Through Stained Glass: God Talk and Sippie Wallace

“We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be.”
― Anne Lamott

Outside, the wind whips wildly—rattling the beautiful stained glass windows.

On my record player in my study, Sippie Wallace is singing the blues. As Sippie sings, I hear the words of Black Liberation theologian James Cone in my head saying, "The Blues are made by working people....When they have a lot of problems to solve about their work when their wages are low, and they don't have no way to exist hardly, and they don't know which way to turn and what to do." (James H. Cone, The Spirituals and the Blues (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1992), 104).

As I prepare for my seventh Zoom meeting of the week, I take this moment to catch my breath. I have one window cracked, and the cold, February air seeps into the study. My fingers are freezing as I type, and my nose is getting that way too. After each sentence, I sniffle, hoping the heat kicks on soon.

Four o'clock. The bells toll four times over a now quiet Ottawa street. Just two hours ago, students were gleefully fleeing the school. Two students—one bundled head to toe with stocking cap and mask, exposing only their eyes; the other with a mask and their oversized winter coat unzipped—discuss the possibility of a snow day. "You're right," one says in defeat, "it probably won't happen." I walk up the stairs, and as I do, one of the students yell out, "Hey! We like your mask." Smiling with my eyes, I respond with an emphatic "Thank you!" I unlock the door, they start giggling and singing, and off we go to our next thing.

The wind is causing the smoke from my incense to dance. The candle flame flickers—I'm reminded that even in this space, by myself, the Spirit is with me. What is the Spirit up to, I wonder? As I read about the Trinity, as I prepare for an Administrative Team meeting, as I rest—what is the Spirit creating? My coffee is cold. My water is at room temperature. Three hundred and forty-two words into this post, I can feel my fingers again.

Today is my Friday, even though tomorrow is a full day. At 9:00 am, I have my first class of the semester. I'll discuss my 600-word essay on the theological background regarding the Trinity in the fourth century. As I reacquaint myself with words like hypostasis and ousia, I'm reminded once more that our words—especially those we use to talk about God—matter. We discuss this at Kirk Night, too. From Scripture to the theology emerging from it, how we talk about God does not occur in a vacuum. Our particularity in history shapes our story. From Moses to Methodius, Athanasius to Adam—we bring our lives with us in the conversations and discussions about faith.

As I wrote that last line, Sippie went silent. I stood up and flipped the record over. She sings again, serenading me about her experience. She is telling me about the Divine spirit that gives her breath to sing. Her story—like your story—and my story—is God-talk.