For you, asshole saint - Oct 31 2016

(or: On Being (Lutheran) Human)

Since moving to Australia, and even before that, I’ve worshipped in many different kinds of communities. Here I seem to have found a home among the Anglicans – not in the least because the first time I attended the priest said, “All are very welcome to the communion rail, of course, if that is your custom.” After many months of worshipping places where I was not welcome at the rail, I cannot describe to you the relief and warmth of that welcome. Attending other places where the rules forbid it, I comforted myself with the knowledge that it was the Lord’s table, not ours, and that the gifts there were still for me, even if I was not allowed to come forward to receive them in that place. With the simple words in that Anglican church “All are very welcome…” I knew the power of having another human speak those words, and offer me the invitation. It was a chance to run into the arms of home. 

I really enjoy this church, and its community. But I realized today, Reformation Sunday (the 499^th anniversary!), that I’m unlikely to ever be an Anglican. They seem to be missing a couple concepts I find essential; gifts explained in confirmation (courtesy of Pastor Paul Matchan), which I grow to understand better every day. 

First, that we are at once sinner and saint.  Not only that it is possible to be both simultaneously, but, I’m starting to see, it is impossible not to. Our humanity is a gift. Our struggles, our broken bits, our wounds, our strengths, our love, our desires, our failings. That holiness and sainthood isn’t something to strive after. It is simply part of our being. Something God sees, even when we don’t. Louise Penny is a Canadian mystery author I’ve been reading (and recommend). One of her characters is referred to as the asshole saint – a doctor gifted at healing, particularly with children who have Down’s Syndrome, who is simultaneously so full of ego, pride, and hubris that he is rude and dismissive of everyone else. In most of us, perhaps, the dichotomy is not so striking. But it is present.

Second, the other thing the Anglicans are missing is “for you” in the words used for distributing communion. The body of Christ, given for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you. These words are nourishment for each particular being, each of us asshole saints. And here is the grace, “for you” is for feeding all the parts of us, not feeding the saint and withering the asshole. It is to make us more of who we are, in our busted up, broken glory. And there is the gift and the grace. To be seen, and loved, and nourished as an asshole and a saint. And that we can speak those words, “for you” to each other at the rail, or the campfire or anywhere else we are gathered. The human voice and human hands giving the gift of Jesus, for you. Another welcome home.

I figure I’ll just remain a Lutheran asshole saint who hangs out with the Anglicans.

(If you’re interested in a bit more on “for you” check out David Lose’s blog.)

The Australian Speedo - August 2016

Since shortly after I got to Australia, I’ve been pretty casually coaching volleyball with the Melbourne University Renegades. And by casual, I mean I make one out of two trainings a week, rarely go to games (which are every Saturday for six months), and quite often cancel attending training at the last minute due to work (or because I fell of my bike, etc.). I have been pretty epically (for me) and unashamedly (for me) uncommitted. And I have to say, it’s been great.

On the Saturdays when I’m feeling more committed (often towards end of season when we’re on the run to the playoffs and I’m just back from a few weeks in the US), I generally take public transport over to Nick’s (the real, epically committed, coach) and ride out to the matches with him. This means about 30+ minutes in the car both ways. I know I’m mostly an introvert, and I’m guessing he is, too, so it can be a quiet ride once we’ve sorted match strategy. Over the past few years, our conversation starters outside of volleyball are often things I don’t understand about Australia. Nick is Australian, and a patient source.

On a recent trip, two police cars went zipping past us in the right lane (which is the fast lane, because we’re on the other side of the road). 

Nick said “Wow, good thing I wasn’t speeding.” 

I said, “But the limit is 100 and your speedometer says 103.” (I know from previous conversations this is enough to garner a ticket.) 

“Yeah, but my speedo is off.”

Aaaaaaand I was laughing. “I am never going to be able to un-see that image in my head.” 

And then he reminded me we’d had almost the same conversation the previous week (including my reaction; as I said, he's a patient source). “Speedos are speedometers, Amy.” 

“Right, right,” I gasped. “Tell me again what you call the tiny bathing suits?”

“Budgie Smugglers” http://www.budgie-info.com/  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Budgerigar

And there’s another image I’ll never get out of my head.

