Grounded and Rooted in Love,2003:weblog-495977 2017-10-03T17:38:11-04:00 TypePad Enlarge My Territory,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01b8d2b0ec1b970c 2017-10-03T17:38:11-04:00 2017-10-03T17:38:11-04:00 One snapshot from the summer: Old friends, brand new subway line Sixteen years ago, I fell in love with "The Prayer of Jabez", a best-selling book by Christian author and teacher Bruce Wilkinson. This is a somewhat shameful confession considering... Heather Kirk-Davidoff




Sixteen years ago, I fell in love with "The Prayer of Jabez", a best-selling book by Christian author and teacher Bruce Wilkinson.  This is a somewhat shameful confession considering the progressive Christians I tend to run in.  The book made some preposterous claims and spun off scores of products that made Wilkinson a lot of money.  But for all its faults, the book fundamentally changed the way I prayed.  

"The Prayer of Jabez" is based on a prayer found in 1 Chronicles 4:9-10:

Jabez was more honorable than his brothers. His mother had named him Jabez, saying, "I gave birth to him in pain." Jabez cried out to the God of Israel, saying, "Oh that you would bless me indeed and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from the evil one." And God granted his request.

Wilkinson works through each part of this passage, but the part that struck me is the phrase "enlarge my territory".  As a working mom, I often found myself asking God for the strength to just get through the day.  If someone cancelled an appointment or a meeting it felt like an answer to prayer.  It never would have occurred to me to ask for more people to talk to, more things to do.  But Wilkinson challenged me to do just that--to pray for more opportunities to be of service, more opportunities to show love, more opportunities to build the Kingdom of God. When I read that challenge, I suddenly realized how small my prayers had become. Asking God to "enlarge my territory" helped me to recognize that I wanted to more than just get through the day.  I wanted to grow bigger and go deeper.

The Prayer of Jabez came to mind this past Sunday as I drove from Maryland back to my home in Albany, New York.  My husband and I moved to Albany in June of this year, drawn here by a fantastic job offer for Dan.  Since Rosa graduated from high school this year we figured it was a pretty good time to make a move.  The only problem was that after 12 years of living in Columbia and serving the Kittamaqundi Community, I was deeply rooted in the community where we were living.  Extracting myself from Columbia was painful.  I had to step back from blogging for a while because my mother always told me, "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

During the four months I've been living in Albany, I've tried to focus on making new friends, setting up our new house and (of course) finding a new job.  "Life is meant to be lived forward," I've told anyone who asked.  When a friend in Columbia got sick I thought about jumping into the car and driving down for a visit, but resisted the urge.  Be here, I told myself.  

But a meeting in Boston last week gave me an excuse for a car trip and a tour of friends and family in and around Massachusetts.  I had the nicest visit to area I've had in years--jogging a loop I used to run when I lived in Somerville, talking at length with people I met two decades ago when I was first a minister.  Then the following weekend, I drove to Maryland and joined friends at the March for Racial Justice in Washington, D.C.  I had dinner with friends and even ran into the father of the refugee family our congregation sponsored back in February.  It wasn't agonizing to return to the place I had been so sad to leave.  In fact, it felt good to know that my connection to these people was going to extend into this next stage of my life.

Driving home, I was listening to a random mix of music and "Bless Me" by the Tri-City Singers came on.  I turned it up and sang along and it dawned on me that God has answered my prayer.  My territory is getting larger.

I've been uprooted a couple of times from places I loved and both times I grieved.  I am a person who thrives in community.  I live life locally.  I've never been a person who wants to move around a lot.  But since I have moved, I'm connected to lots of people in lots of places.  As I start to build a life in my new city, I've been strengthening those long-distance connections as well.  This is not just looking backwards with nostalgia or regret.  This is the way I am living here and now.  Big territory.  Lots of thanks and praise.


The Ban on Refugees Is Personal For Us,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01b8d259a3ed970c 2017-01-28T13:18:40-05:00 2017-01-28T13:18:40-05:00 On Wednesday, my community got together to celebrate. Our congregation has been preparing since June to host a refugee family. We heard last week that we have finally been matched with a family from Afghanistan with two parents and four... Heather Kirk-Davidoff

IMG_1555 2On Wednesday, my community got together to celebrate.















