A Woman Preaches at Resurrection

Resurrection is a weekend youth retreat hosted by the United Methodist Church that has been held in Gatlinburg or Pidgeon Forge for over 30 years.  This is the first year that a woman has been the featured speaker to the youth attending this event.  Her name is Rachel Billups and here are her credentials according to the Rez 2018 website:

Rev. Rachel Billups serves as Ginghamsburg’s Executive Pastor of Discipleship and as part of the preaching team. Rachel, an Ordained Elder within the United Methodist Church, holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Bible/Religion and History from Anderson University and a Master of Divinity degree from Duke Divinity School. Rachel was also the first clergy resident for the United Methodist West Ohio Conference’s Residency Program. Before joining the Ginghamsburg team in July 2014, Rachel served as the lead pastor of Shiloh United Methodist, a multisite church in Cincinnati, Ohio.

 Pretty impressive if you ask me.

Rachel spoke four times and the title of her series of talks was called "A Work in Progress."  During these talks she addressed the continuing work God does in a believer's life (Phil. 2:1-6), lies we believe about ourselves (from the life of Sarah, 1 Peter 3:3-6), temptation (from the story of Jacob & Esau, Gen. 25:29-34), and sharing your faith story (from the life of Timothy, 2 Tim. 4:1-8).  Rachel was a very engaging speaker and very knowledgeable concerning the Scripture.  She shared several very personal stories that were impactful to her listeners.

But what struck me most is how hard it still is for a woman to speak.  Now, I am basing my comments on a few conversations with a small number of people, but I believe these comments could have been common throughout the audience.

First of all, Rachel cried a couple of times while she was speaking.  She had tears running down her cheeks, and she certainly was sincerely moved by the material she was presenting.  The tears did not hinder her making her point.  But some people said, "She's pretty emotional."  It made me think, "Would we say the same thing if a man cried?"  I have been in many services throughout my lifetime, and men have cried as they preached.  I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone say, "He's pretty emotional."  And I think maybe men are looked at with admiration for being able to share their emotions so freely.

During one of the sessions Rachel addressed body image.  When we left, some of our group said they felt like she was mainly talking to the girls.  As I was listening I felt this too, and I thought it would have been good if she had addressed issues boys might have with their body image.  Boys may be overweight, but they may also be underweight, or they may not be very muscular or athletic.  So I think criticism about this has some validity.

But so what if she was mainly speaking to the girls?  Girls made up at least half of the audience, and likely way more than fifty percent.  And how many times have I sat through services that included a weight-lifting strong man or men, or a man talking about football and using all sorts of sports related analogies?  Did anyone say, "I think he's mainly talking to the boys."?

No.  No one did.

Because we accept that as the norm in our church activities.

So I'm just here to say that I was really pleased with Rachel Billups being our speaker for Rez 2018. And I hope she's the first of many women who are given the opportunity to share with our young people.

I think it's about time.

Guest Post by Bea Ward

Bea is a very dear friend, and we meet regularly to talk about what we're reading and what's going one in our lives.  One of our conversations lead to this piece that she wrote to share with us.

            I’ve always loved and admired my dad. He was a brilliant and kind man. The only argument I remember having with him occurred when I was a teenager, of course, and brilliant myself, if not particularly kind. We were arguing about the death penalty, and I was challenging his Old Testament position. “It takes a life,” I countered, “and what can be more important than life?” He knew unequivocally. “Truth,” he said. And that was a defining moment for me, though I’ve never been as certain about truth or the death penalty as he was.

            I stumbled over a curious truth about myself a few years back.

My darkest years were when I had three small children. Harry had just opened a new business and was gone basically 6 ½ days a week while I was at home crying and screaming at wild, self-destructive kids. I was drowning in dirty diapers and toys strewn everywhere. When I looked back on those days, I saw nothing but hopelessness and depression.

            A few years later Harry and I moved to Chattanooga where now that the kids were in school and I was regaining stability, I started a MOMS group to help others cope better than I had. I could at least put trauma to good use.

            It was years after that – years of recounting to myself and those young mothers memories of my frustrations and failures as a parent – that I began reading my journals from those dark years.

            What dark years?! I had written about parties and outings, cute sayings and tender moments, funny anecdotes and relaxing sunny afternoons. There was not a sob or a sigh in any of these pages. All I could think was that I never wrote on the bad days. Unaccountably, I recorded only the good times.

            So my mind today puzzles over truth. How can I know it? How can I trust my own thoughts when I pick and choose them by some undecipherable algorithm?

