Presbyfruit

Somewhat amusing adventures in Church Ushering

So I ushered yesterday at church, and while proffering the collection plate I came upon a man soundly sleeping.  He looked sort of homeless, although marginalized people usually sit, well, on the margins.  In the back, out of the way. 

I didn't want to make a biased assumption that because he looked disenfranchised, he would have nothing to put in the plate.  There was an envelope on the pew beside him, although it wasn't an offering envelope.

Hmmm...what to do?  I thought of softly jabbing him in his arm with the edge of the plate, but I didn't want to embarrass him, or hold up the collecting process.  Or, more likely, misjudge the distance between us and end up painfully poking him or knocking him over (I have terrible depth perception).

The deacons are told never to awaken a hospitalized person, and while this wasn't exactly that sort of situation, I decided to move along and leave him and his envelope in slumbering peace.  At that very moment, his eyes opened.  I took the opportunity to thrust the plate right under his face in a last-ditch attempt to get something out of him. 

What I got was a very impressive demonstration of some really good sleeping.  He failed to notice the plate,  his eyes closed again and he was out like a light. 

More Presby, Less Fruit

I realize I started blogging to "record the moments of grace in my life."  Ha!  I've been having too much fun exploring the fruity goodness of said life to delve too much into Spiritual Things.   I will get to it, however. Eventually.

I've kept that part of me rather secret, partly because I'm not ready to censor my cuss words. And partly because I don't want the Presbyterian Authorities to come after me and/or my church and/or my beloved pastors.  And partly because that part of me may be the fruitiest thing of all.

Know Thy Enemies

I shouldn't do this, but it's fascinating and it does pay to know one's ideological adversary.  I believe the protesters at Pride are a part of this group, the Street Preacher's Fellowship.

Now, I rather enjoy these protesters and fully support their presence at PrideFest.  I believe in free speech and in the right of someone to yell stuff at someone else.  I also believe that these people ultimately help us, because clearly, they're a little nutty.  Okay, that's dismissive, but still their rabid homophobia and bizarrely literal reading of Judeo-Christian Scripture can easily be refuted.  In some ways, at least to me, that makes them harmless.

My only concern is the potential damage to young people.  It's difficult to hear that kind of stuff when you're young and unsure of yourself.  Of course, we can't live in a bubble full of loving and supportive people.  But most gay people don't, never have, and never will.

Pride 2007

On Saturday, Mrs. Fruit and I set up and staffed our church's booth at our local PrideFest.  Her brother, also gay, and visiting from Boston, helped us.  My chief memory of long-ago Prides, back in the olden days, is of buff men roller-blading in thongs (and nothing else).  In those days, there was an abundance of AIDS-related booths during a time when an entire generation was dropping dead from the fatal, un-treatable infection.  I don't remember ever seeing straight people, children or churches (with the exception of the LGBT Metropolitan Community Church).   Prides are different now.  Along with progressive churches such as Unity and Unitarian Universalists, there were a handful of mainline faith communities and at least one breakaway (the American Catholic Church of New England).

Many people passed our booth and thanked us for our presence.  A number of men and transgendered male-to-females stopped by and told sad stories of being kicked out of congregations.  One guy was superintendent of Sunday School at his church, and after divorcing his wife and coming out of the  closet, was brought in by his pastor and told, "you're finished here."  These men just poured out their stories to us and were obviously still pained by the cruelty of the institutional Church.

I don't know how many will find their way to the doors of our church.  Many came from surrounding rural areas too far to consider attendance at our city Presbyterian church.  I'm always hoping to recruit potential members, but I think it's enough to be there and be smiley and loving.  Especially with the "religious" people screaming and holding signs that say "Homos going to Hell" outside the festival perimeter.

Church Lady

I spent Sunday doing a couple of church lady things.  I helped with coffee hour and then was grabbed as an emergency usher to collect the offering.  The New Testament lesson was Luke 10:38-43---the one in which Mary sits serenely at Jesus' feet while Martha scurries around cleaning, cooking and doing the hostess bit.  This text seemed particularly relevant.  Mrs. Fruit has family coming in from out-of-state this weekend.  Not Jesus, but still pretty important.  Both she and her mother are accomplished hostesses.  They know how to make a bed properly and they provide correct matching towels.  They get pretty worked up about the details.  I'm much more laid-back.  Mrs. Fruit showed me a huge list at the start of the weekend and asked me to help her, just a little bit. 

As the text was being read, I was feeling pretty smug and vindicated.  Then as the preacher launched into her sermon, my smugness dissipated.  She posited that both Mary and Martha have it right, and that both ways are acceptable and legitimate forms of discipleship.  Hospitality is a spiritual practice, and sometimes hospitality requires running around like a chicken with its head cut off (I'm paraphrasing).  I felt rather convicted by this message and sorry that I hadn't been more enthusiastic to knock some of the tasks off Mrs. Fruit's  list.  I went home and spent a good bit of time outside weeding and straightening up things inside.  I still did them my way:  40 minutes of weeding, 20 minutes of "Bad Girls"  (British women's prison drama).  20 minutes watering, 30 minutes talking to my grandmother on the phone.  Mrs. Fruit's way is to get up early, work like a dog until late in the afternoon, then collapse in front of the tv in a stupor, unable to hold a conversation or a thought.

After church, I had a really odd conversation with an older woman who I only know in passing.  She must think I'm someone else, because she was urging me to join our church's choir or some other local choir.  I can't carry a tune in a bucket so I'm not sure why she was telling me this. 

How we spent the Lord's Day

Like all good recovering burned-out church ladies,  this morning we decided to skip church.  In its stead,  we discussed how we're going to decorate the church's booth at the upcoming Pridefest.  Mrs. Fruit quickly designed an adorable sticker that says "God loves me," with the church's website on it.  We hope this will help counter the regular coterie of street preachers who set up across the street from Pride.  They screech  Bible verses about our certain damnation through bullhorns.

Next we set out for a local state park.  We at least listened to the Worship service as we travelled down the interstate to our wooded destination.  So we weren't total heathens.  And I can never be a heathen when I'm in the woods.  It's a balm for me to be surrounded by so many living, breathing things.  I feel really attuned to the Spirit when I'm outside and always have, even as a small child. 

My mother recently told me about a woman who went to an alternative healer;  she was stressed out and feeling run down, like many of us.  He told her she had lost her connection to nature and his prescription was for her to spend 30 minutes every day lying on the ground, rain or snow or heat.  After a year of doing this, she told him she felt like a new person.  I can understand how that might work and felt a little tiny bit of that today.