticipation for this conference began about a month ago when after what turned out to be a rather trying Session meeting I was sent an email from the church secretary offering me a life-line in the way of these workshops. I could never figure out if she just happened to be reading her Presbytery newsletter or if someone gave her a heads up that I was in need of information. In either case, I made use of the news of this upcoming event and promptly registered.
I then had a month to wonder why a conference called Exploring the Outer Edges was not filling me with the excitement that should accompany such a journey. As a seasoned warrior of church life, I had been trying to overcome those Outer Edge obstacles for many years and had yet to figure out how to feel like I had successfully made it over the edge and could pitch my tent inside the camp.
Most of the workshops I have ever attended have fallen into one of two categories: women's retreats or writers' conferences.
A women's retreat begins with women sharing the excitement of breaking free of the responsibilities of work--in and out of the home--by laughing, crying, dancing, praying, and not being asked what is for dinner. Workshops can range from intimate times of prayer to treasure hunts through neighboring towns. Free time can mean hiking up a mountain, talking over coffee or taking a much needed nap. There is a lot of emotion and a lot of connecting. Friendships are formed.
Writers' conferences, however, are not necessarily for making friends since most writers would rather not look up from their books. When walking into an auditorium filled with writers, one notices it is quiet--and this silence bothers no one. Having not gone to a writers' workshop in recent years, I wonder if the reading would be done on tablets or if actual books would be in the hands of those awaiting the keynote speaker. When one is reading a book, the book can become an invitation for conversation. When one is reading a tablet, no one knows what he or she is reading, thus eliminating all possible human interaction. It would depend on the day as to which one I would prefer.
Today was going to be a conference filled with Presbyterians--a group in which I now find myself. Both men and women are ordained as elders, or officers as they call themselves, and the same goes for teaching elders who lead congregations. Though being a Clerk requires the secretarial function of taking minutes and submitting them for the next meeting's agenda, this position is not held only by women. The effort made in bringing equality to leadership does not go unnoticed in this, my first go-round in a position of responsibility, unlike past positions in which I only led women.
Determined to represent my church to the best of my ability, I prayed my way over to the neighboring town's church that was hosting the event, and drove into an empty parking lot next to a church I could tell was locked even before I jumped out of my vehicle to check the door. Surely I would not be the only one who showed up, I thought, as I waited in the abandoned lot on the outer edges of the snowbanks. What does it mean to be the Church in the 21st Century?--the brochure asks. It apparently means checking the website before making the journey.
After getting my husband and son to join me for breakfast at my favorite diner, I came home to change back into my pink polka-dotted pajama bottoms and gray over-sized sweatshirt I wear when it snows. Still feeling chilled from being out, I prepared some hot honey citron tea, my latest obsession, and turned on Taize music to relax.
Not sleeping that well last night, I leaned back in my chair and fell asleep. I was transported briefly to an afternoon on a beach in which everything was warmed by the light of abundant sunshine. I could feel the warmth of the sand as I noticed someone sitting near me, unbuckling his sandals. I reached down to help, thinking about washing feet when I woke up to the Taize music, still playing.
Peace washes over me now, as I sit wondering if I had been momentarily in the presence of he whose sandals I am not worthy to unfasten.
Lunch was perhaps turkey, thinly sliced with avocado on a croissant, or maybe a savory tomato soup with a cheese biscuit. For dessert there may have been chocolate brownies which I would have had to pass up because it is Lent. I would drink more coffee and having no one to sit with or talk to I would be reading an issue of The Sun, a literary magazine, which I brought along to arm myself against loneliness in crowds, which is usually where I find myself feeling most alone.
My anticipation for this conference began about a month ago when after what turned out to be a rather trying Session meeting I was sent an email from the church secretary offering me a life-line in the way of these workshops. I could never figure out if she just happened to be reading her Presbytery newsletter or if someone gave her a heads up that I was in need of information. In either case, I made use of the news of this upcoming event and promptly registered.
I then had a month to wonder why a conference called Exploring the Outer Edges was not filling me with the excitement that should accompany such a journey. As a seasoned warrior of church life, I had been trying to overcome those Outer Edge obstacles for many years and had yet to figure out how to feel like I had successfully made it over the edge and could pitch my tent inside the camp.
Most of the workshops I have ever attended have fallen into one of two categories: women's retreats or writers' conferences.
A women's retreat begins with women sharing the excitement of breaking free of the responsibilities of work--in and out of the home--by laughing, crying, dancing, praying, and not being asked what is for dinner. Workshops can range from intimate times of prayer to treasure hunts through neighboring towns. Free time can mean hiking up a mountain, talking over coffee or taking a much needed nap. There is a lot of emotion and a lot of connecting. Friendships are formed.
Writers' conferences, however, are not necessarily for making friends since most writers would rather not look up from their books. When walking into an auditorium filled with writers, one notices it is quiet--and this silence bothers no one. Having not gone to a writers' workshop in recent years, I wonder if the reading would be done on tablets or if actual books would be in the hands of those awaiting the keynote speaker. When one is reading a book, the book can become an invitation for conversation. When one is reading a tablet, no one knows what he or she is reading, thus eliminating all possible human interaction. It would depend on the day as to which one I would prefer.
Today was going to be a conference filled with Presbyterians--a group in which I now find myself. Both men and women are ordained as elders, or officers as they call themselves, and the same goes for teaching elders who lead congregations. Though being a Clerk requires the secretarial function of taking minutes and submitting them for the next meeting's agenda, this position is not held only by women. The effort made in bringing equality to leadership does not go unnoticed in this, my first go-round in a position of responsibility, unlike past positions in which I only led women.
Determined to represent my church to the best of my ability, I prayed my way over to the neighboring town's church that was hosting the event, and drove into an empty parking lot next to a church I could tell was locked even before I jumped out of my vehicle to check the door. Surely I would not be the only one who showed up, I thought, as I waited in the abandoned lot on the outer edges of the snowbanks. What does it mean to be the Church in the 21st Century?--the brochure asks. It apparently means checking the website before making the journey.
After getting my husband and son to join me for breakfast at my favorite diner, I came home to change back into my pink polka-dotted pajama bottoms and gray over-sized sweatshirt I wear when it snows. Still feeling chilled from being out, I prepared some hot honey citron tea, my latest obsession, and turned on Taize music to relax.
Not sleeping that well last night, I leaned back in my chair and fell asleep. I was transported briefly to an afternoon on a beach in which everything was warmed by the light of abundant sunshine. I could feel the warmth of the sand as I noticed someone sitting near me, unbuckling his sandals. I reached down to help, thinking about washing feet when I woke up to the Taize music, still playing.
Peace washes over me now, as I sit wondering if I had been momentarily in the presence of he whose sandals I am not worthy to unfasten.
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