Religion Feng Shui

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
A friend says, “I’m practically
allergic to organized religion,” 
and I nod in solidarity and
sisterhood.  I joke, “I'm
far more comfortable with
disorganized religion.” 

Then I go home and check 
Merriam-Webster because English
professors do that a lot more
often than you might think, and it
tells me that religion is “an organized
system of religious attitudes, beliefs,
and practices,” and I realize that 
“organized religion” is redundant.

It doesn’t impact my friend’s
position, but my standup routine
has to change.  I’m not comfortable
with religion period.  I’m not comfortable
with the idea that moral behavior
can be organized into a list of 
dos and don’ts. I’m not comfortable
with the intentions of a singular
creator being known and owned by
this or that hierarchical, patriarchal,
oligarchical, pseudo-monarchical 
“non-profit” organization. I am not
comfortable with any one way being
determined the arbiter of sacredness,
the magistrate of love.  

So once again, since it came
up, I check the layout of my
philosophy.  I rearrange the furniture
of my creed.  I tweak the angle 
of my theology and take residual 
dogma out with the trash. I remember
again that the only value in any of it
is the degree to which it reminds me
of who I am, the freedom with which 
it allows life to flow like a breeze
or a river or a bird gliding on energy
unseen by a physical eye but
undeniable in the experience
of the flier. 

It was still funny, though.

Reverend — More or Less

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

I hold the title of Reverend because of my studies with a seminary.  I use this title in my work as the community minister of Many Paths Spiritual Center in Goodlettsville, TN.  It is a title that has some legacy for me.  

My father was a minister. And my grandfather, and my uncle, and three of my first cousins.  Although there is some variety in the denominations represented in my family, for those I just listed, the title Reverend means that they are ordained to be a Christian pastor in a Protestant Christian denomination.  

I am not a Christian.  My deconstruction began in my 20s and has continued now for four decades.  That process included, as it does for most people, deconstructing the language of religious heritage.  I had to rethink heaven, hell, god, sin, salvation, baptism, and pretty much every word contained in the Christian Bible.  One of those words is “reverend.”  

If we go back to the font of all knowledge, the dictionary, we read that “reverend” is a title given to a member of the clergy, and if we look up clergy, we see that this refers to someone ordained to perform pastoral duties in a Christian church.  So why do I, a non-Christian, who ministers to an interfaith community with a diverse array of spiritual paths, use this word?  

Well, first, I earned it.  I graduated from the ministerial program at All Faiths Seminary, and my successful completion came with the earned honorific of “reverend.”  

Second, I perform the duties of ministry.  I speak every Sunday at 11:00 a.m. to a group of amazing souls with whom I am privileged to share the journey.  I listen to congregants’ personal stories and offer what words of comfort or encouragement I have to give.  I will pray with them or for them.  I carry their hearts in mine and do my best to always be a source of compassion, acceptance, and love.  

Third, other words don’t seem to work.  I am not a priest or a rabbi or an imam or a lama or a guru or a shaman.  I haven’t earned those titles.  Also, I’m sensitive to the potential for cultural appropriation which might unnecessarily offend.  I might like being a rabbi or a guru, but I was raised culturally Christian, and those words belong to other traditions more naturally.  If I traded in “reverend” for anything, I suppose it would be “teacher.” 

Fourth, sometimes a Reverend is just what a congregant needs.  I love the people with whom I am in spiritual community.  I consider them friends.  But I always want them to know that they can come to me and say, “Deb, right now I need my minister.”   

I had to reframe and reclaim a whole lot from my religious upbringing.  I had to decide what could stay and what HAD to go.  Jesus stayed.  Christianity, or what it has become over time, that went. Love stayed.  Judgment went.  Inclusivity stayed.  Exclusivity went.  

I thought the family business of ministry would be a casualty of my deconstruction as well.  And then the path I followed led me back to something that felt familiar and also brand new.  I don’t preach.  I don’t convert.  I don’t insist anyone follow a specific path.  But I do minister, and I feel the responsibility of that calling as a beautiful and joyous burden to carry through this life.  

Reverend Moore was my father, and Reverend Moore is me.  Or as my congregants call me — Rev Deb.  The man my father was would be appalled at the Reverend I am today, but I believe the version of him that now exists only on a spiritual plane might just be smiling.  

Volunteer Flower

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment 
A volunteer of green clings to
the edge of the sidewalk
at an out-of-the-way place
the weedeater may miss
long enough to sink roots
deep enough to support
the flower. 

The seed was planted in
mystery without intention
or design but still somehow
managed to land in a 
spot conducive to growth,
just enough soil and water
for life. 

And now the decision,
to let it remain and do
as it will, to attempt a
transplant into an 
established bed, to dig
a whole new bed around it,
or kill it. 

The latter is inconsistent
with my soul, the new bed
is a commitment not yet
called for, the transplant
is risky and could cause 
its death, and so, for now
it remains. 

As is, growing in the squeeze
of pavement, bringing 
beauty to a barren place,
offering itself just as it is,
just where it is, to help
joy flower in a heart 
craving joy.

Flowers fade, but some
come around same time
next year, returning
again and again to a
spot that welcomes it,
volunteering again and again
to blossom anew.

Anyway

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment 
You had the perfect response
almost. I believed I’d be 
safe with you, and I know you 
believed I was. But almost
perfect can turn un-
certain in an instant, in
a word.

You listened to my story
with gentle eyes, eyes care-
fully set, and a mouth firmly 
neither a smile nor a frown. You
wanted to be seen as taking
me seriously. I held your 
attention with a panoramic
memoir of my life in love. 
I offered my journey as 
evidence in the trial of my
authentication. I explained
and explained and explained my-
self. 

And you gave an almost perfect
response. It should have been
three words, but you added 
a fourth, and that one word,
that fourth word turned a corner
you didn’t intend, I am sure, but 
still, it careened right into
qualified acceptance, head-
long into good will with
a short half-life. 

I love you 
anyway. 

I hear
Even though you’re wrong,
I love you
Even though you’re strange,
I love you
Even though you’re less than,
I love you
Even though you’re abnormal,
I love you.
Even though you’re weird, 
I love you.
Even though you’re gay,
I love you. 

To which I say,
(sigh)
I love you for trying
anyway.