Tromance – July 2016

I got on the tram around 7:30 on a Friday morning. That’s when things start to get busy, so the tram was fairly full. There was a good looking tall dark haired fellow who was on the tram, and moved over to stand near me (by the door). He was holding an umbrella because it’s that time of year. He got a book out of his pocket to read. Since the tram was full, at the next stop I snuck a bit deeper into the aisle between doorways – and grabbed a spot next to an attractive, dark haired young woman who was leaning on the expandable accordion seam in the wall where the tram bends around corners. This is a desirable spot because you can sort of recline or sit on the bendy bits, which are made of some kind of sturdy rubberized fabric.

At the next, stop, the dark haired guy had come up behind me, and asked the dark haired woman if she minded if he tucked his umbrella into the accordion folds near her, so he could have a hand for his book, and a hand free to hang on. (The tram has signs in it that say “you never know, so don’t let go” and they mean it.) Thus began a conversation between the three of us, and then mostly the two of them, about how the tram was more crowded on Fridays at that time than other days of the week, and how she was in his usual spot, and the taboo about talking to strangers, and what a risk taker this fellow was for talking to a stranger and asking to stash his umbrella. “Not that much of a risk,” he said. “What’s the worst that could happen?” “I could have told you no, you can’t put your umbrella there.” “Yep, that’s the worst that could happen – not much of a risk.” (And I thought, and the best outcome is that you get her number.) “Well, it’s a bit of a risk,” she said. “People in Melbourne aren’t very friendly.” There was a lull in our chat. He dropped something out of his book, which I mentioned so he could grab it. It was a footy ticket – which led him to tell us it was from a GRAND FINAL (i.e., the championships), so she asked if he was from Melbourne, “of course” he said. They bantered a bit about keeping your balance on the tram, and she gave him a hard time about his skills set for a resume, (talks to strangers, has moderate balancing skills). She kept dropping the hints about unfriendly people in Melbourne. I wished them both a good day when I got off at my stop, and they did the same. As I left the tram I heard him ask “So where are you from then?” About time you picked that one up, my friend.

Seems like conversation on the tram has the potential for romance.  Who knew? Perhaps that's why very few people talk...

The Man Haircut Store – July 2016

It’s been a long cold winter here in Melbourne. At least that’s what people tell me – since I was in the summertime US for 5 weeks I’m not minding it so much. By cold, they mean it’s been down to 30 degrees Fahrenheit a couple times. But that can feel pretty cold when you’re waiting in the wind and rain for a tram, or to cross the street on the way to the grocery store. And it's dark by 5pm for what feels like many months in a row, although it's probably only a couple.

One of my favourite things about Brunswick, the suburb where I live, is that it’s unapologetically hipster. Lots of tattoos, and man-buns (examples here and here), and those earrings that stretch out people’s earlobes until they can put a car tire in them. Hair of many unnatural colors. There's a guy who wears a cape (very sparkly) to work at a beauty shop. And beards – so many beards (on the guys) of all shapes and sizes, generally natural colors.

So one of my favourite things about my walk home in the wet chilly winter weather in Brunswick is a shop called Barber Black Sheep (yes, really. And if you remember Aussies don't usually say r's at the end of their words...). It’s between the grocery store and my apartment, which also happens to be between my usual tram stop and my apartment. I usually walk by it at some point every night. They sell some clothes. They have a stuffed fox in the front window. It’s all rough, horizontal wood paneling on the walls. There are three old school barber chairs with the cushions and the buttery leather, all placed deliberately to not be facing the same way. The mirrors in front of the chairs are big old wooden dresser kind of mirrors. The lighting is… welcoming. Bright and warm – but not soft. And the barber chairs are most evenings occupied with bearded guys, having a beer and getting their hair or beards trimmed by other guys with man buns or giant mustaches. I really have no desire to enter that space, it’s clearly man space, but it makes me happy every time I walk by. A warm oasis in the chilly night where a man can drink beer whilst having a shave with a warm towel and a straight razor. It’s like a strangely modern old American west oasis in the middle of a busy metropolitan Australian suburb. I enjoy just basking in its light on my way home.