You Don't Know Me,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01b8d25536a1970c 2017-01-18T13:13:56-05:00 2017-01-18T13:15:16-05:00 Last night was rough. Testimony before the Howard County Council about CB-9 which would designate this community a "Sanctuary County" got underway around 8:00 pm and didn't wrap up until 2:00 am (I only lasted until 10:30 pm). There were... Heather Kirk-Davidoff












Sanctuary: Seek First To Understand,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01bb096db1bb970d 2017-01-17T15:27:41-05:00 2017-01-17T15:27:41-05:00 Each year, as Martin Luther King's birthday approaches, I think about the major civil rights issues confronting our country today. It seems to me that is the best way to honor King and his legacy--not only to remember what he... Heather Kirk-Davidoff













New Kirk,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01bb09666edc970d 2017-01-03T18:50:15-05:00 2017-01-04T06:24:40-05:00 My dad, Bob Kirk, and my daughter, upon completion of a 5K in Saint Paul, Minnesota, New Year's Day 2012 When I was growing up, on a fairly regular basis my father (whose name is Bob Kirk) would announce it... Heather Kirk-Davidoff











Handle With Care,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01b7c8c035a3970b 2016-12-23T16:57:26-05:00 2016-12-23T16:57:26-05:00 A few years back, on the first day of high school marching band camp, my son Paul had a long-time wish come true. After two years of struggling to get a decent sound out of a fiberglass sousaphone, Paul was... Heather Kirk-Davidoff


A few years back, on the first day of high school marching band camp, my son Paul had a long-time wish come true. After two years of struggling to get a decent sound out of a fiberglass sousaphone, Paul was presented with a brand-new, still-wrapped-in-plastic, shiny brass sousaphone. His band director had only one thing to say as he gave Paul the sousaphone: “Just don’t dent it.”

You can see where this story is headed, right? Paul did not drop it—he makes that point whenever he hears me tell this story. He was seated with it that afternoon and it just kind of slid off of him and onto the ground. The sousaphone fell no more than three feet so it is surprising how much damage Paul was able to cause. It had a total of five dents, including a large visible one in the bell. It was my job to take it to Baltimore Brass for repair, and I sat in the lobby for over an hour as two technicians hammer away at the instrument. In the end, they were able to repair about 70% of the damage. I told the repair guy the story of what happened, thinking they’d join me in one of those “kids do the darndest things” kind of chuckles. But he just gave me a stern look and said, “Tell your son this is why we don’t give you shiny new things.”

Those words have been on my mind these past few weeks. At times the whole world seems like that sousaphone to me—shiny and beautiful but surprisingly easy to dent. It seems unwise that we should be entrusted with any of it. Think of the natural world--flowers and butterflies, exquisite works of art, can be crushed by anyone who steps in the wrong spot. One small change in an ecosystem upsets every other plant or animal in that system. Small changes in air temperature or ocean temperature or in the chemistry of a stream or a bay make it impossible for some species of plants or animals or fish to survive. And then there are the people around us. We know how delicate our own spirits are—how an unkind word from someone close to us can send our mood crashing, how thoughtless remarks from years ago still wound us. Why would God ever entrust a bumbling, careless group of people like us with a world like this one?

And then there are babies. When I had my first babies (twins, at that) it seemed unwise that anyone who let us go home from the hospital given how helpless they were and how incompetent we were. We read our baby books and so we knew about all the things that could go wrong. The more we read the more incredible it seemed that anyone at all survived the first six months of life. I mean, baby horses can stand up minutes after birth. They can walk within an hour of birth. But human babies? They can’t even manage their own head for four months or so. And look at us. We can’t keep hold of a tuba for a day without denting it. How the heck are we supposed to handle a baby?

And yet, each year Christians tell a story about how God showed up in this world as a baby at a time before hand sanitizer or vaccines or car seats.  Was this really a good idea?  Why don’t we tell stories about how God arrived in the world as a full-grown person with a fully-equipped posse? Why doesn’t God show up in the world with superpowers, able to fly, stronger than anyone he might encounter? Or, failing that, why not wait until we’ve wizened up, until we’ve made peace with each other and figured out the cures to our diseases? Why not wait until we figure out how to handle things that are as vulnerable as a baby or a world or each other?

