Life or Death?
Life or Death?
Life or Death?
Life or Death?
All life requires death. “This is my body….that you may have life”
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We are all soul mates
you are taking in the very incarnation of god
Each and every one of us are soul mates. We are all one body whether we want to acknowledge it or not. We always were. We are all tied to one another as the human organism.
And even more, tied to the entire creation as one body. Interdependent. Dependent on each other for our very lives. Dependent on the water, the air, the plants and the animals. Inseperable.
We are all soul mates.
Not only does everything we do in this life affect the body of everything else, but our interactions with one another each and every day, regardless of how casual or intimate affect one another's souls.
As you take in the body of an animal, a carrot, a river, you are taking in the very incarnation of god. You are taking the one body of which you are a part into your own body. And in doing it, you are simultaneously destroying life and creating life all at the same time. What could be more intimate and soul-mate-ish than that?
“Take and eat – this is my body, given for you.”
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PB & J Communion
Eucharist: late Middle English: from Old French eucariste, based on ecclesiastical Greek eukharistia ‘thanksgiving,’ from Greek eukharistos ‘grateful,’ from eu ‘well’ + kharizesthai ‘offer graciously’ (from kharis ‘grace’).
Over the past ten years, I’ve watched my dad slip away, one small, excruciating piece at a time. At first it was little changes. Before he started slipping away, he was always an obsessively neat and tidy person. He would hang tools on the garage wall and ask me to outline the shapes of each tool with a marks-a-lot ( an old-school Sharpee) so that they would always be returned to the exact same spot each time. His sock drawer was immaculate; each pair rolled exactly the same, color coded from lightest to darkest. One of the first changes I noticed in dad was that his garage wasn’t neat and tidy anymore. Dad had always been fastidiously clean and then I noticed that sometimes he didn’t shower every day. Dad was always a “fix-it” guy and a true handy-man, but suddenly he wasn’t fixing anything around the house. Mom bought a new barbecue grill and he didn’t put it together for her. I realized at some point that it wasn’t because he had lost interest, or become lazy, it was because he couldn’t anymore.
He started falling frequently, and staying in bed all day. He became incontinent and this very proud man didn’t seem embarrassed in the least when he would wet or soil himself.
For the last 2 ½ years, he’s been in a nursing home- the final indignity. He’s lost his mobility and his dementia gets worse by the day. He is unable to communicate verbally anymore in any meaningful way. He has a tough time bringing words to mind in order to complete a sentence.
I grieve the loss of my dad a little at a time as there’s less and less each day of the dad I knew. But behind the inabilities, vulnerabilities, and indignities he is going through, one thing endures. My dad was always such a giving person. If you needed something, he was there for you. When my brother in law was burned in a house fire, dad flew up to northern Michigan and sat at my brother in law’s bedside, feeding him ice cream. If you were moving, he was there to help. When I went through my divorce, he was always coming into town to be with my kids while I went to night classes, went on business trips, tried to make a new life for myself. He tiled a bathroom for me, built in a fourth bedroom for my son. He was one of those people that truly enjoyed giving to others and being the hero. He was my rock.
And dad was a romantic. He was the kind of man who bought my mom flowers and jewelry for special occasions, opened doors for her, and I hear he was a great dancer. Now, he can’t dance or go out and buy her roses and diamonds, and a nursing home is about the least romantic place to spend time with your lover. But, every day, he orders a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the lunch room. After his lunch, he takes the sandwich back to his room and waits for my mom to come for her visit. When she comes to see him each day after lunch, he takes half the sandwich and gives her half. Then together, as their lives and their 61 year love affair slip away; this beautiful couple share this bread, and jelly and peanut butter. This is their daily eucharist, their holy communion. It’s all he has left to give her.
“This is my body”
And it’s beautiful.
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Eucharist Gift
Maybe the key to not working for the devil lies within.
This post was originally posted on December 29, 2017, but I monkeyed around with my blog and lost all the posts!! So here is a re-post
Christmas is over. Whew! At our house Christmas is nuts. Not only are there five kids, but we have four birthdays and an anniversary to celebrate from December 19th through the end of the year. My daughter laughingly said she will be awarding cash incentives to any siblings who have children in a month OTHER than December. I will match her cash incentives.
In the spirit of the gift-giving bacchanalia that just occurred at my house, my inaugural post will be about the idea of a eucharist gift. I've been haunted by the idea all fall. In October, my husband and I had the privilege of attending an event put on by Peter Rollins in Belfast. (If you haven't read Pete, you should). At that event we became friends with a very special couple from London. He is a headhunter with a unique approach. He talks to people about their "theology" of work.
I am a regional manager in clinical research for big pharma. I laughingly say to people that I work for the devil, but maybe that's just not funny. Don't get me wrong, my job is a tremendous blessing. I work from home, I am paid well and I am good at what I do (or so says my manager). But it’s big pharma – and with any big corporation you feel acutely that it lacks a soul. This translates to me often feeling like I’d like to do something more meaningful; something that changes the world more.
So, when this friend asked me in Belfast what my theology of work is:
I came up empty.
I don't have one. I just do my job and get paid.
About a month ago, Rob Bell did a podcast on ambition and asked the same type of question about your “eucharist gift”. What is that thing you are doing here on this earth for which you will give your body broken and blood shed?
I came up empty.
I mean, I WILL give my body and blood for my children - no question. But beyond that, in any other arena, I just don’t have a theology of work. I just work. I do the best job I can and when the work day is over, I leave it. It is NOT my body broken and blood shed. It's just my job.
I can’t shake the question. I don’t have an answer yet. Maybe, if I don’t have a theology of work I DO work for the devil. I'm not talking about a literal devil here, but the aspect of life that is soulless and deceptive. The force in this world that is destructive and takes life rather than giving it. It’s easy to point a finger out THERE and say that big pharma, or big oil, or corporate America, or whatever machine we find ourselves a part of is the “devil” and lacks a soul. But maybe the bigger truth is that if we point in HERE – inside ourselves – and find that what we are doing; whether employment, or parenting, or marriage, or creativity – has no theology then it is without soul.
Maybe the key to not working for the devil lies within.
So I’m setting out to find the best gift of the season. My eucharist gift. My theology of work.
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