June Excitement

Preaching, Pride, and Praying with the Senses

My writing career began by accident in March 2020, when a prayer I wrote at the beginning of the pandemic went viral. (You can read that wild story here.)

That accidental jumpstart, combined with some, let’s just say, less than pleasant experiences with my dissertation committee in grad school, has resulted in a rather intense case of impostor complex. Even though a writer is all I have ever wanted to be, even though it feels like an expression of the truest and deepest part of myself, even though I am utterly astonished and grateful every time someone shares with me what my work has meant to them…I still find myself bumping into this thought: “Who am I to write x/y/z/whatever I am working on?”

One of the practices I’ve taken up to combat that question is to keep a wild dream list. It encourages me to be proactive, to take baby steps toward big goals. And it’s magnificently encouraging to look back on it and see that one of those dreams has come true. That’s where I am this week, crossing an item off the list that I made in 2021.

A few months ago I was asked to give a homily for Catholic Women Preach. If you’re not familiar with them, they offer a homily for every week of the year by a woman, in written, video and podcast form. The preachers are talented and erudite, from a wide range of backgrounds. Am I pinching myself to be included in the ranks of Sister Helen Prejean, M. Shawn Copeland, Ellie Hidalgo, Sister Norma Pimentel, and so many others? Yes, yes, I am. Might’ve done a little dance when I got the email asking me to contribute.

My preaching for this Sunday June 25th is now up on the Catholic Women Preach website. (My great thanks to my parish for allowing me to film there with their fancy equipment and especially to Andy Perez, who came in on his day off and spent three hours setting up this beautiful shot and recording so many takes for me!)

This particular item on my dream list means so much to me because, well, preaching is in my blood. My granddaddy was a Presbyterian minister all his life, taking the pulpit every Sunday for over forty years. That’s him at work there.

If you’ve been around a while, you know that I’m an advocate for women’s ordination to the diaconate and the priesthood. It’s an exciting time for those things, with the synod progressing, and organizations like Discerning Deacons and the Women’s Ordination Conference continuing their good work. I’m grateful to be one small part of it.

…which brings me to my next point: Happy Pride! I’m very, very lucky to be part of a parish that takes welcoming and belonging seriously, but in case no one has told you lately, I see you, I affirm you, and I am part of a large contingency advocating for change in this area as well. Again, the synod gives us reason to hope, as does the recent Outreach Conference, in spite of the predictable backlash against it. Sigh.

On a hopeful, and hopefully funny note, let me leave you with a story of my rediscovery of praying with the senses. On our hikes lately with the kids, I’ve been…smelling things. There are always a decent number of trees that have fallen across the trails and then have been cut and cleared, and when I tell you that I have been bending down to literally huff the scent of the spruces and the cedars….I mean it.

When we spend time outside, we make it our family project to look for things that remind us of God. (Did I crib this practice from my bestie, Shannon K. Evans? I certainly did.) It’s wonderful to hear what the kids have to say, and to be on a detective hunt for God myself. Lately, my answer has always been the same: the smell of the woods, the sap of the trees.

It’s only been very recently that we’ve stopped wearing masks in some public places, and suddenly I am stunned almost to the point of tears by the scent of beeswax and stone in the church, that unmistakable mixture of cookies and fried chicken at the grocery store, and (oh, portal to heaven) the aroma of coffee and doughnuts at our favorite cafe. All of these moments are prayers, reminders of the sacred that hovers all around us, in what is seen and what is unseen.

In the spirit of engaging the senses in prayer, here for your guffawing pleasure is a photo of me hugging a tree on a recent hike. The joke is that I was a very big hippie in high school, and I took my chosen identity very seriously: it was nothing but broomstick skirts and Earth Day festivals and Bob Dylan (okay, I still love Bob Dylan—what a prophet—and am very on board with Earth Day. I guess it’s just broomstick skirts I’ve left behind.) I was often called a tree hugger, and, you know what? I highly recommend hugging a tree. Our ubiquitous PNW moss made it somehow both a firm support and a soft cushion. I suppose I’ve come full circle now, finally realizing the metaphor twenty years later. And I do not bat even one eyelash in saying that it was rather a holy experience to hold and to feel held up by something so old, so unfathomably complex, and so beautiful.

May your tree sap be pungent, your laughter loud, and your heart full this June.
That’s my prayer for us all.
Cameron