They cynic inside us can answer that question, I’m sure. God can’t wait until we’re ready because we’ll never be ready. We’ve been smashing butterflies and fighting wars and dropping tubas for millennia. There’s no reason to believe we’ll ever learn to act differently.

But what if God actually knew what God was doing? Put yourself into that scene by the manger. Imagine yourself holding the baby Jesus, or leaning in close to get a look at him asleep in Mary’s arms. Think of what it’s like to hold a baby. Remember how still and attentive we become, how careful and conscious and present? What if that inner softening is more than sentimentality? What if that is actually something that God wants from us?

It’s a strange idea, really. We find it much easier to believe that God wants us to try harder, to work longer, to be better. We find it easier to believe that God wants our best effort. God wants us to crack the code, to figure it out, to summit the mountain without an oxygen tank and then we’ll finally be enlightened. But what if we we’ve missed something? What if this story which is so much about softening, opening and receiving is all on purpose?

Each Christmas, Christians proclaim that God is reaching out and offering us something, something that is tender and delicate but also as study and resilient as a baby.   This is life. This is love. This is peace. This is hope. We have been entrusted with this. So stop doing for a moment. Open your arms and let Love lay its gifts there. 

Productive Disruption,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01bb095e0a2c970d 2016-12-10T15:23:01-05:00 2016-12-10T15:23:01-05:00 "Did you hear about the Oakland Mills walkout?" a fellow clergy person asked a group I was a part of this week. "Four hundred kids walked out of class and the principal went crazy!" I was surprised by his comment... Heather Kirk-Davidoff


"Did you hear about the Oakland Mills walkout?" a fellow clergy person asked a group I was a part of this week.  "Four hundred kids walked out of class and the principal went crazy!"  I was surprised by his comment since I watched Principal Orlando stand at the gate to the athletic fields and greet the kids as they convened there for their protest. My daughter told me that as they re-entered the school, her principal told her, "Great job!  I'm proud of you!"  

Maybe Principal Orlando was just relieved that everyone went back to class when the protest was over.  Maybe she was proud that all the speakers had stayed "on message" with no one veering off from their administration-approved script.  No one had mentioned the name of the offending student.  No one criticized the administrators of the school.  Everyone stayed positive, proclaiming their school to be a place where racist comments and threats will not be tolerated.

But maybe Principal Orlando recognizes that sometimes, disruption can be productive.

The walkout was precipitated by a threatening post directed towards African-Americans made by a student at the school.  The offensive post was not an isolated incident.  Other students in other parts of the county have posted pictures (and earlier this year, a video) that also made threats and/or used racial slurs.  And as everyone knows, the on-line activity of these teenagers pales in comparison to the hateful things adults (including, I'm sure, some who live in Howard county) do and say on line. As this kind of activity becomes more common, more mainstream, we are in serious danger of getting used to it.  

The OMHS walkout was a clear statement that at least within that one high school, hate will not become normal.  It will not be something we get used to.  And disruption of the the regular school day, disruption in the regular order of things, is a very important part of making that statement clear to everyone involved.

A week ago, I participated in the #OneHoward community forum convened by County Executive Allan Kittleman.  I thought the forum was fantastic--a wide variety of people from the county spoke, and their comments were thoughtful and complex and engaged.  A big part of why that happened is that early on in the forum, a friend of mine got upset when  David Anderson, the pastor of Bridgeway Church, showed a video interview with one of the high school students who made an offensive post. Other friends noticed her distress and together they disrupted the forum.  Yes, there was shouting and tears and pointed fingers.  But the topic of the forum--a rise in racist and religiously intolerant activity in our county--is very upsetting.  As long as everyone smiles and talks about how we all value diversity in our community, the conversation does not matter to anyone.  Once people disrupt all that bland civility, we can start having a productive conversation about how we can face into what is really going on.

I left the forum encouraged, but the comments that I've read on line and heard in person since then depressed me a bit.  "I heard that forum was a disaster," friends said.  "I bet Kittleman will never hold another one."  Several people told me that they are hoping other forums will be "better organized".  I'm glad the conversation is going to continue, but I hope the takeaway from last week's #OneHoward forum is not that our conversations about race need to be more controlled.  I hope we remember that disruption is sometimes exactly what is needed.

