“First, I was dying to finish high school and start college.
And then I was dying to finish college and start working.
And then I was dying to marry and have children.
And then I was dying for my children to grow up and get out the house.
And then I was dying to retire.
And now, I am dying… and suddenly I realize I forgot to live.”

Thanks to the Rev. Dr. Renita Weems for posting this on her blog a few weeks ago. Does it remind you of anyone you know? You, perhaps? It certainly reminds me of myself: “when I am done with this project... this liturgical season... this developmental stage... this phase of life...” And, it all just whizzes by and pretty soon, I have forgotten to live.

Last weekend I was invited to present a workshop on the history of spirituals at the Marble Gospel Choir Retreat. During the final portion of the workshop, I shared with them how the congregational spirituals of the 18th & 19th Centuries were revivified in the 20th Century as the Freedom Songs of the Civil Rights Movement.

What has once been a cry for emancipation from enslavement became a cry to complete the process by recognizing all people as free, equal and made in God's image.

With Djore's leadership we sang a few songs and experienced the special "sound of those songs running through our bodies" as Bernice Johnson Reagon would say. Finally, we sang a song that, I must confess, I relearned from my child's school celebrations.

The lyrics include the following verse:

If you miss me on the back of the bus
or you can't find me nowhere
Come up to the front of the bus
I'll be riding up there.

What a magnificent phrase! It is the direction that George Balanchine gave to prima ballerina Suzanne Farrell during the years in which he choreographed twenty pieces for her.

He told her that to dance his choreography in the way that he envisioned for her would be like “holding on to the air.” It would necessitate some risk-taking, some ‘off-balance-ness,’ some faith and some awe. It was a watershed metaphor for her dancing.

I think that this is also a remarkable metaphor for Christian living in these current times. As a pastor, during the last year or so I have prayed with people facing home foreclosures, unemployment, and unimaginable medical bills. More recently, we have watched the financial sector ride a roller coaster. I have prayed with and for people in the financial industry, as well as observed (with more than a few emotions) how, as workers, our fates are tied to the rise and fall of the markets.

Have you ever played peek-a-boo? It is a lot of fun. You can get a baby giggling for half an hour with a simple cloth and the surprise word: “peek-a-boo!”

In childhood development studies, this is one of the most important experiences for a baby. When they grow a bit, peek-a-boo turns into hide-and-seek and the purpose is similar, these games teach permanency—babies and toddlers learn that seeming absence, doesn’t mean abandonment—they learn that they can hide and be found or you can still be found. Often for a toddler, separation anxiety is an opposite emotional expression from peek-a-boo. Separation anxiety is marked by big tears, crying, screaming, clinging.

I write as a parent who is transitioning our son into nursery school currently. For me it is a study in separation anxiety (mine and his). I am joyful that our younger child has reached this stage and yet, it is difficult for all involved. Two days ago as we were headed into the nursery school, he looked at me sternly and, in his best bossy voice, said, “Don’t go!”

I think that it was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she gets into hot water.” In my thinking, a teabag never becomes fully itself until it finds that hot water. Maybe it is so with women, as well. In fact, this could be a commentary on our culture—there’s been a lot of “hot water” in which women have found themselves these days.

At this very moment, the strong women who are on my heart and in my prayers are the mothers, grandmothers, neighbors and friends who have, in any way, been hurt by the numerous hurricanes that have recently come through the Caribbean and the Southeast U.S. The women who have protected their children and families, while evacuating or hunkering down are heroes to me.  May God continue to be with them.

In a loftier and less tragic area, the Olympics were a highly competitive international cup of “hot water”. This summer I found myself glued to the television. There were so many strong women athletes, though some left especially vivid impressions on me: the strength and beauty of relay runner Sanya Richards; the fortitude and persistence of 41 year old (you go, girl!) swimmer, Dara Torres.

This week my blog is simply to let you know of a wonderful thing that’s going on in the body of Christ and refer you to another blog.

Last week, a delegation of six clergy, scholars and/or church leaders went to visit Israel and Palestine with an organization called Witness for Peace.

They are going there to be witnesses for peace in that fractured Holy place as they follow in the geographical footsteps of Jesus the Christ. When they return, they will be charged to witness to others about their experience.

Earlier this summer, the Young Adult Fellowship at Marble invited me to give a talk on "summer spirituality." We discussed the idea of the Creation and God’s taking a day of Sabbath rest and God’s command of us to do the same thing on a regular basis.  Some of us who grew up in traditions with very clear Sabbath expectations reminisced and shared with others who are trying to learn about "keeping the Sabbath" in the present tense. The upshot of my presentation was to encourage each of them to use the summer to cultivate their own Sabbath practice -- not only on the first day of the week, but during special set aside moments in the day.

Now that was in early June and now it is early August. Wow!! Where did the summer go?  Have you enhanced your Sabbath spiritual practice? Or, has the summer whizzed by you? I am in the "whizzed by" category.

Did you hear this story about a man in Berlin?

Today’s blog picks up from where we left off last week. A very provocative comment came in and I got a bit carried away in my response, so it has become this week’s blog. Consider it a two-parter. And please, weigh in—there is room for more.  Thanks to all who have already done so.

Thank you sooooo much for your comment, socialpoet. You are very thoughtful and have a powerful voice. I am really rocked by the in between-ness that you communicate—with your brother's professional decision and your own keen political and social observations. 

I have been talking to myself all day (some simple self-reflection and some chastisement) about not participating in the marches yesterday. During the period following Diallo’s murder, I was actively involved in the protests. I will never forget going to Webster Avenue in the Bronx for a prayer service and afterwards standing in the vestibule where he was standing. It had not been fixed up then and I saw bullet holes and stood about where Diallo did when he drew his last breath.

“It is not sweet when mothers bury their sons.”

Actually, as the Gospel Choir forcefully told us last night, really “our God” is “worthy to be praised.” At the concert, the choirs reminded of so many reasons why I love Gospel music. But it all comes down to the same point: Gospel music has FORCE and POWER—which is the nature of the relationship with God that I have found and yet, still seek.

I love that Gospel music is loud and has a persistent beat—rarely does it allow for passive listening. I appreciate that there are so many strong ways to express praise to our endlessly praiseworthy God. Last night, I heard smooth R&B, scat singing, classical spiritual singing, Bach-like inventions and more.

I remember the first time I ever saw/heard live Gospel music. It was not in my home church, it was on TV. A large, beautiful choir was televised in some worship service. I can still remember one of the songs that I heard: Going Up Yonder. I had known church choral music, up to that point, only as anthems. This moment was truly a revelation.  A few years later, my mother and some of her church friends founded a Gospel Choir called New Generation Gospel Choir. I used to go to their rehearsals to listen to the songs, and equally significant, the ways that they learned and sang them.