Spinning Clumsiness into Sunshine

I fell off my bike again yesterday.

As a newly minted Davis bike commuter--hold your applause, it's a 3-mile round trip--I have been figuring out the details of gear shifting and hand signals and unabashed helmet-wearing (I am an OVERWHELMING minority).

I'm not proud of my ineptitude--shouldn't I be adult enough to stay upright on a bicycle?--but I'm not totally embarrassed of it, either. Failing at riding my bike some of the time means I'm succeeding at riding my bike the rest of the time--and the simple fact is, I'm riding my bike to work instead of driving my car, and that's saving me money on gas as well as adding cardio to an otherwise sedentary day.

And each morning/afternoon I've ridden through the park and down B Street to the Belfry, and each afternoon/evening I've ridden home, I've noticed that I'm smiling. I can't help it. The sun is shining (sometimes the moon) and it's been pretty warm either way and sometimes there's a nice breeze...and other people are riding their bikes, too, or walking their dogs or whatever. Somehow the small act of riding my bike to work spins an otherwise harried few minutes in the car into a carefree jaunt through a park.

At the LEVN retreat in February, we watched a TED talk about a mapping app that found alternative routes--not just fastest, but greenest, quietest, and happiest. It crowdsourced this data from beta users, who looked at photographs of the routes and tagged those photos with adjectives, positive and negative. The app only exists in Barcelona and London, but it changed the presenter's life. He said he'd been biking (which is already better but still wasn't good enough) down these main streets in London that took him the miles from his home to his office. One day, there were road closures or construction or something and so he made a quick turn and went up the next block, discovering that his entire route bordered a public park, and he'd never even seen it. It took a handful more minutes to go that route each day (the path is curved and/or indirect) but as far as happiness is concerned, it revolutionized the mood with which he traveled to and from work.

Though I've only been biking to work for two weeks, and have to drive some days because I'm schlepping a crock pot of soup, it has already changed the way I think about where I live. For every day I fall off my bike, there are several days on which I do not. The Casey of a few years ago would never have even considered riding her bike every day, and certainly wouldn't have believed she was capable. The Casey of yesterday is tempted to side with the Casey of a few years ago, given the bruise on her knee and ego. But the Casey of today rode her bike to work, anyway, somehow spinning clumsiness into sunshine.

Lost and found and lost and...

This is me, fourish years ago, during my first year of seminary:

I'm at the Albatross--our walkable bar--with my friend and classmate Sara. I weighed 233 pounds the week this photograph was taken. Look at that face. If you can tear yourself away from the fact that my tank top will not contain that torso (those boobs). Did I say that out loud? Technically I typed it.

This is me, a yearish ago, about to start my fourth year of seminary:

We're at the wedding of our dear friends Gretchen and Jill. I weighed 171 pounds the week this photograph was taken. We're looking at adorable baby Gabe, but you're looking at my surprisingly small waist and great shoulders, am I right? 

This is me, a few months ago, just before graduating from seminary:

We're celebrating/lamenting everything that comes with graduating and moving and getting jobs (or not). I've weighed between 176 and 184 pounds in the weeks since this photograph was taken. A couple of weeks ago it was 177, this week it was 181. Most weeks I don't weigh in. The weight is going to go and come and go and come. That's life.

Why am I posting about this now? I hit the 50lb loss mark almost 18 months ago, and I've been hovering in the vicinity of that pretty much since then. Some weeks, I go to the gym every other day and I kick ass and take names and love myself and everyone else. Other weeks, I drink a lot of wine and bake more than one batch of cookies and think more about the blob (that's what I call my fat, because I'm hilarious and terrible). My mom made her world-famous (people who moved to other nations have eaten it, so, technically!) macaroni and cheese a few nights ago, at my request, because it is so freaking delicious. In the leftovers that I've had each day since then (that's what's up) I've cut up some kale and thrown it in there, so I can feel better about consuming it. 

It was tonight, as I was pouring a glass of wine and looking at the cookie jar, that I thought UGH Kloehn you haven't been to the gym enough this week what are you doing? Do you really think throwing some kale in that mac and cheese makes it okay? 

But then I though about Kelsey and Jocelyn. Kelsey and Jocelyn are two (out of three) women I'd identify as my best friends on the planet. When it comes to health and happiness, these two are bursting with both. They run marathons, bike centuries, verb triathlons, mix margaritas, bake cookies, inhale avocados, and love me to death. Their moral support was unmatched during my "I JUST WANT TO EAT ALL THE OREOS" phase(s). They also helped me tremendously when I needed stretches for my newly sore muscles and opinions on the new dresses I could fit in. They're the best.

Before them, before this whole adventure, I would have believed that you could lose weight by eating one salad, and gain weight by eating one cupcake. I would never have considered throwing a handful of kale into my mac and cheese--although living in Berkeley may have as much to do with that as being friends with Kels and Joce. I would have believed that it wasn't possible to feel beautiful and fun and full and healthy and energetic and thin and awesome all in one moment! There are many moments where I don't feel great. I'm writing this post because right now is one of those days, and I need this reminder. I need to look at those photographs to see where I've been and know where I am and see where I can still go. 

I have love and support from Kelsey and Jocelyn and all the other loves of my life. I have parents who schedule dinners around Zumba classes; and a boyfriend who loves to eat cookies for breakfast before a hike; and a brother who's a dietitian; and friends who walk to the gym with me, then meet up for a pitcher of beer after dinner; and you, all of you, who love me all the while. Thank you, for who you've been. Thank you, for who you've made me. 