Not There Yet.,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01b7c8b5f3c0970b 2016-11-29T20:29:41-05:00 2016-11-29T20:29:41-05:00 I have to admit it: I'm struggling. The election of Donald Trump to the U.S. presidency has deeply unsettled me. Back in October, I told a number of people that I believed this election would be a referendum against the... Heather Kirk-Davidoff


I have to admit it:  I'm struggling.  









Do We Still Want to Do This?,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01bb094c19bf970d 2016-10-28T17:48:19-04:00 2016-10-28T17:48:19-04:00 Abraham Verghese's masterful novel, "Cutting for Stone" tells the story of twin boys, born in Ethiopia to an Indian nun who had a relationship with a British surgeon. Because their mother dies during childbirth and their father flees the country,... Heather Kirk-Davidoff


Abraham Verghese's masterful novel, "Cutting for Stone" tells the story of twin boys, born in Ethiopia to an Indian nun who had a relationship with a British surgeon.  Because their mother dies during childbirth and their father flees the country, the twins are raised by two of the hospital staff, Hema (an obstetrician) and Ghosh (who becomes a surgeon).  The couple falls in love as they care for the infants and eventually, Ghosh proposes.  Hema accepts--but only for a year.  For the rest of their lives, Ghosh proposes on their anniversary, and Hema agrees again to marry him for another year.

The relationship between Hema and Ghosh adds a bit of comedy to a story that involves a lot of conflict and sadness.  But their unique marriage stayed with me long after I forgot other elements of the plot.  In fact, I've brought it up on several wedding anniversaries.  Dan has not found this particularly amusing--for him, marriage means having an important question settled once and for all.  And while I certainly see his point, there is something compelling to me about asking each other once a year, "Do we still want to do this?"  It means that we don't just continue on automatic pilot.  It means that we have to recall the reasons why our marriage has value and consider what we must do (or stop doing) to keep it going.

I serve a congregation that continues with this same model of commitment that Hema and Ghosh have.  Membership in our community is for one year only.  Each November, every person in our community must decide whether or not to become a member for the following year.  The question isn't just a rhetorical one, either.  Each year, some people who have been members for years decide to take a year off.  Each year, someone who has been around our community for years without ever becoming a member decides to join.  Once everyone has considered their own commitments, we gather for a whole-congregation retreat to ask, "Is God still calling us to be a faith community?"  If we decide the answer is yes (and that's what we've decided each year for almost 50 years now) then we re-covenant as a community during a wonderfully celebratory worship service.

I have never encountered another church that handles membership in this way.  In most churches, membership is for life. Even if you stop attending a church, they will still count you as a member (and request a pledge from you) unless you actively protest.  I think the idea is that people may drift away, but there will come a point when they realize they need a church, and there it will be, ready and willing to welcome them back.  But now that I've encountered the Kittamaqundi Community style of membership, I wouldn't want to do it any other way.  It means that we can't take our community for granted.  We're clear that our common life arises out of the intentional commitment of each of our members.

I've been wondering this week, is there some way to ask an entire city, "Do we still want to do this?"  That might seems ridiculous considering the amount of infrastructure and investment that goes into building a community like Columbia, MD. I know this city will continue whether or not we "opt in".  But Columbia is a planned community, organized with a very specific set of intentions.  It was meant to be racially and economically integrated, a model to the rest of the nation that was wondering if such a community was even possible.  Many of the "pioneers" who first moved to Columbia came because they were interested in living in such a community--by moving here, they "opted in" to the vision of the developer, Jim Rouse.

But now, fifty years later, there are all sorts of other reasons to move to Columbia--location, schools, the "high quality of life" recently celebrated by Money Magazine.  So I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise that not everyone who lives or works here believes that lower income people, for example, should be able to buy a home or even rent an apartment in Columbia.  I've heard this value questioned explicitly and implicitly at all sorts of public meetings over the past year.  It gets my back up.  "This community was never intended to be an enclave for the one percent!" I want to shout.  "Don't you get it??"

But maybe what we really should do is pose the question.  Do we, as a community, still share this value?  Do we still want to live in a community where "the janitor and the CEO" lives nearby each other, as Rouse famously said.  Maybe we have gotten ahead of ourselves in our conversations about how to build affordable house or end homelessness.  Maybe we need to back up and ask the kinds of questions that would help us to remember why this was ever a value to begin with.