But my word for 2018 is Grace, because I’m very thankful that for no discernible reason I kept a record of only the good times, and I’m reminded that in my darkest days there were many, many of them. I’m thankful for Jesus, the embodiment of truth and grace. And I’m thankful for Pam, who talks books and ideas with me and wanders around in a maze of former and newfound certainties with me, seeing as in a glass darkly, but hopeful that now as we know in part, then in Heaven we shall know fully, even as we are fully known. The truth is, it’s all grace.

Bea told us Harry is full of surprises.  First, he surprised her
by wanting to come to this event.  And second, he surprised
her by bringing along a poem to read.

Guest Post by Ellie Pickett

Ellie is a long-time friend who taught school with me in Bledsoe County.  She used to teach art at the middle school until she recently retired.  If you visit the Chattanooga Market, you will often find her there with her husband Jack selling her artwork and jewelry.  She is a talented artist in so many ways and shared some of her poetry with us.  I am including with her poems some of her beautiful photography.

Laurel in the Moonlight 

                               

When the full moon climbs a'top the sky

         And Twilight reigns all night 

The shadows dance with moonlit beams

         And join the woodland sprites.

The Laurel once in leather green 

         Lifts up a tambourine

A gypsy in a sequined dress

         All silver clad is she.

As though the stars have fallen

        To light up on her limbs

And sing in silent reverie

        A magic winter hymn.

All glimmering and shimmering

        She winks up at the trees

Who gaze down on the jewel clad lass

And whisper in the breeze.

Seashell Sky

The seashell sky 

     Was the sea

           A thousand shades of blue

     With shallows of aqua 

          Lapping up the shores

              Of an unreachable land.

Reaches of sand spits

       In powdery grey

              Stretching out

                  And blending into violet

      Divide the celestial estuary,

Across which the Wood Ducks

          And Canada Geese

                wheel and glide

                        Homeward

To the reeds and cattails

              Of their nests,

    And the harmony 

              Of Peeper Frogs and         

                    Redwing Blackbirds

           Promising the hope of Spring

            In their symphony,

As the tide of the sky

          Is washed in pink pearl,

     And the reaches diffuse and drift

           To become the giant quills         

Of some great waterbird's

                    Flamingo pink shaft

                 Stretching north to south,

     Floating in an aqueous pool

            Of seafoam green 

                 Edged with amethyst

                      Paling to grey,

As the seashell sky closes

       And the colors fade 

            Into  the silence

                 Of the blackbirds,

 'Til the risen moon

         Sits like a pearl

In a black velvet box.

Little Red Maple

   Little Red Maple why do you dare

      Send out your buds 

           when the weather's nor fair?

 (Are you not aware?)

A few sunny days

        never mean Spring.

Aren't you worried

         'bout Winter's cruel sting?

Your blushing red flowers

         will brighten the day,

But North Wind's chilly fingers 

         may turn their heads grey.

Your beauty will vanish,  

         'twould be but a waste.

Why do you bloom 

         in such needless haste?

 Then says the tree:

       You're thinking only of me!

 I am no spring beauty, 

        I am only a tree.

 And my dear feathered friends

      who sing in my arms 

Are short on their food stores

      and might come to harm!

 I must toss up my head

        and dare take the risk 

 To send forth my flowers 

         though Winter's still brisk

Or there'll be nothing left

        for my songbirds to find.

  I must face the weather, 

         I've made up my mind 

 To bloom before flowers

         would dare go outside.

 They'll play in the Spring: 

           I'll be Winter's bride.

 So before yellow mustard 

       and dandelion heads

 Bloom in the fields, 

       all my birds can be fed

By my seeds as they swirl

        and spiral around

 In the sun,  glowing silver,

        pink, and light brown.

December 20: On the Edge of Winter Twilight

The velvet hem of Twilight

   Descends swiftly

       upon the winter fields.

My horse's flaxen mane

   waves to the rhythm of her canter,

Two clouds of mist

   billow from her snorting nostrils

As the fallow fields fall away

   Into evening's dusky blue.

Behind me, the hackney bay pony

    Keeps an even pace,

My daughter's face aglow

   With stars in her own eyes.

Sighting the pond, mirror still

  And holding the sky in her hand,

  We halt...

   Along with the snorting of horses

       and the creaking of leather,

    And embrace the silence of nightfall.

We strain in the fading light

    To listen, 

           to see.

From the far reaches of unending sapphire

     Comes the call of cranes,

Many cranes by call

   Still invisible to see,

Until above the black, loosely frayed fabric

    of the treetops

The line appears,

     Smoothly sailing across the sea of sky.

Their haunting cry strikes

           a memory in my heart

    I cannot remember but can only feel

A mysterious longing

            That makes my heart cry.

Across the the western sky

      Still dimly glowing gold

          Above the rim of the horizon,

             And below the even star,

                They journey unhindered,

Cutting the edge of darkness

     To the land beyond.