There's a Psalm For That -- Psalm 2

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer, Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

Full disclosure—in preparation for this sermon, I believe, was the first time I ever read Psalm 2. I’ve nothing against the psalter, don’t get me wrong. I’m hip to other psalms like 8, 13, 16, 23, 24, 34 and even some triple digit ones like 100, 105, 118, ultra-lengthy 119, 139, 142. (Shout out any numbers you love that I missed. I mean numbers of psalms, not just like, numbers. Cool, a lot of psalm fans out there today.)

Well, because the world is great, I’ve figured out a way to, once again, tell the story of the Old Testament project that Gretchen and Maria and I did, first year. It was an obviously amazing infomercial that played off the Apple marketing campaign “there’s an app for that”—but, rather, there was a psalm for that. There’s a psalm for your sorrow, your revenge fantasy, for gentleness, for you the oppressed or you the oppressor, for justice, for celebration, for anguish, for fear, for joy.

Sojourners contributor Kari Jo Verhulst writes that “the poetry of the psalms preserves the immediacy of human experience…void of the broader perspective that we get well after the moment has passed….the psalms preserve the heart’s cries in language, images, and movements spacious enough to find our own experiences.”

And John Calvin, guy I don’t usually quote in sermons, called the Psalms “the anthology of all the parts of the soul.” And he meant all parts.

David Tuesday Adamo, a religion professor in Nigeria, classifies Psalm 2 as a therapeutic psalm—specifically for stomach pain. I have to admit that yesterday, when I realized I was preaching the day after Jim Lobdell, I had some stomach pain. The African Indigenous Churches, Adamo explains, regard these words as “potent” when read as part of a healing ritual, which includes the drinking of water made holy by these words.

While we wouldn’t classify our baptism as cure for stomachache necessarily, we do know a little something about water made holy by word. While you may be a better biblical scholar than I am and have included Psalm 2 in your life before now, you may have just recognized the words “You are my Son, today I have begotten you” as bearing a striking resemblance to the words that thunder from heaven during Jesus’ baptism.

We as Christians have a specific understanding of the term “God’s son” and we mean Jesus, the Christ, when we say that. But we’ve also learned, probably from Steed Davidson, that earthly kings often claimed to be the son of a particular god, in order to lend themselves that god’s authority. Some interpreters say that this psalm could have, liturgically, been used in royal rituals—and it makes perfect sense that it would appear in the story of the baptism of Jesus, as told by Matthew’s and Luke’s gospels. Matthew, greatly concerned with the establishment of Jesus’ authority, and Luke, greatly concerned with social location, would have called upon this familiar, royal phrase to underscore the baptism of Jesus.

And Jesus has more power than any earthly king—and he hasn’t amassed an army or oppressed a people. Rather, he has emptied himself of that power through “suffering, humiliation, despair” and death on the cross.

In Psalm 2, it’s written that God has established a king to bring order to the world, but that all the other kings are running away with it. God has established a rule of law, a coming kingdom, and humans who would even claim the best of intentions are failing miserably to fulfill it.

When we hear the words of this psalm in our world—big and messy—we may wonder if God can really make order out of our chaos. If you read or watched any news today, you’ve been long-distance witnesses to the upheaval in Venezuela, Ukraine, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Russia, Uganda, Mexico, the Central African Republic, Somalia…

There are death tolls in the dozens and the capture of a drug kingpin and re-imprisonment of musicians and anti-gay legislation and drone strikes and civil wars and disappearances and protests and crackdowns and unchecked abuse of power.

And, in the midst of it all, there’s a psalm for that.

I told a non-religious friend of mine I was going to preach today, and he asked what I was planning to say, and so I, sort of flippantly, said that I was going to talk about how everything is awful and the only reason we don’t give up is because God has promised to make order out of our chaos. He just sort of said, “oh” and we moved on to talking about something else -- but isn’t that the thing? Isn’t it just that the world is constantly in uproar—with earthly kings plotting against that which will engender the kingdom of God—and yet somehow, here we are, week after week, being read to about that chaos, and responding, “Thanks be to God.”

The last line of this psalm made me laugh. Its contrast to the rest of the psalm is so typical. Wrath, fear, trembling, wicked, perishing, warning—people are going to be dashed to pieces like pottery, it says!—but happy are they who take refuge in him.

Mic drop.

As though that’s it. And as though all the folks who are going to be broken with a rod of iron are simply unhappy. I think they’re probably more than unhappy. I think they’re probably dead.

But the thing is, the people of God know who has the last word. The people of God know that this king—earthly or otherwise—is from God and will, therefore, lead them toward happiness.

And since I’m so fond of bringing my horrible jokes full circle, there is, in fact, an app for your happiness! I stumbled upon it earlier this week and am interested to see how I’m able to use it, going forward. The app is called “happier” and basically is an electronic journal of moments of happiness, gratitude, etc. So like, on Monday when I went to Café Yesterday to read like a million pages for homework, Josh, the guy who runs it, put my coffee in the giant Disney Princess mug, knowing without knowing that that would make me happier. I posted a picture of it to the app, and got notifications that it had made other users smile—the “happier” version of the Facebook like.

What I like about “happier” is not just that I post little positive things that occur in my life, but I peruse the moments that have made strangers happy. For other folks, it’s a visit to their horse’s stable, a great grade on an assignment, managing to be on time to yoga class, noticing blooming trees on their way to work. Knowing that people out there in the world are experiencing little bursts of happiness helps me know that there’s a way out of our chaos. In the midst of the trauma and terror of human life, there is also happiness. There is goodness, and there is love, and there is life.

The words of Archbishop Desmond Tutu have been made into a song that we’re going to sing in just a moment, because their simplicity is built on the same confidence as Psalm 2:

“Goodness is stronger than evil, love is stronger than hate. Light is stronger than darkness, life is stronger than death. Victory is ours, victory is ours, through God who loves us.”

Amen.