Written on July 4, 2008

[For the JULY 13, 2008 lectionary: Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23]

TO THE BOND WOMEN, WITH LOVE by Larry Patten

After a week with Nora Gallagher, Lauren Winner, and Barbara Brown Taylor, I lump them into the same category as my Bond, James Bond memories.

Are Nora, Lauren, and Barbara—each gifted and insightful writers that, through essays, sermons, memoirs, and novels, explore Christian faith—secretly “Bond women?” Am I suggesting they’ve starred, scantily clad and devious (or deadly), in a film where the iconic British spy seduced them?

Nope.

As with every story, sermon, or parable, it’s all context. But, before I contextualize, let me tease . . . since one of my “Bond women” will soon be joined by a Pakistani-American. In a taxi. On the way to an international airport.

Context . . . James Bond . . . I was twelve or so. Dr. No, the first Bond movie with Sean Connery, was released. From Russia With Love and Goldfinger followed. Their box office, as they used to say in Hollywood, was boffo. The films spawned a cottage industry of toys and gadgets. One of those “toys” was the elaborate James Bond Road Racing Set offered in the Sears catalog. I saw it advertised on TV. What fun as the miniature spy cars zoomed through tunnels and over a mountain pass.

I wanted it for Christmas. I begged, I pleaded. And I got it. And within a few days Bond and his vehicles were returned to Sears. The silly little cars didn’t work as advertised. The plastic “mountain” was a joke. The whole set-up was cheap.

Boy did I have high expectations. And yet, like any evil spy who tried to match wits with Bond, the expectations crashed and burned.

Alas, so too with Nora, Lauren, and Barbara. My Bond women.

Context . . . a week at the National Cathedral . . . I was selected with other writers to join with those authors for a workshop at the stunning, high-on-a-hill National Cathedral. What could I learn from these three muses? Or from my fellow participants? And—here’s my evil, selfish side—what could I “get” from Lauren or Nora or Barbara? Maybe they would proudly agree to write a blurb for a proposed book of mine? Something like:

“Patten’s writing expands the soul and heals the heart. I was a better person before I even finished reading his first paragraph. Buy this book. Change your life.” (Lauren Winner, author of Girl Meets God)

Or . . .

“What Patten has done is what we all dream about: write a book that tells the hard truths about faith and faithful living. I say, let’s make room for a fifth Gospel.” (Barbara Brown Taylor, author of Leaving Church)

Did I have high expectations or what!

When I read this week’s Gospel lesson, about Jesus’ fictional sower planting seeds, I saw myself. In a sense, I didn’t get too far into the parable when I realized I’d spent a week tossing seeds onto “rocky ground” or into “thorns.” And I kept tossing seeds toward those rocks and thorns.

I approached each author. I (politely, I think) asked if she might read my work. But each was too busy. Personal publishing deadlines were crushing them. Time was precious and they wanted to be fair to everyone. All three were “Dr. No” to me.

My expectations plummeted. But wait! As each of us signed a list to share a taxi ride for our departing destinations, I spied that Nora Gallagher was going to the same airport for the same flight as me. Alleluia! One last chance to toss Jesus’ parabolic seeds—oops, my brilliant words—at her. Or at least make her feel guilty.

Then another participant joined our taxi ride. No Nora alone. High expectations. Dashed again. Thorns. Rocky soil. I slumped in the front, preparing to sulk all the way to Dulles International.

My week was ruined, from start to finish. I didn’t care—as dedicated sulkers don’t—that I’d met other writers and was humbled by their good work and words. I didn’t care I got a chance to tell Barbara Brown Taylor how helpful her memoir Leaving Church was when I decided to take my sabbatical. I didn’t care I consumed beer and burritos with Nora Gallagher as we swapped tales of similar Yosemite adventures. I didn’t care about the gracious encouragement Lauren Winner shared with me, and others, in our small group.

I wanted to sulk. No seeds were growing in my thorns.

Then the taxi driver—a Pakistani-American—started asking me questions and talking about his life. As we wound through Washington D.C. traffic, I learned about his five daughters.

“They are all blessings, just as the Koran says.”

A Muslim, he revealed how he longed for all faiths to enjoy and honor God. He admonished, “Americans don’t appreciate how wonderful this country is. You take freedoms for granted.”

He said he called his mother, still in Pakistan, every day. Waving pre-paid calling cards he kept in his taxi, he said, “How much I love and miss my mother.”

And, in the final moments as we neared Dulles International Airport, he sang Islamic prayers. Nora and Judy (the other rider in the back seat) stopped their chatting. I listened. Sulking withered. Seeds were spread on good soil. I hear his sung prayers yet.

I never got what I thought I wanted. My “Bond women” disappointed.

Or did they? I wouldn’t return the week for anything.

in Peace,

Larry