In the early years of Columbia, I've heard there were annual celebrations of the community's birthday at the lakefront.  We have another big birthday coming up next year.  The best possible thing to celebrate at that time is not that we made it this far--but that we have generated the community will to continue. 

How to Start a Conversation,2003:post-6a00d8344b88b853ef01b8d231b90a970c 2016-10-26T12:52:30-04:00 2016-10-26T12:52:30-04:00 One of the several highly articulate teens who spoke at last night's meeting Years ago, I was part of a group of young ministers who met regularly with an experienced minister for mentoring. I often think back on one conversation... Heather Kirk-Davidoff



Years ago, I was part of a group of young ministers who met regularly with an experienced minister for mentoring.  I often think back on one conversation we had about pastoral visitation.  All the young ministers knew we should be visiting people in their homes.  Our older parishioners, in particular, seemed to relish the opportunity to have us over for tea and cookies.  But we were starting to dread these visits which could easily last a couple of hours.  It just seemed like all people wanted to do was chat about their grandchildren or gossip about other members of the church or complain about how the congregation had declined since the 19050's.  How could we help these conversations become more personal, more reflective, without being awkward or intrusive?

"That's easy," our mentor told us.  "You can have a significant conversation with anyone in 20 minutes.  You just begin by saying, 'Tell me about your grandmother.'"

I've thought of this advice many, many times over the past 20 years.  For awhile, I did ask a lot of people about their grandmothers and was rewarded with some amazing stories and even a few tears.  But I soon realized the broader principle. Good conversations involve stories.  When we tell stories to each other about people who have influenced us or experiences that have changed us, stories that explain why we have particular commitments or values, something important happens.  We build connections.  We establish trust.  We let each other know that it is okay to be who we are.

I believe in conversations.  So of course I was excited when I saw an announcement on the Howard County Public Schools email newsletter a couple of weeks ago announcing an event entitled, "Voices for Inclusive CommUNITY" co-sponsored by the school system, the Howard County Police Department and the Howard County Office of Human Rights.  Here's how the event was described:

Community members are invited to an evening of dialogue about establishing and strengthening relationships among students, parents, school officials and law enforcement. This event provides opportunities to understand what HCPSS, the Howard County Police Department and the Howard County Office of Human Rights are currently doing, and provide input on building a more inclusive community. The evening will include small roundtable discussions.

When I heard that the "small roundtable discussions" were going to be facilitated by people who had been through the school system's excelled Cultural Proficiency program, I was even more encouraged.  Any event that brings a diverse group of people together (especially people who might not talk to each other easily or frequently) and gives them a chance to speak and be heard by each other is worth the effort.

The event took place last night at Long Reach High School.  It was well attended by school system folks and police officers with about a dozen high school students and a handful of random people from the community such as me.  It wasn't a waste of time, but the conversation was pretty superficial.  Everyone is trying to build an inclusive community even though it isn't always easy.  We need to keep trying.  We need to keep talking.

Then, as we were getting up to leave, one of the police officers at my table told the beginnings of a story.  She talked about the neighborhood in Baltimore where she grew up.  She said a few words about her mother and her brother.  Suddenly, instead of talking about the importance of vulnerability, she was being vulnerable.  The conversation suddenly mattered.

As I was driving home, I thought of a community event I attended at the beginning of the year. PATH organized a series of well-attended events that brought together leaders and members of Christian, Jewish and Muslim congregations in Howard County.  In one of them, we were instructed to find a person in the room who we didn't know and to have a 20 minute conversation based on a couple of questions.  After 20 minutes, we found another person and had the conversation again.  I don't remember the specific questions now, but I remember the conversations I had.  I heard personal stories about how a neighbor of mine has experienced living in our community.  I learned something specific about what they valued and why.  By the end of the conversation, we felt connected to each other.  We weren't strangers anymore.

I wish last night's meeting began where it ended for me.  We need to have one-on-one conversations with people who we don't usually get to talk to--police officers, teenagers, school teachers, people who have a different racial or ethnic background than we do.  We can't just brainstorm ideas about what other people should be doing.  We need to tell each other personal stories about why we do what we do, why we value what we value.  That may sound like it would take forever, but in my experience, you can say a lot in 20 minutes.